The
Forge - Continuous
The
elevator shudders to a stop, the chains groaning in protest, metal
clanking against metal. Spartan steps out cautiously, boots finding
the thin, rusted catwalk with care. Darkness stretches below her like
an abyss, swallowing every sound.
A
low, constant hum rises from the machinery around her, white noise
that vibrates through her chest, rattling her balance. Her knees feel
hollow beneath her, unsteady as if the floor itself could vanish. She
grips the railing tightly, fingers white against the cold, pitted
metal.
Each
step forward feels like moving through a dream, the vibration of the
power thrumming underfoot, the hum pressing at her temples. She leans
forward slightly, peering through the open grates at the black
nothingness below, heart tightening at the vertigo.
The
door ahead is faintly illuminated by the glow of molten metal
spilling from beneath it, a warm orange light that cuts through the
oppressive black. Spartan keeps her eyes fixed on it, each step
deliberate, careful, fighting the pull of the vertigo.
The
railing rattles under her grip as she inches closer, finally reaching
the door. She presses her free hand to the cold surface, feeling the
heat of the forge beyond even before opening it. A slow exhale leaves
her lips, steadying herself against the disorientation, grounding
her.
The
Forge swallows Spartan in its vastness. The molten metal vat glows
like a miniature sun, waves of heat radiating toward her as she steps
carefully across the floor. Far across the room, the icy water vat
hisses softly, spilling freely from a cavity carved into the stone
wall. The temperature gradient hums quietly, a constant, living
reminder of the extremes the Forgemaster commands.
The
cross-shaped operating table dominates the center, cold and rigid in
contrast to the flowing molten and liquid elements flanking it. On
the far wall, the sacred anvil rests, blackened and scarred from
centuries of creation and tempering. Surrounding her, walls are lined
with molds: body parts, plates of Olympian armor, and countless tools
of craft and war.
Above,
monitors float, suspended several meters from the floor. Some display
schematics, others reports, flowing text that cascades in streams of
blue light across the room. The patterns and symbols are endless,
overwhelming, yet Spartan's eyes take them in without pause, the
precision of the data resonating with her own disciplined mind.
The
Forgemaster himself is a vision of both majesty and machinery.
Suspended before the wall of cables and conduits, he is motionless
but alive in focus. Tubes and cables flow from his back like massive
angelic wings, the ends snaking into walls and ceiling, linking him
to the room itself. His gaze is fixed on the monitors, unblinking,
hands moving occasionally to interact with the virtual interfaces,
but he does not acknowledge Spartan.
Spartan
kneels at the head of the operating table, keeping her form low,
cloaked entirely. The wolf skull rests in her lap, the frothy,
crimson concoction contained carefully inside. She breathes slowly,
deliberately, every inhale grounding her, every exhale a measure of
patience.
Minutes
pass in silence. The hum of power, the distant hiss of molten metal
and ice water, the faint vibration through the floor beneath her; all
of it fades into the background of her awareness. She waits.
Finally,
a subtle shift. The Forgemaster tilts his head slightly, as if
sensing her presence, though his eyes never leave the monitors. His
voice does not come immediately; instead, a single cable hums softly,
a mechanical whisper as if acknowledging her. Spartan's hands tighten
slightly on the wolf skull, the foam rippling.
She
waits longer, kneeling, silent, until at last the Forgemaster's gaze
lifts from the displays, turning slowly to fix on her, the angelic
wings of cables framing him like a dark halo against the glow of
molten metal.
The
Forgemaster's voice fills the Forge, a rasping, mechanical sound
undercut by a faint chorus, the angelic choir humming softly as if
echoing his thoughts.
"Why
are you here, Spartan?" he asks. The words carry weight, but no
judgment. "Vardengard do not enter the Forge alone. Not without
command. Not for… desires of their own. You walk here unbidden."
Spartan
keeps her head bowed, the wolf skull cradled in her hands. The soft
foam inside sloshes gently, the mixture smelling faintly of earth and
wild fungi. She does not speak. She does not flinch.
The
Forgemaster waits. His mechanical wings shift slightly, sensors and
cables twitching with an almost imperceptible rhythm, as if reading
the vibrations of her body. "Speak," he finally intones,
his voice patient yet edged with curiosity.
"I…
wish to speak with you," Spartan replies, voice steady but low.
A
brief silence follows. The Forgemaster's head tilts, the glow of his
ocular implants reflecting the molten metal vat nearby. Few have ever
come to him with nothing but intent to speak. Never with desire
alone.
He
lowers himself slightly, floating closer, wings of cables arching
behind him like darkened sunlight, but does not touch the ground. He
lingers over her, a silent guardian of knowledge and power, able to
peer into every system, every memory, every fear and triumph she has
endured. He can feel the battles she has fought, the Venators she has
faced. Yet he says nothing, letting her hesitation fill the room.
Spartan
straightens just enough to lift the wolf skull before him, holding it
with reverence. "I have not come empty-handed," she says.
"I bring an offering. One I hope pleases you."
The
Forgemaster regards it, silent at first. Then, almost imperceptibly,
the corner of his mouth, or what passes for one, quivers. "And
what is this offering?" His voice is curious now, a hint of
amusement threading through the rasp.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
"Morrowroot,"
she answers, unwavering.
For
a long beat, the Forgemaster's mechanical frame rocks slightly, a
sound somewhere between a sigh and laughter. Then a low, melodic
chuckle rumbles from him, soft and almost warm despite the hum of
machinery surrounding him. "You… bring me intoxication and
hallucinogens as tribute?" His eyes flicker with amusement,
glowing brighter against the molten light. "Bold, little wolf.
Bold."
The
mixture in her hands trembles faintly, the foam lapping the edge of
the skull. Spartan keeps her gaze lowered, waiting, knowing that the
Forgemaster's favor is never freely given, and even amusement is a
gift she must earn.
Spartan's
voice is quiet, deliberate, reverent. "The last time I was here
you were… amused. Even the Forger himself found it…
entertaining." Her hands grip the skull a little tighter, foam
sloshing lightly. "I know, as well as you, that the Forger
dabbled in it. Perhaps more than most. And I know… you once did as
well. Many decades ago."
The
Forgemaster's head tilts slightly, and the hum of his mechanical
wings vibrates against the vaulted ceiling. The choir hums softer,
almost in anticipation. He remembers. Every detail. The corners of
his mouth, or their mechanical approximation, twitch as if smiling.
Yet
he says nothing, not accepting the offering just yet. Instead, he
leans closer, the white glow of his eyes fixed on her. "Drink,"
he commands, low and firm, a single word that carries weight beyond
tone.
Spartan
freezes, still holding the wolf skull before him. She hesitates,
aware of the gravity, of the ritual implicit in his command. But the
glow in his eyes is unflinching, and she soon obeys. She tilts the
skull, drawing a generous sip of the foaming, herb-laced blood to her
lips. The taste is bitter, earthy, and slightly intoxicating, the
warmth of velmira spreading through her chest. She swallows, then
lifts the skull back to the Forgemaster, licking her lips clean of
foam.
A
long moment passes. Then the Forgemaster extends a hand, his cables
shifting behind him, wings twitching in silent applause. He takes the
skull by the snout, lifting it from her hands with a strength both
gentle and absolute. He floats backward, creating space between them,
and raises the skull to finish the concoction himself.
It
has been a long time since he has tasted anything, consumed anything,
and the sound of his deep exhale rumbles through the Forge,
reverberating against the vaulted ceilings, as if the entire Keep
exhales with him.
The
Forgemaster holds the wolf skull before him, white light from his
eyes spilling over the ancient bone. He turns it slowly in his
mechanical palm, the liquid shimmer of morrowroot clinging to its rim
like mercury and blood. The glow from the molten vat casts red
firelight across the chamber, an imitation sunrise beneath the earth.
When
he speaks, it is not loud, but the Forge itself seems to listen. His
voice carries that layered harmony, the human rasp woven through with
angelic choirs, soft, echoing, terrible in its beauty.
"You
come bearing gifts of truth," he says. "Not of comfort. You
know what the Forger loves most, child of the hammer, truth revealed
through suffering."
Spartan
keeps her head bowed, her breathing steady though her pulse thrums
with the sharp, crystalline surge of morrowroot now coursing through
her veins. The world shimmers; edges too defined, light refracting at
unnatural angles. Every sound has color. Every motion, a geometry.
Even the Forgemaster's words take on shape: great arcs and spirals of
molten gold stretching through the air.
He
studies her, seeing beyond the flesh and armor, into the lattice of
her soul. When he speaks again, it is not rebuke, but scripture made
flesh.
"You
have come because you bleed from faith not your own," he
murmurs. "The Absolutionists reached inside you. They sought to
recast you in their image. But they do not know the forge that
birthed you." He floats towards her, his head tilting as he
gazes down at her. "You are no servant of their pale god. You
are the daughter of fire and anvil. Of the Forger. Of purpose made
flesh."
His
voice deepens, filling the chamber with reverent thunder, and the
stained glass ceiling above flickers as though sunlight truly moved
behind it.
"He
struck your soul with pain so it might harden. He tempered your will
with loss so it might endure. You are not broken, child, you are
folded."
Spartan
lifts her gaze just enough for the white glow of the Forgemaster's
eyes to blur through her morrowroot vision. "If I am his
daughter," she says quietly, "then why is he so far from me
now?"
A
pause.
The
cables on the Forgemaster's back shift like wings of living steel,
sighing under unseen weight. His reply is neither anger nor
consolation, but a strange, cold tenderness.
"He
is not far, my child. He has never been far." He waves his hand
calmly through the air. "Has he not haunted your dreams since
the day of your making? Did his breath not once fill your lungs when
he gave you life? Every scar upon your body bears his mark. Every
night you wake in fire, he is there. You carry him in every ache,
every silence."
Spartan
closes her eyes. The morrowroot fractures time; seconds stretch,
shatter, reform. For a fleeting instant, she swears she feels him:
the Forger, watching through the cracks between thoughts, vast and
near all at once.
"Then
why can't I feel him anymore?" she whispers. "Why does it
feel like I am praying to ash?"
The
Forgemaster's gaze softens, if something so vast and inhuman can be
said to soften. The light in his eyes flickers like cooling metal,
and when he speaks again, the choir behind his voice quiets to a
single, mournful note.
"You
mistake silence for absence," he says. "He is quieter now
because He has finished speaking. The hammer has fallen. The shape
was made. And though He left the anvil cold, the work still burns in
us."
The
words echo through the vast chamber. Spartan does not move, her head
bowed, fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. The
morrowroot hums behind her eyes, every syllable of his voice rippling
through her nerves in crystalline clarity.
The
Forgemaster drifts closer, the metal feathers of his cable-wings
whispering against the stale air.
"You
remember, don't you?" he continues softly. "In the
beginning, when He still walked among us, when the fires of the first
forge burned through the bones of the world. You stood beside Him
when He cast the first of your kind. You breathed because He willed
it. You bled because He needed to know what strength felt like."
Spartan
lifts her head, eyes catching the molten glow reflected in his steel.
"And you?" she asks. "You were with Him longer than
anyone. Do you still hear Him?"
A
sound passes through the Forgemaster, not quite a laugh, not quite a
sigh. It's the groan of old metal shifting under forgotten weight.
"Every
day," he murmurs. "But not with my ears. Not in words. In
the rhythm of the forge. In the ache of the tools He left behind.
When I work, when I shape, He is there, in the sparks, in the heat. I
do not need to hear Him to know He watches. Nor do you."
Spartan
stares at him through the morrowroot's crystalline haze. The molten
light trembles, and for the briefest moment, the Forgemaster's shadow
stretches across the floor and seems to take the shape of another,
taller, broader, radiant with the impossible heat of the Forger
Himself.
The
Forgemaster notices her gaze but does not turn.
"He
is in you still," he says. "When you doubt, He doubts with
you. When you bleed, He bleeds. You are what remains of His will
given form. To question Him is to let Him breathe again."
The
words strike her harder than flame. Spartan exhales slowly, lowering
her eyes once more, her voice barely audible.
"Then
perhaps He's been breathing through me all this time."
The
Forgemaster inclines his head, a slow nod, almost reverent.
"Then
you already have your answer, daughter of the hammer."
