Ferrin slowly recovered from the daze, his breath shallow, ears ringing. A strange hue—light blue, like mist tinged with moonlight—lingered in the air, swirling lazily around him before dissipating into nothing.

  I must be hallucinating... it can’t be helped, he murmured, still unsteady on his feet.

  As the fog in his mind cleared, Ferrin blinked and turned.

  In the far corner of the forge stood Master Mura, silent, half-shrouded in shadow. His wide eyes were fixed on Ferrin as if seeing him for the first time. Shock radiated from the old blacksmith’s posture—mouth slightly agape, arms tense, one foot drawn back like he couldn’t decide whether to flee or kneel.

  “Master…?” Ferrin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Mura didn’t answer.

  Ferrin’s heart pounded. Was it real? Am I… ?

  The thought circled like a tightening snare.

  He forced himself to move, to breathe, to pretend nothing had happened. Maybe he didn’t see it clearly. Maybe he’s just as confused as I am.

  But then Master Mura spoke—his voice low, strained.

  “You must leave,” he said. “Tonight.”

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  He turned away from Ferrin, moving toward the hearth. His hands, though weathered, moved with practiced urgency now—as if instinct had taken over.

  “Pack only what you need,” he continued. “Clothes. Rations. Leave the rest. You’ll move faster that way.”

  Ferrin hesitated, the world still spinning slightly beneath his feet. But Mura was already at the forge’s back wall. He reached behind a soot-darkened panel and retrieved a long, narrow case Ferrin had never seen before.

  With care, the old blacksmith laid it on the worktable and unclasped it. The hinges creaked softly as the lid opened, revealing two blades wrapped in dark gray cloth that shimmered faintly in the forge-light.

  Ferrin stepped closer, breath catching as Mura unwrapped them.

  The blades gleamed—not like iron or steel, but with a pale, silvery glow that seemed to drink in the surrounding light.

  Moonsteel.

  Mura lifted one of the swords. Its edge was flawless. The hilt bore a single obsidian inlay, like a pupil staring back.

  “These were forged for you,” he said. “By your father.”

  Ferrin blinked. “My… my father?”

  “Not now,” Mura said firmly. “One day, maybe. But tonight—tonight is for survival.”

  He rewrapped the blades in clean cloth and slid them into a weatherworn sheath built to strap across Ferrin’s back.

  “To where?” Ferrin began to ask, but the question hadn’t even formed fully before Mura answered.

  “North,” he said. “Toward the Green Marches. And if the old maps still hold true… beyond them, hidden in the wilds, there’s a place for your kind.”

  Ferrin’s hands closed around the strap. His thoughts reeled, snagged on one word.

  “Your kind?” he echoed.

  Mura met his eyes and said it plainly.

  “The Tainted.”