The journey that should have taken weeks was carved into days by the sheer, relentless force of a Tier 5 Sword Grandmaster.
Kaelen didn't use a carriage or a horse. He carried Alhen on his back when the boy's legs failed, moving with a blurring speed that defied the wind. To Alhen, the world was a dizzying smear of green forests and jagged mountain passes. Kaelen's movement wasn't like Lira's fluid magic; it was the physical manifestation of "Force." Every step Kaelen took cracked the earth beneath him, propelling them miles in a single bound.
By the fourth sunset, the air turned dry and metallic. They stood before the Gorge of the Eternal Anvil.
High above the volcanic fissures rose the Iron Monasteries—soaring towers of black basalt and reinforced steel, built directly into the side of a dormant volcano. This was the sanctuary of the Unbroken, those who didn't rely on the "Wave" or external Mana, but on the absolute refinement of the physical vessel.
Kaelen set Alhen down at the foot of the Great Gate. Alhen's legs buckled immediately, his face pale and slick with cold sweat. He looked like a frail ghost next to the towering iron doors.
"Get up," Kaelen commanded, his voice echoing against the canyon walls.
"I... I can't breathe, Father," Alhen wheezed, clutching his chest. The sulfurous air was heavy, and his damaged core felt like a lead weight inside him. "The altitude... my body is failing."
Lira stepped forward, her hands glowing with a soft blue light to stabilize his heart rate, but Kaelen moved his arm to block her.
"No," Kaelen said firmly. "No more weaving. No more crutches. If he enters this gate on a Weaver's breath, the Monks will cast him into the lava pits before dawn."
Lira bit her lip, her eyes filled with hurt and worry. "He's disabled, Kaelen! You're going to kill him before the training even begins!"
"He is already dead if he stays as he is," Kaelen retorted. He looked down at Alhen, who was crawling toward a stone pillar just to haul himself upright. "Look at the gate, Alhen. Read the inscription."
Alhen squinted through blurred vision. Carved into the iron in ancient, jagged runes were the words:
"Strength is a gift. Will is a choice. Only the Choice remains when the Gift is gone."
"You lost your gift," Kaelen said, his shadow falling over his son. "Now choose. Will you crawl back to the salt-hut and wait for Malakor to find you? Or will you walk through this gate and learn how to kill a god with nothing but a piece of sharpened iron and a heart that refuses to stop beating?"
Alhen looked at the massive gates. He felt small. He felt pathetic. The "Grandmaster" presence of his father was like a suffocating weight. But then, he looked at Lira—exhausted, terrified for him, yet still standing. He looked at Quon, whose white fur was grey with ash, yet the creature remained by his side.
A flicker of bitter, raw spite ignited in Alhen's gut. Spite for Malakor. Spite for his own weakness. And a desperate, tiny spark of spite for the father who was watching him fail.
"Help me... to the door," Alhen rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
"No," Kaelen said, crossing his arms. "Walk."
Alhen gritted his teeth so hard a thin line of blood ran from his gums. He dug his fingernails into the volcanic rock. With a guttural, shaking scream that tore through his throat, he forced his deadened legs to lock. He stood. He took one step. Then another. Each movement felt like glass grinding in his joints.
The Great Gates began to groan, swinging inward with the sound of a thousand hammers striking an anvil.
Out of the steam and the orange glow of the forges emerged a line of monks. They weren't dressed in silk or robes, but in heavy leather aprons. Their bodies were maps of scars, and their eyes were as cold as tempered steel.
The lead monk, a man with a prosthetic arm made of blackened iron, stepped forward. He looked at Kaelen, then down at the shivering, white-haired boy.
"He has no Essence," the Monk said, his voice like falling gravel. "He is a hollow. Why do you bring us trash, Grandmaster?"
Kaelen didn't flinch. "He isn't trash. He's a broken blade. I want to know if you can re-forge him."
The Monk walked around Alhen, poking at his frail ribs with a finger that felt like a metal rod. Alhen winced but didn't fall.
"The re-forging of a soul without Mana is a path of agony," the Monk whispered into Alhen's ear. "Most die in the first furnace. Why should we waste the coal on you?"
Alhen looked the Monk in the eye, his grey gaze finally hardening into something sharp. "Because... I have nothing else... to lose."
The Monk smirked—a terrifying, jagged expression. "A man with nothing to lose is the only kind of man who can survive the Iron Way. Welcome to the Forge, ghost-boy."
As the gates slammed shut behind them, cutting off the view of the horizon, Alhen knew the "Silver Swordsman" was truly dead. The era of the Iron Husk had begun.