Chapter 48

I kept myself busy with chores for a while - hauling water from the well, stacking firewood, putting away supplies, clearing the fallen trees the dragons had knocked down when they took Serah. Physical work helped quiet my thoughts. There was something grounding about sore muscles and steady labor, about problems you could solve with your hands. I wish I had learned that years ago.

By late afternoon, I was finished.

I called Adhaneth to my hand and turned it over, studying it. The staff was wrapped in black leather, the surface faintly textured like small scales beneath my fingers. Both ends were capped in burnished steel, worn smooth with age rather than damage. From the top hung a leather thong, three small silver feathers carved with delicate precision swaying gently.

Jackob had called it the rib of Mirathis. The Unbroken Promise. Yveth had described it as an old bone - the implication that it wasn’t made or plucked from Miralis.

Whatever its origin, its power was undeniable.

When I’d first seen it, it had been a sword embedded in stone - an image straight out of Arthurian myth. It had torn itself free and flown to my hand just in time to stop Hek’s killing blow.

In my grip, it made me nearly weightless. I could vault, balance on its tip - ignore gravity and physics almost entirely. I was the only one who could lift it. To anyone else, it wasn’t heavy - simply immovable. I could summon it with a thought, and almost nothing could stop it. It had burst through volcanic rock to reach me when I faced Pyraeth. It had reshaped itself into a shield to save me from the god’s fire.

The first time I threw it, it had returned to my hand instinctively at the apex of its arc. To make it not return required something I couldn’t quite name - will, maybe. A kind of mental bargaining. And in the inn with Ashlara, I’d felt something else from it - anger - mirroring my own when that man insulted her.

Was it just reflecting me? Or was it aware, possessing thoughts or emotions I hadn’t noticed before?

“Well,” I said aloud, feeling slightly foolish. “Here we are.”

I didn’t know if it could understand me - if it even had the capacity to - but this world had already taught me not to assume limits. “You turned into a shield not so long ago,” I continued. “It seems you’re full of surprises. Think you can do it again?”

The staff was silent. Inert. Just a staff.

I stood and gripped the leather-wrapped haft. I lifted it, imagined it flattening, imagined the weight of a shield strapped to my arm.

Nothing.

I raised my arm and thrust it forward defensively, mimicking the moment when Pyraeth’s fire had poured toward me. I remembered the terror, my heart hammering, the absolute futility of the gesture-

The staff warped.

It coiled around my forearm, leather tightening as steel flowed and flattened. In a breath, it became a round shield, straps cinching snugly against my skin. I froze, staring. Three silver feathers were embossed at its center.

I rotated my arm, studying it. Then I swung it, testing the weight. Last time it had been blazing hot, searing my flesh. Now it was cool and light - solid enough to feel real, but not enough to slow me down.

I opened my hand. Closed it slowly. I imagined the familiar feel of the staff - the length, the balance, the worn leather.

The shield softened and stretched, leather uncoiling like a serpent until it slid back into place around the haft. Adhaneth returned to its usual form.

I repeated the process. Again. And again. It took several tries before I could do it reliably. Quickly.

Once I was confident, I tried something harder.

I lowered the staff horizontally in front of me and pressed the edge of my free hand along its length. “Alright,” I said. “Let’s see if you remember being a sword.”

I slid my hand along it as if smoothing metal.

The leather peeled back, revealing burnished steel beneath. The length flattened into a blade under my palm, long and gleaming. Metal blossomed near my grip, shaping itself into a crossguard - silver wings curling upward. Below, the steel bulged and hardened into a spiked pommel.

The transformation was slower this time, deliberate. But when it finished, I held a beautiful two-handed sword.

I swung it experimentally. I was no swordsman, but the blade moved with effortless grace, urging wide, sweeping arcs. It had weight - enough to demand respect. I tested the edge carefully. Razor sharp.

I practiced again, faster this time, until the shift was nearly instant.

Then I hesitated.

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “I don’t know if this is asking too much… but how about that hammer I needed last week? Short. One-handed. Maybe a claw hammer. Can you do that?”

I wasn’t sure it could manage something so much smaller. Staffs, shields, swords - they all shared mass. A hammer would require compression, refinement.

But I needed to know. Adhaneth had saved my life too many times for me to treat it like a mystery I didn’t bother to solve. I needed to understand it to use it to its maximum potential.

I gripped the end and imagined the shape and weight. Shorter. Narrower. The feel of a hammer’s handle in my palm. The leather sliding down to wrap it. The length shrinking. The far end swelling, stretching into two distinct shapes.

I shifted my wrist.

The staff twitched, warped slightly, then snapped back.

“Come on,” I murmured. “You can do it.”

It vibrated. Bulged at strange angles, unsure. The haft shortened - where the extra mass went, I couldn’t say. “That’s it,” I encouraged. “Almost there.”

The head ballooned absurdly before slowly refining itself - shrinking, flattening on one side, curving on the other. Minutes passed. Then it was done.

“Yes!” I shouted, scattering a flock of nearby crows into the sky. “You did it!”

In my hand was a claw hammer. Black leather-wrapped handle. Burnished steel head. Perfect balance. No flaws. It was, undeniably, a hammer.

Not an ordinary one - I would never call it a regular hammer with everything it was capable of - but the form was flawless.

It vibrated softly. Then harder. And abruptly burst back into the shape of a staff.

I laughed. “Alright,” I told it fondly. “That’s enough for today. You did great.” Adhaneth was still. “We’ll practice more tomorrow.”

* * *

That night, I sat down with Ashlara, Mirri, and Serah in what had become Ashlara and Serah’s room. I needed them to hear the same story, all at once. Too much had happened over the last several days, and I didn’t think anyone had the full picture.

I started at the beginning - how I’d met the kids, though most of that was already common knowledge. Then I told them what Nanders had said about my mana, which was news to all of them.

From there, I talked about going after Serah. About confronting her father. About the Rite of Shared Flame.

Mirri sighed when I admitted I’d accepted it willingly. She slapped me in the back of the head when I explained what the rite actually entailed. Apparently Serah had skipped that part when she told her. Ashlara listened with a sort of detached interest. Every bit of this was new to her.

I told them about the realization that had come to me at the end of the Rite - how the voices, once distant and fragmented, had come into clarity. How I knew that I was the god of faith in the absence of proof. How my Faith had filled me with that truth in the moment, changed me somehow fundamentally.

I told them how that understanding had reshaped my demesne - brought it into focus and cleared the fog that shrouded my way. Ashlara had seen the change with her own eyes, but this was the first time she’d heard why.

I finished with the bandits at the mine - how Ashlara and I had rescued the Pembertons. And finally, how I’d breathed fire.

“Do you think that’s a side effect of the Rite of Shared Flame?” I asked Serah.

She frowned, uncertain. “I… don’t think so. I’ve never heard of anything like that. The rite has always been fatal when the two touch.”

Mirri smacked the back of my head again. “Stop hitting me,” I protested. “I would’ve done the same for you.”

“I know, dick-for-brains,” she snapped. “That’s why I’m hitting you.” Her expression darkened. “You know my healing magic doesn’t work on you.”

“Are you sure that’s still true?” I asked.

She froze.

“Your magic never worked on me because I didn’t have the channels for mana flow,” I said carefully. “I do now. Or… something like them. And no one’s tried to heal me since the whole Bonefire Sphere incident.”

“Huh,” she muttered. Then she turned. “Hey, Ashie - can I borrow a knife?”

Without hesitation, Ashlara pulled a dagger from her boot and handed it over.

“What are you doing, Mirri?” I asked, suddenly very concerned.

“You’re always taking stupid risks and getting hurt,” she said, eyes gleaming in a way I didn’t like. “I just wanna see if my magic works on you now.”

I jumped to my feet. “I’m pretty sure there are safer ways to test that.”

I backed away. She advanced.

“Maybe,” she said, grinning. “But they won’t be as satisfying.”

And that’s when I ran.

* * *

The next day I finished my chores, then made my rounds, checking in on everyone.

Issa and Brinja were in their room, talking quietly. They’d grown close and spent a lot of time together. We talked about where they were from, what they remembered, the pieces of their lives that still felt intact. I already knew they were both orphans. What stood out was how different they were despite that shared loss. Brinja, a year younger, was the more outspoken and confident of the two.

She was a strikingly pretty elven girl of twelve, her long blonde hair braided with meticulous care. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with intelligence, and her laugh - infections and genuine - filled the room when it came. She had surprisingly good manners for someone her age, and used them even when she was nervous.

Her parents had been murdered by the cultists when she was taken. She still had nightmares. She didn’t say how long ago it had happened, but the way she spoke told me it couldn’t have been more than a couple of months. They’d moved to Northgate from a village called Istrael shortly before it happened. She remembered people there - mostly other children - but had no surviving family.

Issa sat beside her, quieter. Thirteen years old, she was a naga with pale blue scales that shimmered faintly like polished stone. Her blue-green hair fell just past her shoulders - a little frizzed from sleep but still held in the milkmaid braid Brinja had done the day before. Her eyes were a soft sea-green, wide and thoughtful. She was shy by nature, though with Brinja she seemed at ease. Around me, she was still bashful.

Issa had lived at the orphanage in Northgate for as long as she could remember. The matron there was stern, but not cruel. She’d been kidnapped while playing in the park. Technically, she could go back, but she didn’t want to.

Mak and Lilae were at the dining table, painting with the watercolors I’d bought in Northgate. Lilae was shy around Mak, the same way she was with anyone she didn’t know well, but she clearly enjoyed her company.

Since Mirri had formally adopted Lilae - and I’d apparently adopted her by proximity - she’d warmed to me considerably. She was still shy at times, but she hugged me often and sought me out to talk. She was learning English quickly - faster than I was learning Brel - and every day it became easier for us to understand one another.

At nine years old - and a goblin - Lilae was tiny, barely three and a half feet tall. Her brown eyes were sharp and observant, missing very little. She had dark hair like Mirri’s, though hers leaned more brown than black. Though Brinja had braided it the day before, it hung loose now, pulled back with a red ribbon.

Mak was a year older and, as an orc, closer to an average ten-year-old’s height. She was painfully thin. Her dark hair had been cut unevenly, giving her a perpetually unruly, tomboyish look. Yesterday her hair had been in a milkmaid’s braid - today it was split into two uneven pigtails. Her bright yellow eyes were intense, always watching.

She was kind - friendly without being overwhelming - and got along with everyone. She smiled often but laughed rarely. One of her tusks had recently fallen out, the adult tooth just beginning to peek through the gum.

Her mother had died when she was very young. She had few memories and even those were fading. Her father had been a hunter. They’d lived a nomadic life, following migrating animals, only entering towns to sell pelts and restock supplies. He’d gotten into a fight with some humans and they’d killed him. Mak had escaped by running and hiding. Later, slavers caught her and sold her to the cultists.

Outside, Serah was giving Elarion and Tib a history lesson. Both boys were utterly captivated - especially now that they knew she was a dragon.

Elarion was eleven, with dirty-blond hair shaggy enough to nearly hide his pointed elven ears. He was lanky and deep in the awkward phase, growing faster than his coordination could keep up with. His eyes were a pale blue, nearly steel gray. He was quiet, curious, and generally easygoing.

His parents had been merchants, killed by slavers on the road to Northgate. He’d been sold to the cultists afterward. He still had family in Caelwynne, and the plan was to take him there in the spring.

Tib was another goblin, and the youngest of the boys. At nine years old, he was only a little taller than Lilae. His gray skin was a shade darker than hers, his dark hair in a bowl cut. He’d recently lost several baby teeth, giving him a perpetually goofy grin. He was brave, endlessly curious, and went out of his way to help around the house. I wasn’t sure if that was his goblin upbringing or his generally helpful nature.

He’d lived at the orphanage for a year or two. His parents had come to Northgate and vanished, leaving him behind. He had no idea what had happened. A man came to adopt him - or so it seemed. Instead, he’d taken Tib into the sewers, caging him with others until Serah destroyed the place.

I found Torvek walking the woods surrounding our home. At fifteen, he was a stereotypically angry boy on the verge of manhood. He didn’t trust me yet, and barely trusted Mirri, Serah, or Ashlara. But he cared deeply for the other kids. On the streets, he’d been their protector, their big brother, doing everything he could to keep them alive.

He wouldn’t talk about his parents or how he’d ended up with the cultists. I knew he had family in Wolfsend, and like Elarion, the plan was to take him there once winter passed.