Grom's forge was no longer just a workplace—it had become an improvised altar that night, where fear and necessity mingled like iron and coal.
The flames, now controlled by Samael's will, danced high and steady: yellow at the base, reds and oranges at the tips that licked the air like hungry tongues. The heat was almost solid, clinging to the skin, making sweat trickle down Grom's braided beard before he even began to truly sweat.
Elara/Samael stood beside the anvil, the newly forged bracelet still warm. The metal seemed alive: it pulsed slowly, as if breathing along with the racing heart of the body that carried it. The runes that Samael had traced with his own blood (a quick cut on his index finger, a scarlet drop that hissed as it touched the steel) glowed intermittently, red as fresh wounds.
Elara/Samael: Begin with the larger fragments. The Kyton chain from the middle—the one that was once my pride, my racial trait. I want it in the central link. It will help anchor the power.
Grom picked up the twisted piece with his long pincers. The metal was cold now, despite the heat of the forge; cold in the wrong way, as if it were stealing heat instead of absorbing it. He placed it on the anvil carefully, as if he were handling a sleeping venomous snake.
Grom (low voice, almost a whisper): This thing… still screams. I can feel it in my hand.
Elara/Samael: Of course it screams. I killed that Kyton when it was screaming. Now shut it up with your hammer.
The first blow was hesitant. CLANG. The sound came out muffled, as if the metal had swallowed the noise. Grom frowned.
Elara/Samael: Harder. I'm not asking for gentleness. Hit it as if you want to kill what's left of it.
The second blow came with rage—rage at Grom for being there, rage at himself for trying to kill a child—even if it wasn't really a child—rage at the fear that still trembled in his arms. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
This time the sound echoed three times within the steel, exactly as Samael had commanded. The central rune lit up brightly, a vivid red that illuminated Elara/Samael's face as if she were looking into an open furnace. The bracelet on the girl's wrist vibrated once, strongly, and then calmed.
Elara/Samael: Like this. Continue. Don't stop until I say so.
Grom worked for hours. Sweat dripped from his beard, fell onto the anvil, and evaporated before touching the metal. Each blow was guided by Samael: slower here, heavier there, a pause when the rune threatened to crack. The bracelet grew—not in size, but in weight, in presence. What began as a delicate ring had become something that seemed made for an adult's arm, but fit perfectly on Elara's childlike wrist. The metal darkened and lightened in waves, as if the blood of the Kytons still coursed through it.
When the final blow fell, the bracelet was ready. Grom plunged the piece into the bucket of tempered oil (not water—Samael insisted on whale oil mixed with bone ash). The hiss was long, almost a sigh of relief.
Samael picked up the bracelet with his bare fingers. The hot metal didn't bother him, didn't hurt him, since he was born a child of fire. He twirled it in the light of the flames, examining every detail. The runes now formed a continuous, infinite pattern, like chains devouring themselves.
Elara/Samael: Perfect. Better than I expected from a mortal.
Grom wiped his hands on his soaked apron. His voice came out hoarse, exhausted.
Grom: And now? What does this do, exactly?
Elara/Samael closed her eyes for a moment. Testing.
When she opened them again, the red was there—but trapped. It no longer leaked from her eyes, no longer seeped through the veins of her fragile little body. The bracelet absorbed the excess, channeling Samael's raw power without letting it burn Elara's flesh.
Elara/Samael: Now I can use everything I am without destroying myself. I can conjure my most powerful spells without bleeding from my nose, without seeing this little body turn to ash. This bracelet is my new "collar"—but I'm the one holding the end of the chain.
Grom looked at the bracelet, then at the girl's face. There was no more pure terror there; Just a weary acceptance, like someone who sees an avalanche and understands there's no way to run.
Grom: Are you leaving now?
Elara/Samael: Not yet. I'm truly hungry. Meat, bread—deadly things. And you owe me a night of decent conversation, blacksmith. I paid with blood and power; you pay with food and silence when I command.
Grom let out a short laugh, without joy, but also without malice.
Grom: The Broken Anchor should still be open. The octopus stew is good. The dark beer too. But if anyone asks who the brat with me is…
Elara/Samael: Say I'm your distant niece. Or your apprentice. Or the girl who saved your life from some demons no one will believe existed. Choose the lie that's easiest to swallow.
He jumped from the edge of the anvil, landing lightly, his short legs barely making a sound on the ash-covered ground. The bracelet jingled softly against his wrist—a clean, metallic, comforting sound.
Elara/Samael: Let's go. Before I decide to conjure a feast right here and burn the ceiling down.
Grom grabbed the leather coat hanging on a nail, threw it over his broad shoulders, and opened the ruined door. The Ratavabaros night entered: cold, salty, full of distant cries of seagulls and drunkards.
They walked out side by side—the enormous dwarf and the little girl in the tattered tunic. No one who saw them would imagine that, minutes before, the forge had been the scene of an infernal trial, a foiled murder, and an alliance forged in fear and debt.
Elara/Samael walked ahead, hands in pockets, coins jingling along with the new bracelet. For the first time in a long time, the weight on Samael's chest wasn't just pride. It was real hunger. Hunger for food, for power, for time. He had accepted himself as human now. And, who knows, something more.
Night swallowed them both as they disappeared down the narrow street, towards the yellowish light of the tavern that promised hot stew and beer that wasn't watered down.
Hell could wait until tomorrow.
Or maybe it wouldn't.
But, as always, Samael was ready for whatever came.
The night in the city smelled of fish, tar, and spilled beer. The narrow streets between the docks and the forges were lit by oil lamps hanging from crooked posts, a yellowish light that trembled in the salty wind. Elara/Samael walked ahead, short but determined steps, the new bracelet jingling slightly against his wrist every time he swung his arms. The sound was comforting, a reminder that power now had reins—reins he himself had placed.
Grom followed close behind, his leather coat thrown over his broad shoulders, his hammer still strapped to his belt as if it were part of his body. He didn't speak. Not since they left the destroyed forge. He only breathed deeply, as if trying to convince himself that he was still alive.
The Broken Anchor was on a corner where two streets met at an odd angle. The sign creaked: an iron anchor broken in half, painted faded red. Warm light leaked through the fogged windows, along with hoarse laughter, the clinking of mugs, and the strong smell of stew, fried onions, and old tobacco.
Elara/Samael pushed the low door open with both hands. The small body needed an extra push, but the door yielded with a groan. The noise of the tavern subsided for a second—heads turned, curious eyes landed on the little girl in the tattered tunic and the frowning dwarf behind her. Then they returned to their conversations, as if they had decided that it wasn't their problem. They chose a table in the corner, near the fireplace. Grom sat down first, the stool creaking under his weight. Elara/Samael climbed onto the opposite stool. The bracelet struck the wooden table with a clean sound.
A middle-aged dwarf woman, her hair tied in a messy bun and wearing a stained apron, approached, wiping her hands on a cloth.
Woman: What would you like, Grom? The usual?
Grom: Octopus stew for me. And for… — he looked at Elara/Samael, hesitantly — …the girl too. Two mugs of dark beer. The strongest you have.
Woman: Beer for a child?
Samael looked up, his voice childlike but firm, with that tone that left no room for discussion.
Elara/Samael: Warm mead. Undiluted. And fresh bread, if you have it. I eat yesterday's at home.
The woman laughed briefly, without malice.
Woman: Okay, little one. I'll bring it right away.
She walked away. Grom stared at the table, tracing a crack in the wood with his thick finger.
Grom (shortly): Do you eat and drink like normal people?
Elara/Samael: Of course, this body needs it. Hunger, thirst, sleep, going to the bathroom—I need all of that. But now I control how much pain I can ignore. — He gave his bracelet a light tap. — Thanks to you.
Grom grunted, unsure if that was thanks or a threat.
The mead arrived first. A mug too big for Elara/Samael's little hands. He picked it up with both hands, blew on the warm foam, and took a long gulp. The liquid went down sweet and fiery, warming his empty stomach.
Elara/Samael: Good. Better than your forge.
Grom picked up his own mug and drank half of it in one go.
Grom: Why didn't you kill me?
Elara/Samael slowly put down the mug. He looked at him over the rim, his light blue eyes, almost innocent—if it weren't for the reddish glow that flickered in the back when the light hit him just right. Elara/Samael: I already said: Don't bite the hand that feeds you. And usefulness. You forge well, you have steady hands. And… — he tilted his head, an almost childlike gesture — …you didn't run away when you saw what I am. That's rare. Most run or try to kill. You tried both and you're still alive and perfectly sane.
Grom snorted.
Grom: I had no choice.
Elara/Samael: Everyone has a choice. You chose to stay. And hammer.
The stew arrived steaming: octopus cooked in a thick sauce of tomato, onion, garlic, sea herbs and potato. Warm bread beside it, crispy crust. Elara/Samael picked up the wooden spoon, tasted it. Closed his eyes for a second, savoring it.
Elara/Samael (murmuring): This is mortal life. Warm. Tasty. Temporary.
Grom ate in silence for a while. Then, without looking at her:
Grom: And tomorrow? What are you going to do?
Elara/Samael wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Elara/Samael: First, sleep. This body needs rest. Tomorrow… — he twirled the bracelet on his wrist, watching the runes dance in the fireplace light — …I'll test the limits. See how much I can pull without burning everything. Then, maybe look for a ship. Or stay a little longer in Ratavabaros. There are good ores here. There are good blacksmiths. There are people who don't ask too many questions.
Grom finally looked at her.
Grom: And what if more of those… things come back?
Elara/Samael smiled. A small, sharp smile that showed the girl's white teeth.
Elara/Samael: Then we kill again. Together, maybe. Or me alone. Or you hand me over to them and hope they take me without burning you too. But rest assured, they won't come back.
Grom: — tilted his head, confused — How can you be so sure?
Elara/Samael: I feel it — she chuckled softly, looking through the doorway — something inside me tells me that Lilith will be the least of my worries.
Grom remained silent. He drank the rest of his beer.
Grom: I... I won't betray you.
Elara/Samael: Good choice.
They finished their meal in almost comfortable silence. The noise of the tavern enveloped them like a noisy blanket: laughter, toasts, someone singing off-key in the corner. No one paid any more attention to the little girl and the dwarf than necessary.
When they left, the night was colder. The wind carried the scent of the open sea.
Elara/Samael stopped at the tavern door, looking at the dark sky sprinkled with stars.
Elara/Samael: You know what's good about all this, Grom?
Grom: What?
Elara/Samael: For the first time in millennia… I'm not alone in the current. I have people to help me, at least when we have common goals.
He started walking back toward the forge, hands in his pockets, bracelet jingling, coins clinking along with it.
Grom followed behind, saying nothing.
But his steps were lighter.
And the night of Ratavabaros continued its course, indifferent to the small, childlike-looking demon who now carried an arcane focus forged with the hatred of others and a debt that no one would dare to collect.
They walked slowly. Grom carried the weight of what he had seen in the forge—not only the flames, not only the Kytons turning to ash, but Samael's true face when the little girl's mask slipped for an instant. That cute little face melting, the skin peeling away like melted wax, the eyes that weren't eyes, but bottomless scarlet wells. He still felt his stomach churn just remembering.
Grom broke the silence first, his voice hoarse, almost choked.
Grom: I saw you... For real. Not the girl, but... But you.
Elara/Samael didn't stop walking. She kept looking ahead, hands in her pockets, her bracelet jingling slightly with each step.
Elara/Samael: I know.
Grom: I must be crazy now. Screaming in the streets, tearing out my eyes, begging the gods to take me. Everyone says that… that whoever sees the true face of a demon, or a celestial being, or anything that doesn't belong to this plane… loses their mind. If the mind isn't made of iron, it turns to dust.
Elara/Samael stopped suddenly. She turned slowly to face the dwarf. The weak light of a nearby lantern shone on the girl's face: rosy cheeks, large, innocent blue eyes. But Grom knew it was a lie. He knew that beneath that shell there was something that shouldn't be seen.
Elara/Samael: That's not entirely true. But what about you? Are you crazy?
Grom took a deep breath, as if testing his lungs. He ran his thick hand through his beard, feeling the knotted strands damp with cold sweat.
Grom: I don't know. I can still see the streets. I can still smell the fish. I can still hold the hammer without trembling. But… there's something inside—he pounded his chest with a clenched fist—that won't stop screaming. A low, constant noise. As if something has broken and can't be fixed anymore.
Elara/Samael tilted her head, a gesture that would be cute in an ordinary child. In her, it was calculated.
Elara/Samael: This isn't madness, Grom. This is the price of looking at what you shouldn't. Most people collapse because they try to deny what they saw. They try to shove it back in the box and pretend the world is still just iron, fire, and magic. You didn't deny it. You hammered anyway. This isn't weakness of mind. It's brute force.
Grom let out a dry, humorless laugh.
Grom: Force? I tried to kill you while you were sleeping. And you threw me against the anvil like I was a sack of coal.
Elara/Samael: Exactly. And you stood up. You picked up the tongs. You forged the bracelet. If that isn't a strong mind, I don't know what is.
He took a step forward, standing on tiptoe to look better into the dwarf's eyes. The bracelet gleamed faintly, reflecting the light of the lantern.
Elara/Samael: Madness comes when you try to undo what you saw. When you start to doubt whether it was real or if your head invented it all. You doubted. But you accepted it. And by accepting it, you remain whole. Broken, perhaps. But whole.
Grom held the gaze for a long moment. Then he looked away, gazing at the dark sea beyond the docks.
Grom: What if the noise doesn't stop? What if it gets louder?
Elara/Samael shrugged — a small, childlike gesture that contrasted with the ancient voice emanating from the girl's mouth.
Elara/Samael: Then you call me. I know how to silence voices that shouldn't speak. Or… I can teach you to live with them. There are people who carry echoes of the abyss their whole lives and still forge blades better than ever. The secret isn't forgetting. It's learning to use the scream as fuel.
Grom was silent for a while. Then he nodded slowly, as if sealing something inside himself.
Grom: So I'm not crazy.
Elara/Samael: No. You're awake. It's worse… but it's also better.
They started walking again. The destroyed forge appeared at the end of the street, the door hanging on its hinges, smoke still slowly escaping through the cracks.
Grom: Tomorrow I'll fix the door. And maybe reinforce the protective runes. With Kyton's blood, if you want.
Elara/Samael smiled—a small, almost genuine smile.
Elara/Samael: It won't do, the blood is only for rituals. Maybe we can forge something else. Something for you. An amulet. To muffle the scream when it gets too loud.
Grom snorted, but this time there was a trace of relief in his voice.
Grom: Agreed. But no more melting faces. Once was enough for the rest of your life.
Elara/Samael chuckled softly, a sound that mixed a child's giggle with something much older and crueler.
Elara/Samael: I promise to try. — closing her eyes, in a cute expression for that face —
They entered the forge in silence. The door creaked as it was pushed open — still hanging crooked, with splinters of wood dangling like broken teeth. The embers in the forge remained alive, a low, steady glow of red, yellow, and orange dancing on the blackened walls, illuminating the chaos left by the battle and the night's forging: craters in the floor, scattered tools, the lingering smell of sulfur mixed with tempered oil.
Grom locked the door as best he could, wedging an improvised iron bar through the hinges. Then he turned to the cot in the back, where Elara/Samael was already seated, legs crossed, a bracelet gleaming faintly on her slender wrist. The girl's body seemed even smaller in the reddish light of the embers, but her posture was the same as always: erect, regal, as if the cot were a throne.
Grom stood still in the doorway of the small, makeshift room, without actually entering. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his beard still damp from the sweat of the tavern and the walk.
Grom: I need to sleep. I'll fix all this tomorrow morning. Door, runes, floor... whatever I can.
Elara/Samael looked up. The girl's blue eyes reflected the flames, but there was that amber gleam in the background—subtle, controlled now, thanks to the bracelet.
Elara/Samael: Sleep well, Grom. And if the scream returns... wake me. You don't need to knock. I'll know.
Grom nodded slowly, but didn't move. He stayed there, looking at the small figure on the cot. The weight of what he had seen still hung in the air between them, thick as smoke.
Grom: I...—he cleared his throat, his voice hoarse—...I can't call you Elara. Not anymore. Every time I think of the name, I see the little girl I almost killed with the hammer. And then I remember it wasn't her. It was you.
Elara/Samael tilted her head slightly, a curious, almost amused gesture.
Elara/Samael: And that bothers you?
Grom: It bothers me. Because if I call you Elara, it's like I'm pretending nothing has changed. Like you're just a lost child I decided to protect. And if I call you... something else... it's like I'm admitting I'm dealing with something that shouldn't be here.
Elara/Samael was silent for a moment. Then, in a low, almost gentle voice—which was rare coming from him—he spoke:
Elara/Samael: Then don't pretend. If you prefer... if you think it's too difficult to call me by the name of this body, you can call me... Samael.
The name fell into the air like a stone in still water. Grom felt a shiver run down his neck, but it wasn't pure fear this time. It was recognition. Something that fit.
Grom: Samael.
He repeated the name slowly, testing the weight on his tongue. It sounded ancient. Heavy. Right.
Grom: Okay. Samael.
Elara—No... Samael—smiled slightly. A smile that used the girl's lips, but belonged entirely to the demon within.
Samael: Better this way. Fewer lies between us. Fewer unnecessary "masks."
Grom released the breath he didn't even know he was holding.
Grom: Good night... Samael.
He turned his back, walking to the makeshift cot on the other side of the forge—a pile of old hides and blankets near the wall. Before lying down, he stopped one last time.
Grom: If you need anything during the night... call me. By whatever name you want.
Samael lay down on the small cot, pulling the thick blanket up to his chin. The bracelet jingled softly against his wrist.
The forge fell silent again.
But now it was a different kind of silence. No longer the tense silence of those waiting for hell to knock at the door. It was the silence of two creatures—one mortal, one infernal—who had looked at each other without blinking and decided, for now, not to kill each other.
Samael closed his eyes. Elara's body relaxed, breathing slowly. But inside, the ancient mind smiled.
For the first time in ages, someone knew her true name... and yet she chose to stay.
The night continued its course. Ratavabaros slept. And in the forge, two names—one mortal, one infernal—shared the same roof.
No chains. No broken promises.
Only a fragile alliance, forged in fire and truth.
And that, for now, was enough.