Unalloyed

Eira Tolkien stood in the heart of her forge, the air thick with the tang of molten metal and the acrid scent of ash. Her hammer fell rhythmically against the glowing blade on the anvil, sparks dancing with every strike. The blade was unlike any she had crafted before. It was slender yet unyielding, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly as if alive. This was no ordinary weapon—it was forged from unalloyed dragon scales commissioned by Lady Malfiz of House Aosi to unite the Cardinal Houses of Sheol after years of tension and bloodshed.

“Masterpiece,” murmured her apprentice, Kiv, a young lad with soot-smudged cheeks and an eager gaze. “The houses will sing songs of your name, Mistress Tolkien.”

Eira snorted, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “Songs won’t mend a broken kingdom, boy. This blade must do what kings and councils could not.”

Kiv nodded, though he did not understand the weight of her words. He could not, for he had not seen what Eira had seen—the smoldering ruins of villages caught between warring houses, the faces of innocents turned to ash, and the rivers that ran red with blood. No, this blade was not a symbol; it was a demand for peace.

The summons came at night, as they often did in times of turmoil. Eira was inspecting the blade’s edge when the knock echoed through the forge’s heavy doors. Kiv answered, only to return with a parchment bearing the seal of House Aosi. The wax emblem was unmistakable—a soaring eagle surrounded by a crown of ivy.

“Read it,” Eira ordered, her voice steady though her heart quickened.

Kiv broke the seal, his hands trembling slightly. “Mistress Tolkien, you are hereby commanded to deliver the Blade of Balance to Castle Primrose. You shall depart at dawn. Failure to comply will be considered treason against the realm.”

Eira took the parchment and read it again, though she needed no clarification. Treason. The word lingered in her mind like a thorn. “So, the time has come,” she muttered, her fingers tightening around the hilt of the unfinished blade.

The journey to Castle Primrose was perilous, even under the guise of peace. The roads wound through the Shade Woods, where bandits and beasts alike prowled. Eira and Kiv traveled with a small escort, knights sworn to House Tolkien, though even they seemed uneasy as the trees pressed in around them.

On the second night, the ambush came. The attack was swift and merciless. Jormun warriors descended from the trees, their blades glinting in the moonlight. Eira’s knights fought valiantly, but the enemy was too many.

“Take the blade and run!” shouted Sir Maric, the captain of her guard, as he parried a blow meant for her.

Eira hesitated, her instincts screaming to stay, to fight. But the blade was the priority. She grabbed Kiv’s arm and together they fled into the woods, the sounds of battle fading behind them.

By dawn, they reached the edge of the woods, weary and bloodied. Kiv carried the blade, his youthful determination a flickering beacon in the face of despair.

“We’re close,” Eira said, her voice hoarse. The spires of Castle Primrose loomed in the distance, their golden tips catching the first rays of sunlight. Yet, as they approached, she felt a sense of unease.

The gates opened to welcome them, but the faces of the guards were grim. Lady Malfiz Aosi awaited them in the grand hall, her expression unreadable.

“Mistress Tolkien,” Malfiz began, her voice smooth but edged. “You’ve done well to bring the blade. But I fear its purpose has changed.”

Eira stiffened. “What do you mean, my lady?”

Malfiz gestured to a figure emerging from the shadows—Lady Themis of House Typhon, her blindfolded irises gleaming with cunning. “The blade will not unite the houses, Mistress Tolkien. It will destroy the ones who oppose us.”

Eira’s heart sank as the realization struck. The blade, her life’s work, was to be a weapon of conquest, not peace. “This was not the agreement,” she said, her voice rising angrily.

Themis smirked. “Agreements change, smith. The question is, where does your loyalty lie?”

In the dead of night, Eira and Kiv slipped out of Castle Primrose, the blade wrapped carefully in cloth. They would not allow their work to be perverted while breath remained in their bodies. The journey ahead was uncertain, and fraught with danger, but Eira knew one thing: the blade’s true purpose would be fulfilled, even if she had to forge a new destiny herself.