Lore arrived at the gates of Windas under gray skies and weary eyes. The journey south had taken nearly a month, marked by frostbitten nights and terrain that tested even his hardened resolve. The guards had scarcely believed it was him—bloodied, cloaked in a beast's pelt, and bearing eyes colder than the mountain winds he'd escaped.
From his pack, he carried the Lion's remains: blackened fangs, splinters of bone harder than steel, and a patch of its shimmering white pelt, now charred around the edges where fire had consumed it. Scholars and quartermasters would soon pore over the rare trophies, but none more valuable than the knowledge that the beast had existed—and that it had fallen.
Within hours, he was summoned to the barracks tribunal.
"You abandoned protocol. Disobeyed direct orders," barked Captain Riven, pacing across the polished stone floor. "You left your post without clearance and risked your life chasing a myth."
"I killed the myth," Lore replied evenly. His words held no arrogance, only certainty. He drew one of the Lion's fangs from his satchel and placed it on the tribunal table. The curved spike of frost-black bone steamed faintly in the warm air.
The room fell silent.
"You're lucky you returned alive," Riven muttered after a long pause. "But bravery doesn't excuse insubordination."
There was no medal, no announcement. Only confinement to city limits, pending further review.
Lore left the hall without complaint and made his way through the inner ring of Windas, head low beneath his hood. The city bustled around him, unaware—or uncaring—of what he had endured beyond its walls.
He arrived at the Hall of Arms and descended to the smithy tucked beneath its foundations. Garron's Forge was loud with hammerfalls and glowing with furnace heat. The scent of molten steel and arcane oil filled the air. Lore entered without a word, dropping a bundled cloak onto the nearest bench.
Garron, the master smith, paused mid-swing and turned. "Back from the dead, are we?"
Lore unwrapped the bundle and stepped aside.
Inside were the beast's remnants—blackened fangs, shards of enchanted bone, strips of lion hide tougher than boiled chain, and a talon nearly the length of Lore's arm, rimmed with cold and scorched with fire. A hunter's prize. A warrior's offering.
"I want them used," Lore said. "For armor. For gear. The claw—infuse it into the sword."
Garron's eyes narrowed. "You want to reforge it."
Lore gave a single nod. "It faced something it wasn't meant to survive. Neither was I."
The smith said nothing more, only reached for the sword Lore carried and took it gently. Lore let it go.
"I'll come back when it's done."
Without another word, he turned and climbed the stairs back into the fading light.
Garron watched him go, then placed the blade down beside the talon. He unsheathed it with a slow, measured motion, examining its edge.
Still sharp. Still warm to the touch.
And there it was.
A crack—barely visible, but running through the core like a hidden scar. He'd seen enchanted weapons fail from imbalance before, but never like this.
Garron looked between the claw and the sword. Both had survived the mountain. Together, perhaps, they could become something greater.
"Time to teach old steel new tricks," he muttered, setting to work.