Prologue
Amariel
Heat strokes my skin, pulling more and more sweat from my pores. The fire is relentless, as am I. Turning my back to the forge, I walk to the window and shove it open.
Breathe, calm down. Panicking does nothing.
I toss my long braid over my shoulder and press my palm to my heart. My chest is like firewood: rough, splitting open, and unable to stop the enemy—the truth of what I have done—seeking to devour it.
Every inhale is fueled by the aroma that surrounds me.
Death.
Spring flowers no longer bloom; their velvet petals decay under bloody boots.
“Don’t do it. Why did you look up?” I hiss out loud. Falling ash masks the sun.
It’s snow.
Why do you lie to yourself?I dream lies to keep the nightmare of my reality at bay.
The swelling in my throat feels like water transforming into ice. There is no more room to breathe; everything is solid. What’s done is done.
This is why you should not take breaks.Stop concentrating on your mistakes and try to fix them!
Grabbing the latch, I slam the window shut, heaving a deep breath. My muscles tremble as I grab a shovel, ready to get back to work. Once I forged things of beauty, tools to shape our world, not destroy it.
Now, I make grotesque things. But in their ugliness, there’s hope for survival.
Maybe that makes them beautiful in their own way. After all, how can we define survival without the existence of its antithesis? Destruction. Extinction.
This forge, which I hope will end this war, is also where the war started. The war caught us off guard, like a bolt of lightning on a clear sunny day. It should not have happened. The elves, who used to be loyal servants, knew they had to move fast. During our time of grief and shock over losing one of our own, they struck, killing another god.
The war against the elves, creatures lesser than us, has lasted only weeks. Victory is on their side. Our hope is as minuscule and slim as the eye of a needle. We try and try but can't thread it. I must find a way to sew us back together again. After all, discarded scraps can be turned into a quilt, something needed again, cherished, and loved.
My back bows and arches, my thighs scream with pain as I bend and shovel load after load of fuel into the fire. My biceps shake so badly I lose half the scoop on the floor. My pride persists, urging me to keep going.
Wait!I pull the next shovel back. Don’t overfeed the fire. You’ll kill it. These hands will kill yet another thing.
I plant the shovel’s blade beside my boot and lean on the shaft, too tired to move, too exhausted to fall, yet too stubborn to sleep. The handle rests uncomfortably under my chin, propping my head up as I stare at everything I’ve done.
I forged thirteen swords as gifts for my fellow gods who desired peace. Those of us who didn't agree, or ignored matters altogether, received nothing. The swords were my version of a requiem.
I poured a piece of my core magic into the blades, a sacrifice most gods would not make lightly. I fell into a daze as I carved intricate designs into each sword, loving it as a mother cradles a child. I transformed a weapon into a piece of art to be admired rather than wielded. I wanted to show my fellow gods that an item’s purpose could change.
Wecould change.
Peace lasted less than a season.
The extent of my creation came as a surprise, even to me. When I hammered my magic into the metal, I simply wanted the battles to end. Arguably, they did. The God Swords, the only weapons strong enough to kill us, were forged by my hands.
Mine.
I push the shovel aside, clenching my fists at my sides. If I didn’t need my hands, I’d sever them from my body, ensuring I could no longer create anything ever again.
One wrong move changed everything.
It all happened during our celebration. It was meant to be a dance, a show of our blades. Not a fight.
