Page 92 of Embers of Midnight
Darian chalks a neat set of Aegis sigils on the tang and guard area, a language of protection and stability I can feel under my skin without being able to read it. He pauses, looks at my face, adds one small mark near the ricasso. “For stubbornness,” he says dryly.
Caelum sets out rune ink and etcher. His lines are calm, measured. He hums under his breath, not magic, habit. I breathe easier once he starts.
When the steel is ready, Ronan unrolls a pad of treated leather, sets the horn fragment in the center, and studies it like a puzzle he’s wanted to solve for years. He glances at me. “You sure?”
“Yes.” The word lands steady. “Make it part of the blade. Not an inlay. A promise.”
He nods. He grinds the broken end to a clean join, not touching the living base for even a second. He keeps the shard wrapped in cloth except when he has to set it in place. The horn is warm before he heats it. My body buzzes with recognition I didn’t expect. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t help. It is what it is.
“Binding pass,” he says, and brings metal and horn together with a whisper of dragon heat that lives in his cuffs whether he admits it or not. The smell is not bone. It’s something brighter, clean as storm air. The horn doesn’t fight the steel. It settles. My throat burns for no good reason.
Ash’s hand closes around mine under the table. His thumb finds the notch between my fingers and rests there. No flourish. No speech.
We make a blade.
Ronan draws and folds, seats the horn along the spine where it can feed heat and not drink it. The steel takes the shape I likejust by watching it: single edge, clip point, a little top-heavy so it’ll carry through instead of chatter. Not a broadsword. A knife that knows it’s a knife. Forty centimeters, maybe forty-five. He tapers the tang, sets the balance where my wrist will love it.
“Ready,” he says.
“Quench,” Ash answers, and when the blade hits the oil, the bath doesn’t flare. It swallows heat like a secret. The sound is a soft hiss, not a scream. Ash watches the color drop out of the steel with intent that could stop crime. He lifts the blade slow, oil sheeting off clean, not streaked. The horn along the back glows a heartbeat longer, then settles.
Darian takes it next. He drops the warmed tang into a clamp and burnishes the Aegis marks into the metal with a patience that makes me itch and calm down at the same time. When he’s done, he looks at me. “Your turn.”
Caelum stands with the etcher, eyes bright. “Name the channel,” he murmurs.
I take the blade in both hands. Weight like a decision you actually wanted to make. Warmth along the spine, steady as a held note. I think of the alley, the break, the way my friends filled the space where panic was trying to take root.
“Pyrelight,” I say. The name arrives like it was waiting.
Caelum smiles like a man hearing a melody resolve. He inscribes three short lines: one at the heel near the guard, one mid-spine,one just shy of the tip. Flow runes, not overt. Space for heat to escape without biting the hand that feeds it.
“Blood bond,” Ronan says, unflinching. “Small. No drama.”
I prick my thumb. One drop. It slides along the fuller, finds the first rune, and soaks in like the metal had been thirsty for exactly that. Heat steps into my palm like a handshake. Not a sting. A claim.
The room breathes different after that.
We finish the handle together. Ronan shapes scales from maple that used to be a workbench and still remembers hands. Darian sets thin Aegis pins through the tang. Caelum inks a tiny ward under the scale where only we’ll know it lives. Ash wraps the grip in a narrow cord that bites without cutting; his fingers work fast, clever, an old rhythm worn into new purpose.
Ronan stands aside and lets me be the one to seat the guard. It clicks into place like it wanted to live here.
I take the finished blade to the window where the light is honest. I turn my wrist. The edge flashes in a clean line. The horn along the spine holds its own glow even in plain daylight. It doesn’t hurt to look at it. It doesn’t hurt to hold it.
“It’s mine,” I say, and the words don’t shake.
Ash leans into the bench, grinning like a man who got away with a heist. “We made a sword out of your face.”
“That’s a sentence,” I deadpan. “Put it on a shirt.”
“I will,” he promises.
Ronan’s hand settles at the back of my neck, careful, checking for the wince that would tell him we went too fast. It isn’t there. He nods once, satisfied, and something inside me lines up like a row of books finally sitting straight.
Darian wipes the blade one last time and sets it in a cloth-lined sheath he must have prepped at dawn because of course he did. He hands it over like it’s a diploma. “On your belt when you’re ready. Not under your pillow.”
“I make no promises,” I tell him, and he allows the corner of his mouth to lift.
Caelum lifts my hand and kisses the knuckle with the ease of a man who intends to keep doing it for a very long time. “Pyrelight suits you,” he says. “So does being alive.”
