Page 79 of Scorched
I know the name the way I know the names of gods and legends—from stories, from whispered warnings in the assassin's guild, from the vault records that referenced the Fae sovereign in language so careful it read like prayer. The being who made the bonds. The being who has been watching from reflective surfaces since the Sundering, appearing to each bonded pair when their bond is sealed.
He's looking at me. Not at Ignatius. At me.
"Sophia Moreau." His voice comes from the blade's surface. Not sound—vibration. The metal hums with it, the Bloodwork harmonic and Oberon's voice occupying the same frequency, the blade singing words instead of notes. "Last smith of the Bloodwork Fae. Descendant of Ilara Vey-Sorath. Mate to the Ember King."
I don't let go of the god-killer. I don't step back. The assassin in me is taking stock—silver eyes, non-corporeal, communicating through metal, no visible threat posture, no ward signatures, no detectable hostile intent. The smith in me is feeling something else. The blade under Oberon's gaze is vibrating at a frequency I haven't felt before—deeper than the Bloodwork harmonic, older, a note that sits beneath every other note like bedrock beneath stone.
"The sixth bond," Oberon says. His silver gaze moves between us—me at the workbench, Ignatius behind me. "Blood and fire. The smith and the king."
Ignus
I've seenOberon three times in nine centuries.
The first time I was young—barely two hundred, sitting on a throne I had built from volcanic rock and didn't yet understand the weight of. He appeared in the polished obsidian of the throne room floor. Silver eyes. That half-smile. He said: You will build something, fire king. And then you will burn it. And then you will build it again. I didn't understand. I filed the words in the place where prophecies sit—uncomfortable, unfinished, waiting.
The second time was the night before the Sundering. I was standing in this forge, staring at a blade I'd been asked to use against a people whose craft I loved more than any other achievement of the Fae world. He appeared in the forge's cooling trough—a shimmer of silver in the dark water. He said nothing. He looked at me. I asked him whether the Sundering was the right decision and he said: Right is not the question. Then he was gone.
This is the third time. And he's not looking at me.
He is looking at Sophia. At the woman standing at the workbench with her hand on the god-killer and her chin raised and the Bloodwork harmonic blazing in her blood so bright I can feel it through the fire magic, through the brands, through the bond that connects us. She's not afraid. She's reading him the way she reads everything—with the precise, calculating attention of a woman who has spent her life assessing threats.
"The sixth bond," Oberon repeats. His voice carries through the blade's surface in vibrations that make the fire-thread pulse. "Ignatius. Your fire and her blood. The heritage you destroyed,she rebuilds. The forge you kept, she fills. The court you held alone, she shares."
I'm standing three paces behind Sophia. My fire magic is held low—not by choice. By instinct. Oberon's presence presses against the fire the way the deep ocean presses against a diver's chest. Not hostile. Heavy. The weight of something far older than the courts he built.
"I confirm the sixth bond," he says. The silver eyes hold mine for a moment. Then they return to Sophia. "The Bloodwork heritage passes through the smith's hands. It has been dormant for six centuries. It is awake now. It will not sleep again."
The fire-thread in the walls flares—not my fire. The mountain's fire, responding to Oberon's words the way the caldera responds to seismic shifts. The stone vibrates. The blades on the workbench hum in unison. The twenty-seven weapons in the vault below join the sound and the forge fills with the Bloodwork chorus at a volume I have never heard.
Oberon's gaze drops to Sophia's belly. The silver eyes go still. Something crosses his face—not surprise, not satisfaction. Recognition. The specific expression of someone seeing a piece of a pattern they've been building for five hundred years.
He says nothing about it. He doesn't need to.
"Two bonds remain," he says. His voice quieter now, the vibration in the blade easing to a low hum. "The Shadow Court. The Crystal Court. The prophecy moves toward completion."
His gaze lifts to mine one last time. Silver meeting gold. The sovereign who has guided the prophecy and the king who has held this court for nine centuries. I see something in his eyes I haven't seen before—or haven't been ready to see. Not approval. Not affection. The look of a craftsman examining a piece of work that is, at last, becoming what he designed it to be.
"You burned what you built," he says. "Now you build again."
The silver eyes close. The face in the blade's surface fades—not vanishing, retreating, the way a reflection retreats when the light shifts. The blade's surface smooths. The metal goes dark. The Bloodwork harmonic settles from its crescendo to its steady hum.
The forge is quiet.
Sophia
I stare at the blade.The surface is blank—dark metal, blood-and-fire patterns, no silver eyes. My hand is still on the god-killer. My pulse is elevated. The brands on my skin are warm—warmer than usual, the fire-thread in my body responding to whatever Oberon's presence stirred in the magic.
"That was Oberon," I say. Not a question.
Ignatius moves to stand beside me. His hand comes to the small of my back—the gesture he makes when something has shaken him and he needs the contact. His fire magic pulses through the touch, pressing against my skin, against the brands.
"Yes."
"He confirmed the bond."
"The sixth bond. Six complete. Two remaining."
I look at the arsenal arrayed on the workbench and stacked against the walls. Thirty-five Bloodwork weapons. The god-killer at my hip. The war-curves, the throwing blades, the short swords, the masterwork I made for him. The forge's entire output—six weeks of heritage and three days of blood-and-fire forging—humming in concert around us.
