He emerged back into the main guildhall to find his friends waiting by the entrance, chatting in low voices. Finn was gesturing animatedly, no doubt discussing what to spend the guild stipend on, while Lyra listened with an amused smile. Darius stood a little apart, arms folded as he gazed at the quest board thoughtfully, perhaps already mentally planning their route.
Erik crossed the hall to join them. "Everything alright?" Lyra asked, noticing a contemplative look on his face.
He mustered a reassuring smile. "Yes. Lady Marienne just gave me a bit of advice."
Finn clapped his hands together softly. "Alright then! We have our royal orders, we have a free day to stock up, and I have…." He quickly patted down his pockets and frowned. "Actually, I'm nearly broke. Did we ever split the reward from Graystone?"
Lyra giggled under her breath, and Darius rolled his eyes. The tension from the meeting broke as the group fell back into familiar camaraderie. "Yes, we split it last night, remember? You gambled away half your share with Holt in arm-wrestling bets," Darius chastised.
Finn looked scandalized. "That explains why my coin pouch feels light… I thought maybe I donated some to the tavern wenches' retirement fund."
"Right," Erik chuckled. He certainly didn't recall Finn being charitable with his winnings, more like buying rounds of drinks for strangers and making ill-advised wagers.
Darius shook his head with a rueful smile. "In any case, we have guild support for necessary supplies. Let's focus. We likely depart at first light tomorrow."
The party stepped out of the guildhall and into the bustle of the main street. The rest of the morning lay before them. Blackstone's familiar routine unfolded around their little group, a comforting sight, knowing by tomorrow they'd leave this place behind for an unknown journey.
"Lyra, could you handle provisioning? Rations, water, maybe medicine ingredients?" Darius asked. Lyra was by far the best at bargaining in the marketplace, and she knew what herbs might aid them on the road. The cleric nodded at once.
"I'll get enough for at least two weeks, plus materials to make more healing poultices," Lyra replied. Already, Erik could see her mentally ticking off a list: bandages, antidote herbs, dried fruits… She truly was the nurturing heart of their team.
"Take some coin from the party funds if needed," Darius said. He then looked to Finn. "You should replenish your throwing knives and check your supplies. Maybe purchase some more potent oils for your blades."
Finn offered a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Captain. I'll try not to blow it all on dice games on the way." With a jaunty step (his hangover seemingly cured by Lyra's tonic and the excitement of a coming adventure), the rogue headed off toward a row of stalls where a cutler sold all manner of sharpened steel.
Darius turned last to Erik. "And you, " he began, but Erik was already holding up a hand, anticipating him.
"I know. I'm heading to Brogan's forge," Erik said with a grin. It was an obvious task: check their weapons and armor, repair any damage from Graystone, sharpen blades. But in Erik's case, there was a special reason. He patted the haft of Erythrael on his back. "I'd like Brogan to have a look at this axe… maybe tell me more about it."
Darius gave a thoughtful nod. "A fine idea. Erythrael has served you well, but it might hold secrets we should understand. Brogan is skilled, if anyone can glean something of its make, he can." The knight then gestured down a side street. "I'll join you shortly. I need to stop by the barracks and inform them of our departure, and check on any news from the road." Ever the responsible leader, Darius clearly wanted to gather what intel he could to plan their route.
Darius clapped him on the shoulder, his expression turning from that of a friend to that of a commander. "Good man. Meet back at the guild yard this afternoon. We need to get some training in, work out any rust before we leave." He glanced at Lyra and Finn's receding forms. "I'll round up those two for sparring as well. Don't be late."
Erik gave a sharp nod, a flicker of satisfaction cutting through his anxiety. Good. The thought was immediate. The memories of the original Erik provided a baseline, he knew, in theory, how Lyra's spells worked and how Finn moved in a fight. But seeing it for himself, in a controlled environment where he could observe without the chaos of a real battle, would be invaluable. He needed to understand what they could truly do. "Alright. See you then." With that, Darius strode off, armor clinking with each determined step.
Lyra gently touched Erik's arm before she departed for the market. "I'll see you at training. And Erik… if Brogan says anything worrying about the axe, let me know?" Her brow creased with concern. It touched Erik that she cared not just for the team's safety, but for his peace of mind.
"I will," he promised. Impulsively, he added, "Thank you, Lyra."
She tilted her head. "For what?"
"For always thinking of everyone," Erik said simply. In the morning sun, her gray eyes sparkled like dew on steel. She opened her mouth as if to dismiss the compliment, but seemed to decide against it and instead offered a warm smile.
Then Lyra hefted her empty satchel and headed toward the cluster of shops and stalls at the town square, where Finn was already haggling loudly over knife-sharpening stones. Erik turned on his heel and made for the smithy, eager and a bit anxious for what he might learn there.
Blackstone's smithy lay just off the main thoroughfare, marked by a wrought-iron anvil sign hanging from a post. As Erik approached, the smell of coal smoke and hot metal filled his nostrils, an oddly reassuring scent.
He ducked under the low doorway into the forge. The interior glowed orange from the forge-fire at the far end. Racks of tools and weapons lined the walls: hammers, tongs, and chisels carefully arranged. Brogan the blacksmith was exactly as Erik imagined: a broad-shouldered man with arms thick as oak boughs, his skin tanned and sooty from countless hours at the forge. He wore a leather apron scarred by sparks and burns, and a thick gray mustache dominated his craggy face. He was hammering a glowing piece of iron on his anvil, the rhythmic clang echoing through the workshop.
Brogan looked up as Erik's large frame blocked the doorway's light, and a slow, curious grin spread across his face. He set his hammer down with a thud.
"Well, I'll be," Brogan's voice was a deep baritone that managed to be jovial and gruff at once. "Erik Thorne, finally gracing my forge in person. To what do I owe the honor? Darius usually hauls in your lot's battered gear."
Erik felt a faint echo of another's memory, a stubborn, almost possessive pride. The original Erik had always been strangely private about his axe, as if he felt he was the only one who could truly understand or care for it. He'd clean and sharpen it himself, trusting no one else, not even the best smith in town.
"Darius is busy," Erik said, offering a small, genuine smile. "And Erythrael took a few nicks at Graystone. I figured it was time for a professional opinion."
Brogan's eyes lit up with a craftsman's interest. "About time! I've been itching for a proper look at that thing since I first reforged its haft for Darius years ago." He wiped his sooty hands on a rag and gestured to the massive anvil. "Let's see it, then. Lay the beast here."
Erik unslung Erythrael from its harness. The weight was familiar and comforting in his hands. He laid it across the anvil. The head of the axe gleamed dully; it had been cleaned of gore, but small chips marred its edge. Its metal was a dark, smoky steel that seemed to drink in the light.
The blacksmith let out a low whistle, stroking his mustache. "Aye, I remember her. Darius brought it in after that deep delve in the Sunken Temple. Said it reeked of old magic and older blood." Brogan's eyes narrowed slightly. "He wasn't keen to wield it himself, too heavy for his style. Said it felt… hungry. But he figured it might suit a certain young man who'd just joined their ranks."
A memory fragment surfaced: Darius, standing beneath a starlit sky after a grim mission, the faint light gleaming off the axe as he handed it to Erik. "Found in the deep," Darius had said quietly. "Strange thing. Brogan re-hafted it for me, thought it might suit you. Just... respect it. And if it ever feels wrong in your hands, drop it." Younger Erik had gripped the haft with something between awe and hunger, nodding silently. The memory shimmered, faded, leaving Erik blinking back in the present.
"He asked me then to set it with a new haft, the old one was rotted through. Never asked me to touch the blade itself, mind you," Brogan went on, unaware of Erik's momentary trance. "Told Darius then what I'll tell you now: weapons like this aren't simple tools. They carry intent. Best you respect that."
Erik ran his fingers over the runes on the handle. The symbols felt cool to the touch. "Did he ever find out more about it?"
Brogan shrugged. "Not from me. I'm no scholar. But I know Darius warned the others not to treat it lightly. And you," he added with a knowing look, "you never brought it back here. Always took care of it yourself. Like you were afraid someone else might learn its secrets."
"It's a… personal weapon," Erik said, the words feeling true even if the reasons were not entirely his own. He pointed to the small imperfections on the blade. "It took some damage at Graystone. I was hoping you could sharpen out the nicks."
Brogan squinted, leaning in. He ran a thick, calloused thumb over the edge, his expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief. He picked up a heavy, hardened steel file from his workbench and, with practiced force, tried to run it along the edge of one of the nicks.
Screee. The file didn't bite. It skipped off the dark metal with a high-pitched, protesting shriek, leaving not so much as a scratch. The file itself now had a new shiny, flat spot on its surface.
Brogan stared, blinking. He tried again, putting his considerable weight behind it. Screeeech! The result was the same. The axe remained utterly unmarked. He set the file down, his jovial demeanor gone, replaced by a craftsman's awe.
"By the forge fathers…" he whispered, his voice hushed. "What in the blazes is this thing made of?" He looked at Erik, his eyes wide. "Lad, I couldn't put a scratch on this metal if I worked it with my finest hammers for a week. The strongest of undeads couldn't dent this steel, not for all its life, or all its death, I reckon."
He then pointed a finger at the very nicks Erik had mentioned. "Which means… those marks? They weren't from Graystone. Goblins and ghouls couldn't mar this blade. Whatever did that to this axe… it was something else entirely. Something far older and more powerful."
Erik stared at the small imperfections on the blade, his blood running cold. He had assumed they were from his recent battles. But Brogan was right. This axe was unbreakable by any normal means. The nicks weren't new. They were ancient scars from battles fought long before he was even born into his first life. A faint chill passed through him. He wasn't just carrying a weapon; he was carrying the weight of its entire, bloody history.
As Brogan spoke, Erik's gaze drifted to the runes etched on the axe. For an instant, the air shimmered. He felt a phantom cold, not his own, a memory of frozen battlefields and the taste of blood in a snow-choked wind. He felt a ghost of defiance, of a last, desperate stand against an overwhelming foe. It wasn't a vision, not a clear image, but a flood of raw, ancient emotion that resonated from the steel, whispering a single, undeniable truth into his mind: Erythrael remembers.
His breath hitched. The sensation was gone as quickly as it came, leaving him with a faint trembling in his hands. He stared at the axe, now seeing it not just as a tool, but as a silent witness to countless forgotten wars. It had known many hands before his.
Brogan, as if sensing a shift, clapped him on the shoulder, the sound echoing in the forge. "Well, I can't sharpen it for you, lad. Seems it doesn't need it. And doesn't want it." He handed Erythrael back, his grip reverent. "My advice, boy? Wield it with intent. Feed it battle, but don't let it feed on you."
Erik took Erythrael back, the weapon feeling heavier now, not in weight, but in history. He nodded slowly, his mind reeling with the implications. "Understood."
Brogan smiled, his good humor returning. "You've got miles ahead yet, and a weapon fit for a king. Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"That you'll come back in one piece, and bring this beauty back with you. I want to hear the tales of how it performed. A craftsman lives for stories of his work in action, you know."
Erik grinned, the mystery of the axe now a challenge rather than just a fear. "It's a promise. We'll give you plenty of stories." He hefted the axe onto his back once more, tying it down. "We leave tomorrow at dawn."
Brogan extended one burly arm for a forearm shake. Erik clasped it. "Fair winds and strong steel to you, Erik Thorne. May the roads treat you kindly."
With that, Erik took his leave of the forge. As he walked, he mulled over all he'd learned. The Herald, the summons, and now Erythrael's own impossible nature. It was a lot to take in. But he felt a burgeoning resolve rising to meet it. The axe at his back almost seemed to pulse with quiet energy, and Erik reminded himself of Marienne's advice: remain vigilant.
I will not be ruled by fear, he swore silently. Nor by relics, prophecy, or fate. I am no puppet.
He squared his shoulders, gaze steady. I will wield every tool at my disposal, this axe, my will, my pain, to protect those who stand with me. No matter what awaits.