Rain hadn't stopped in three days. The cave stank of damp stone and desperation. Fang lay still in the back, death-scar pulsing like a second heart beneath his ribs. Gaia wiped the sweat from his brow with a torn cloth. No change. No worse. No better.
A low screech cut through the cave mouth. Isgram looked up from the fire, hand flashing to the hilt of his sword.
A crow. Black as the night, his feathers wet from the onpour, and a scroll cylinder was strapped to its leg.
Gaia untied it and unrolled the parchment.
"Bring the ore. Come to Davra. A healer waits. -Fujin"
Isgram paced as she packed the ore. Heavy chunks of raw iron were loaded into bundles, bound in woven metallic lines wrapping them. "You realize this could be a setup?"
Gaia didn't look up. "You realize we don't have time to care."
He watched her, jaw clenched. "If it were me... would you still go?"
She slung the last pack onto her shoulder. "We'd already be halfway there."
The journey was cold. Even with Isgram's fire magic to keep the mist from freezing them solid, the forest pressed close. Gaia walked in silence, her head kept low. Isgram didn't speak either. His hands twitched like they wanted to burn something.
By midday, Davra appeared like a wound in the trees. Spiked fences. magic sigils pulsing on the gates. No welcome party.
They approached the gates of the impressively fortified village, and Gaia didn't stop wondering why such defensive structures were needed in this small village.
"Halt. State your business," one of the guards barked, his eyes scanning them through a narrow visor.
The floating slabs of raw ore hovering beside Gaia answered before she could speak. The guards' postures stiffened.
"Mages," the other muttered, clearly unsettled.
Gaia spoke calmly. "We come at the invitation of Chief Fujin. The ore is his request."
The first guard frowned, then exchanged a glance with his partner. "Wait here."
He turned and signaled up the wall. Moments later, another watchman sprinted off into the village.
"They're calling someone to confirm," Isgram muttered under his breath.
Gaia nodded. "Let them."
Minutes passed before footsteps returned—lighter, quicker. A woman emerged from the gate tower, her cloak marked with the Fujin crest: A sword and a basil leaf.
"You brought the ore?" she asked.
"As asked," Gaia said. "We're here for the healer."
The woman studied the ore, then looked at them. "Follow me."
Isgram and Gaia followed in silence, the weight of the ore hovering behind them as if on a leash. The woman—Alona, though she hadn't introduced herself yet—walked ahead with purpose, not bothering to slow her stride.
They reached the heart of Davra's industrial quarter. The forge district was all smoke and metal, flame-lit even in daylight. As they came near the open yards, the scent of ashes mixed with the rain hit their noses.
"AH, sweet memories of my old days in the forges." Said Isgram, who was happy to reminisce about such warm memories.
"Drop it here," Alona said, motioning to a cleared space beside a blackstone forge.
The ore descended slowly, Gaia's fingers twitching in small, precise gestures until it touched the stone with a controlled thud.
Heads turned. Merchants glanced from stalls, forge masters stepped out from hammering stations. The raw iron was unmistakable—untouched, dense, heavy with elemental richness. Word was already spreading.
But none of them got close. Guards ringed the drop zone in moments. Some from the gate. Some who'd clearly been waiting.
"Good," Alona said, finally turning to face them. "Now the chief."
They moved through Davra's inner roads. Fewer dirt paths, more stone. Moss spreading above columns, elevated walkways, and mana-light lanterns that flickered faintly in the afternoon rain. The mansion loomed like an old fortress redesigned for diplomacy. Subtle, but armored. Ivy crept along its side, and several gardens of flowers surrounded it.
Alona didn't bother knocking. The guards parted for her.
"Chief's waiting," she said over her shoulder, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Alona, by the way. Fujin's daughter."
She led them into a long hall of rough-cut marble, banners bearing the village crest hanging from high beams. Voices echoed faintly from deeper within.
Isgram looked at Gaia. "You think she's the one who sent the bird?"
"No," Gaia said. "But she made sure it reached its destination"
----------------------
The climb was quiet. Alona led without words, each step up the winding staircase muffled by the thick carpet. Rain tapped against the narrow windows. The third floor felt different.
Older, more lived-in. Not ceremonial like the lower halls. This was someone's home.
A long oak table dominated the center, cluttered with maps, scrolls, and iron markers shaped like soldiers. Spears leaned against carved walls, while a fireplace burned low behind a ring of leather chairs.
Isgram's eyes scanned the room, always checking for ambushes even in places that smelled like old tobacco and pipe smoke. Gaia walked in first, noting the placement of each object, how the warmth of the hearth clashed with the cold logic of the war maps.
Chief Fujin stood near the window. Late fifties, maybe older, but built like a man who still trained. His beard was streaked with white, and his coat was patched at the elbows—not out of need, but habit.
"You brought it," he said without turning.
"The ore's at the forge," Gaia replied. "Your daughter watched us deliver it."
He turned, nodding once. "Then the deal begins."
Alona stepped forward, arms folded. There was no performance in her posture. No magical aura, no glow. Just calm.
"She's the healer?" Isgram asked, gaze sharp.
Fujin met it with steel. "She is."
Isgram didn't flinch. "No great magical aura here. Why should we trust her abilities?"
"She doesn't need to lift stone or bend fire to her will to mend flesh. She was born with healing magic. Nothing else. That's rare enough to be priceless."
Gaia looked at Alona longer. Her stance was quiet, but not passive. She hadn't tried to impress. She didn't need to.
"She'll do it," Gaia said. "That's what matters."
Fujin stepped closer to the table, pulling a bundle of notes from under a map. "Then we move to the trade terms—"
"No." Gaia cut him off without raising her voice. "That part waits. Fang decides."
The silence stretched for a breath.
Fujin looked between them, then placed the notes back down. "Then I'll wait."
Isgram stepped forward, firelight catching the edge of his coat. "Then we move now. He's waiting."
Fujin raised an eyebrow. "You trust me that easily?"
"No," Isgram said flatly. "But Fang's dying. And I don't care what you are, as long as she gets there in time."
Fujin studied him a moment longer, then turned to Alona. "Pack your kit. We leave in ten."
Alona nodded and left the room without a word.
Fujin looked back at Isgram. "You've been here before. Years ago."
Isgram didn't respond.
"You left the forge guilds after one season," Fujin said, crossing his arms. "Said the politics stank. Said Davra was no place for honest fire."
Isgram's gaze didn't waver. "And I was right."
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—passed across Fujin's face. "But you came back. Why?"
"To save my friend," Isgram said. Then after a beat, "And maybe to see if the place still stinks."
Fujin gave a short laugh. "It does. But the rot's changed."
He stepped closer, voice lower now. "You're not the only one who saw where the guilds were headed. Davra's changing. But it'll take hands like yours to shape it."
"I'm not here to shape anything," Isgram replied. "Just to keep a promise."
Fujin looked toward the rain-specked window. "Then let's keep it."
Fujin moved to a cabinet near the fireplace and pulled out a squat bottle with dark amber inside. "You still drink like a forge rat?" he asked without looking back.
Isgram scoffed. "Only if it's strong enough to clean metal."
The chief poured two glasses and slid one across the table. "Davra's bourbon. Stronger than it looks."
They drank. It bit hard, smooth after the first burn.
"I haven't tasted this crap for several years now, brings back memories."
"You should know I've got plans for that ore," Fujin said, swirling the liquid. "Not just swords and arrows. War machines. Preferably, arrow launchers. Something the dwarves won't forget the next time they sniff around our borders."
Gaia stood by the table's edge, arms folded tight across her chest. She didn't speak. Her eyes flicked between the men, unreadable.
Isgram leaned back in his chair, glass resting against his lip. "I'm not here for your empire dreams," he said flatly. "We're not here to build you war machines. The chosen ones have their own mission. We're gathering them. All of them."
Fujin finally looked at him. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "And then what? Build a sanctuary? A new god's temple in the woods?"
Isgram didn't blink. "That's not your concern."
The chief stared at him a moment longer, then set down his glass with a quiet clink.
"No," Fujin said, "but maybe this is." He reached beneath the war map and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. The way his fingers brushed its edge was deliberate. Teasing.
"I have word of another chosen. Not far."
The words weren't even cold before Gaia took a step forward, posture sharpening.
"State your price," she said. Her voice was calm, but her jaw had set tight.
Fujin's brows lifted slightly, pleased by her speed.