The Forge Nornir Chest Novels & Stories

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.

Everything was like new. The rusted weapons became new as well, their edges sharp and their surface glowing with runes and enchantment. Gold like lava seeped into the cracks of the forge, flowing like a river. Symbols etched into the stone walls pulsed with renewed energy, ancient runes flickering to life. Then, at the very center of the forge, something shifted. A panel slid open, revealing two figures encased in stone. Armor. One was dark silver with streaks of gold, the metal looked like liquid moonlight. The other was deep obsidian with streaks of violet color that pulsed with an energy that crackled like lightning.

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.

It was a two-handed weapon that looked difficult to wield, but Avril assured me she was proficient at it. Prince Thorn and his mate, Princess Ariana, were with us. Thorn's armour was also made from Phaikón Árgyron. Instead of being mail, it was an intricately designed chest plate. Moonstone accents adorned his gauntlets, greaves, and chest plate, pulsating with magical energy that resonated.

Ren didn't waste his sniper ammunition, providing cover fire with his spectral pistol. They reached the central chamber. It was a circular arena surrounded by a moat of bubbling digital lava. In the center, chained to a massive anvil, stood the Boss. BOSS DETECTED: THE FORGE MASTER. LEVEL: 45 (ELITE). HP: 25,000 / 25,000. It was a towering monstrosity of black iron and glowing brass, fifteen feet tall. Its right arm was a massive pneumatic press, and its left was a rotary saw blade that sparked against the floor. Its chest cavity burned with a white-hot digital furnace.

The Royal Forge was a cathedral of industry, a massive circular stone chamber at the base of the palace’s highest tower. For the final trial, the Council had gathered in the gallery above, looking down like spectators at a gladiator’s arena. At the center stood the Great Furnace, a beast of iron and brick that had birthed the crowns of kings for five hundred years. Julian stood before the hearth, his leather apron fastened tight. To his left sat Aris, acting as the "Overseer of the Materials" by ancient right—a position the Duke had fought to ensure.

Given that forsaken are made of the chthonic essence of masters of Oribus, this was an easy fight for Thersar, Nexelex and warriors. That’s it. I had my fair share of fun in battering Denexus. Given that I don’t want to mar my palate with Denexus’ blood, I have pulled out Kris chthonic daggers and cut both of his hands in a quick motion. He fell to his knees, snarling and groaning. In yet another brisk move, I stuck both daggers in his chest. And the essence of Denexus was sucked in my kris daggers.

"Ah, the Whitmoor mate. Your naming-day treasures are forged and ready for pick-up." I started the runner, the massive engine let out a fierce, mechanical growl that made my wolf purr as I steered the machine toward the high-ranking quarter of Abakon Yellow. It was a small, exclusive merchant square nestled beside the elite training dens. The master smith quickly handed me a series of locked velvet boxes containing an expensive silver-link watch forged with lunar stones, a pair of thick black leather hunting boots stitched to my exact size, and a massive chest crate containing a dark, form-fitting combat tunic woven from reinforced silk.