Heir of Cinders [FADING EMBERS #1] - ON HOLD

16.1 - The Great Forge

The harsh scent of charcoal and the sudden blast of hot air unceremoniously greeted Mira the moment she stepped out of the train, ripping the breath out of her throat. Tears welled in the crevices of her eyes, forming a distorted lens over her eyes, twisting landscapes into a blurry whorl of muted colors. The itch on her scales quickly evaporated in the sudden heat – perhaps the only good thing that came from the fumes.

Wiping away the drop of liquid that warped her vision with the back of her hand, she turned her gaze to the world. The station they had stopped at was situated high upon a crag that overlooked the Great Forge of Vielarsburgh in all its subterranean splendor. Moments where speech failed Mira were rare, but any words that might have sat upon the tip of her tongue were swiftly dispelled.

The city roosted in the belly of the Mountains of Iria, built into the rocky platforms that wound around the walls akin to giant rings. Speckles of light – appearing like a trail of smoldering ants – crawled across the rugged landscape, illuminating the gabled houses they belonged to. The air reverberated with the lively ambience of craft – a medley of the distant rumbles of machinery and the high pounding of metal on anvils.

Vielar Stenberg stood in the very heart of the city as an iron-cast personage of over-glorified proportions, far exceeding how he might have looked in life. A stubby left hand was pointed towards the dark cavern ceiling whilst wielding a grand battle hammer, exhibiting the realistic bulge of muscle that ran up the entirety of his metal limb.

Apprehension washed over the woman as her line of sight was drawn to the gaping maw past the edge of the crag, gazing deep into the chasm to see where the statue's feet were anchored. The image of bleak darkness unfolded before her mind's eye, but a minute surprise quickly seized her the moment she realized that the abyss was staring back, scintillating back at her with the faint glimmers of sunlight that had wormed their way through the cracks in the cave ceiling. The void of her imagination was non-existent, for an almost-crystalline reservoir of water took its place.

A torrent of nausea stole over her, rendering her legs flaccid as an invertebrate. The young woman paled, quickly hopping away from the precarious edge. Her back collided with a sturdy figure behind her, eliciting a yelp from said person.

"For goodness' sake, Mira, watch where you're going!"

The sound of that voice was like acid to her tongue, instantly pursing her lips without a conscious effort. She whipped her head round to see a disgruntled orkhus standing behind her with his muscular arms crossed in front of him. A smirk lit up her visage as her focus immediately snapped onto the large, bruising mark on the side of his face. "Well, you're here relatively fast for someone who whined after facing a measly slap across the face."

"Slap? You punched me in the face!" Michael retorted, his voice adopting a high, shrill tone. A patch of gray skin the size of Mira's fist had turned purple and swollen, constricting the flesh around his left eye. Only a minuscule slit allowed him to peer through.

Laughter bubbled inside her gut like broth on fire, though it expressed itself as a wild grin on her fair face. Her eyes quickly assessed his unharmed eye, her mind beginning to formulate a way for her fist to connect with it.

"You're strong enough to withstand a blow from the Wyrmblood's fist of legend, I'll give you that," said a familiar voice, one with a deep bass and a slight rasp. Magni hobbled over to the orkhus, his metal hand giving him a pat on the forearm, which was the highest point the hyrrean could reach. The twinkle of a smile danced within his eyes. "But you'd best cease bringing it up, lest you tire the Wyrmblood again. You wouldn't want another black eye, would you?"

At that, Michael clammed up with a scowl, much to Mira's joy.

Her chest swelled at the sound of her nickname: Wyrmblood – as patient as a wyrm, and as gentle as a summer typhoon, as Magni had called her during the incident in the fields of Aerhyn Marj. She liked how fearsome the name seemed to paint her... and how aerhyan it was. There was not a single connotation of her draconian heritage.