Page 61 of Crowned By Roses

But it is cold now.

It’s strange. I thought I’d feel something. A pull or heat or…divinity. But it’s silent. Whatever fire lived here once has been buried under centuries of dust and grief.

The clatter of metal on metal steals my attention, and I turn to see Dayton throwing off his backpack. The chunks of raw mythkarite we’ve transported from Spring within the backpack echo as they hit the ground. “Oof.” Dayton massages his shoulder, then stretches his back.

I barely contain an eye roll, knowing the packs are enchanted and Dayton’s little hysterics are purely for show.

“Alright, Ez,” Day says. “We made it. Now get to it! Light the bellows, stoke the anvils, and all that nonsense! Make us some weapons!”

I take a steadying breath and step toward the forge. I pull off my glove and run a hand along the stone counter. Dust gathers over my fingers, and I bring it to my nose, breathing deep.

This place is more holy than any monastery. Rafael, the first High Prince of Spring, may have worked the metal in this very space…

I turn, looking at my family. Kel, Dayton, Farron, Caspian. Rosalina. Even Wrenley and this strange castaway we’ve picked up. They stare back expectantly.

“It will be the greatest honor of my life to create for you,” I say, my voice ringing with all the resolve within my body. “Let’s do this.”

Sweat drips down my spine. I’ve stripped down to only my trousers and helm, and even that I’m tempted to throw off if it weren’t for damn Jack hanging about. Blisters have formed on my hands, and my skin is streaked in soot thousands of years old.

How long has it been? Hours? Days? Fucking years?!

The forge will not light.

I can’t get a spark. Not an ember. Not even a single wisp of smoke.

I slam the bellows again, feel the pull in my shoulders, the sting in my palms, the ache of exhaustion twisting down my back. Nothing. Mythkarite lies cold on the anvil. Useless. I’ve tried everything to start a fire within the hearth. But no flame will take. The old magic won’t so much as whisper.

The silence mocks me.

This forge—this place—called to me. I felt it in my bones when I first saw it. Like it had been waiting for me. It is my duty to craft the weapons that my family will wield. The weapons that can save the Vale.

I’m the one who studied the mythkarite. Who found my brother’s years of research. Who can craft a sword and a bow and a trident and a lance and a hammer. With each pulse of my heart, I feel it.

This is why the stars sent me to Rosalina. This is the greatest gift I can give her.

And yet⁠—

I slam the hammer down.

Again.

Again.

Still nothing.

The cold stone echoes my failure back at me, a hollow sound that gnaws in my gut.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I hiss, teeth bared. I stare at the forge, chest heaving. “It doesn’t make sense!”

The flame should answer. The metal should bend. The magic should rise, sing, ignite.

But it doesn’t.

And every moment I waste, every heartbeat I lose, the Vale dies a little more.

Sira isn’t waiting. The Enchanted Vale isn’t waiting. If I fail here—if I cannot figure this out—then everything we’ve fought for, everything Rosie has risked, everything, turns to ash.

I drop the hammer and rip open my backpack, throwing wide Kairyn’s notebooks. He writes in depth about the creation of the weapons themselves, how to work the mythkarite, but not how to use this damn forge.