Silence fell upon the forge. Not a peaceful silence, but a silence thick as smoke, dense and suffocating, as if the very stones of the earth were holding their breath beneath the weight of something unspoken. It pressed in from every side, curling between the molten tools and hanging like a shroud over the anvil. The flames, usually his companions in long, fevered hours of work, now flickered uncertainly, like they, too, questioned their place in this moment.

  Daméas stood frozen, caught in the eye of something he could not yet name. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, the rhythm primal and relentless. It wasn’t fear, not quite—but something colder. A kind of ancient dread that had no name, only shape and breath and weight. The air, once warm and familiar from the heat of his labor, was now burned with tension. It clung to him, thick and oppressive, rooting him in place.

  Then she moved.

  The Oracle.

  She stepped forward, and the forge became a temple. Each footfall was a ritual act, her staff striking stone with the weight of judgment. With every blow, an echo rang out—deep, deliberate, final. It was not merely sound but consequence, a verdict rippling out into the very bones of the forge. The rhythm was slow, inescapable, as if the universe itself had stilled to bear witness.

  She wore her mask not as adornment but as essence. It was more than a face—it was a void. A vessel that erased all trace of humanity, smoothing every feature into silence. Where eyes might have been, there was only shadow. The firelight, bold and unyielding a moment ago, seemed to shrink from her presence, bending away as though to avoid illuminating what was not meant to be seen. And in that absence of light, something colder still emerged—a chill that moved against the heat, crawling up Daméas’s spine like the edge of a blade honed on gods’ bones.

  "Daméas," she murmured, her voice not spoken but revealed, drawn from stone, from centuries buried and blood forgotten. "Son of fire and anvil."

  He said nothing.

  Her words lingered in the air like incense, thick and unshakeable. They did not seek his answer—they demanded his soul. Each syllable wove a tapestry too intricate to unravel, a pattern of fate spinning itself around his body, tightening with every heartbeat. Something ancient stirred in him, something that recognized the shape of prophecy. And it recoiled.

  He knew. Deeply, instinctively. To speak was to accept. And to accept was to fall. Prophecies never brought peace. They were the storm’s breath before it broke the sky. They marked the beginning of the end.

  The Oracle tilted her head, slow, subtle, almost curious. There was something mocking in that motion, something cruel. It was the grace of one who had watched countless fates unfold, and who already knew where his thread would be cut.

  "He who forges the iron of the gods shall see his own heart rust in blood."

  The air itself cracked. The words struck like steel on the anvil. Final. Binding.

  And though the flames roared behind him, though sweat clung to his skin from the labor of the day, a shiver ran through Daméas. It was not from fear, but from recognition. A cold that rose not from without but within, from a part of him he had long kept quiet.

  Still, he did not move.

  He braced himself against the weight of the moment, forced his chest to rise and fall in calm rhythm. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked on hers—or what lay behind the mask. He had stared into the forge’s heart. He would not falter now.

  "What do you mean?" His voice was steady, but the tremor in it betrayed him. It slipped through despite his will, a fault line splitting open.

  The Oracle lifted her hand. Wrinkled, ancient, slow. She traced a circle in the air, deliberate and precise. It left no visible trail, and yet Daméas felt it—etched in something deeper than fire. The gesture was not dramatic, not theatrical. It was ritual. Sacred. A call to something older than the gods he forged for.

  Even the flames seemed to hesitate.

  "Metal is strong," she said, her voice rasping, like a blade dulled by centuries yet still capable of wounding.

  "But the heart of man…"

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  She let the words decay into silence. A silence that stretched until it threatened to break him.

  Then, barely audible, like the whisper of ash settling over bone, she said:

  "The heart of man is weak. What you temper in fire becomes a blade… but what you hide from light becomes poison."

  The words fell, soft and devastating, like a slow rain after fire. Like ash over a battlefield. Like the breath before a cry.

  Something shifted in the air.

  The veil broke.

  And in its tearing, Daméas felt his center begin to waver. A sudden vertigo overtook him, disorienting, as if the room had tilted. As if the forge had become unmoored from the world.

  "Beware the illusions you forge, Daméas," the Oracle continued. Her voice sharpened, not in tone, but in truth. Her eyes—if there were eyes—gleamed in the firelight. "And those forged for you. Beware the reflections in the iron. Some show your face. Others, your lie."

  Each word etched something into him—unseen, but indelible. As though she spoke directly to the marrow of his being, carving doubt where certainty had once stood.

  She stared, and in her stare there was no blink, no mercy. Only revelation.

  Daméas could not look away. He wanted to shout, to scream against it, to deny the weight she placed on his shoulders. But all he could do was clench his fists, feel the sweat between his fingers turn cold.

  Heat rose to his brow, fevered and tight.

  "Why do you say this? What do you want from me?"

  His cry was half accusation, half plea.

  The Oracle did not move. She stood sovereign, carved of shadow and fire. Then, slowly, she straightened, as though completing a rite, a chapter, a doom.

  "You forge weapons for the gods, Daméas."

  Her whisper barely stirred the air, and yet it split him open.

  "But there is no weapon that protects a heart crumbling beneath the weight of its own illusions. And when illusion falls, it will be too late to undo what has been forged."

  The words cut deeper than prophecy. They were not a warning.

  They were a sentence.

  Daméas felt it. Not as pain, but as fracture. As the quiet, unseen breaking of something vital. Something sacred.

  He opened his mouth, but the moment had already moved on.

  The Oracle stepped back. One step. Then another.

  Her form blurred into shadow, dissolved between the trembling light and the silence she had torn open.

  A cold wind moved through the forge, impossibly out of place. He blinked.

  She was gone.

  But something remained. Not presence, but absence made flesh. A silence that breathed. That watched.

  Daméas stood alone. But he no longer felt alone. The forge had changed. It was no longer a sanctuary. It had become something else.

  A question. A mirror. A judgment.

  "The heart shall rust in blood."

  Why had she said that?

  What had she seen?

  He turned toward the sword. It lay on the workbench, gleaming with unnatural perfection. Every curve, every edge, drawn from dreams. It seemed almost alive.

  It was flawless.

  But he—

  He was not.

  He was cracking. A thousand fractures spiderwebbing through his core. He could not tell where the break had started. Perhaps long before the Oracle. Perhaps when he first began to suspect.

  And now, that suspicion returned.

  érissa.

  His mind conjured her: her voice, her smile, her silences. Her laughter—light, yes, but lately... too light. Her glances—quick. Too quick. Promises—implied, but never spoken.

  And tonight.

  Where was she?

  A bloom of dread opened inside him, slow and poisonous. He reached out and placed a hand on the workbench, needing something solid.

  The wood had not changed.

  And yet it offered no comfort.

  He closed his eyes and saw the old tales. Heroes who had fallen not to swords or war, but to something quieter. Neglect. Pride. Denial.

  Signs ignored.

  And always, always—too late.

  Was he now one of them?

  A bitter taste rose in his throat. No. He would not be blind.

  He needed to know.

  He turned to the forge one last time. To the sword, glowing quietly in the dark. Its beauty was undeniable.

  But so was his doubt.

  He stepped away.

  The night took him.

  And now, doubt reigned.