Romans & histoires The Forge Nornir Chest

We said goodbye and I headed to the address Nick had texted me. As I walked into the shop a friendly gentleman greeted me. “Miss Clarke, Mr. Thorn said to expect you.” “He did,” I sounded surprised. “I have the bottles ready for you.” We walked over to the counter, and he showed me the bottles. First was Chateau Montelena chardonnay and the second was a bottle of Macallan 18-year-old double cask whiskey. I nodded, not having a clue. I watched as he boxed the bottles up and placed a gift ribbon around each of them.

just black, battle-worn clothes and a scent that said one wrong move, and I’d never breathe again. ‘You still want to do this?’ Nira asked, low in my head. She already knew the answer. I didn’t reply. I kept my jaw tight, voice buried deep. I adjusted the straps under my hoodie, pulling it closer to my skin. Every inch of me was Rowan now. I held out the forged crest, heart in my throat. The guard raised a brow. "Name?" I dropped my voice. "Rowan Thorne." He stared for a second too long. Then nodded.

Vanessa asked with a brow raised. Rowan looked at the scroll again before answering. “The forge isn't powered by fire like a normal one. It requires ‘sacred’ materials to function.” Xander stiffened next to me. “What sacred materials?” Rowan read again. “Rare elements, some of which haven’t been seen in centuries. Without them, the forge won’t work.” Vanessa threw her arms up in frustration. “Oh wow. Just when we thought we had gained an advantage over Zerathos and his minions, we now need to find things that may no longer exist.”

I said, my physical voice raspy and exhausted, stripping away the terrifying, synthesized acoustic filter of the suit. A collective breath shuddered through the Vanguard. Cord let out a booming, chest-deep laugh that echoed off the high peaks of Iron Crest. The seventy-two-year-old Master Forge pushed his way past Torin, walking right up to the terrifying black armor. He slammed his massive, heavy hand against the shoulder plate. The kinetic sink instantly ate the blow, making no sound. Cord just grinned wider. "You didn't break it," Cord noted, his golden eyes shining with absolute pride.

Marco nodded and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. I stripped out of my training clothes and pulled on black jeans, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and boots with reinforced toes. Then I opened the hidden panel in the back of my closet and surveyed my collection. Blades. Always blades. I strapped a knife to my right thigh, another to my left ankle. Two more went into sheaths at the small of my back, hidden beneath my shirt. A small dagger slipped into my boot, and finally, I secured my favorite blade—a seven-inch Italian stiletto with a bone handle—to my forearm beneath a leather cuff.

"The Argentum Prime has the fire, but does she have the soul to shape the crown?" A section of the floor retracted, and a pedestal rose from the ice beneath the Forge. On it sat a hammer made of a single, uncut diamond, its surface etched with the same Weaver’s knots that were branded into my skin. "To forge the defense, you must first forge the King," the voice commanded.