That evening, Keeper Tomislar came for her. The monk wore robes as simple as the ones she had changed into.
At night, the temple had a different air. Ethereal and ancient.
Or maybe it just felt that way after hours of scrubbing herself clean, meditating, and worrying.
It still hadn’t sunk in, not really. Nothing felt real.
They passed through the courtyard, and even though they passed a few other monks and one younger girl that might have been an initiate, everyone was silent.
They ducked into one of the stone buildings on the edge of the courtyard, and she watched, unease swimming in her gut, as the monk crouched down. He brushed aside the straw that littered the ground and lifted a large hatch by its newly revealed handle. Passing her an old lantern, the Keeper started down the ladder without a word.
A moment of trepidation seized Iryana as she looked down into the dark hall. She had heard rumors of what happened during a forging—all from those who’d never experienced one, of course. It was deeply forbidden to speak of, even after the dakii had done away with so many other traditions.
This was her last chance to turn back, to avoid whatever would be asked of her next. She wished she could.
Once they both reached the bottom of the ladder, Iryana looked around, holding out her lantern. The space was small, barely having room for the few storage shelves that lined one wall.
How could one be forged in such a place?
But then the Keeper opened a hidden door in the side wall, revealing yet another ladder, and down they went again. Her heart beat even louder. There were four different passages they descended through before Iryana knew they had reachedit.
She could feel the hum of energy in the air—the power of the well—even though she could not see it. They stood in what seemed to be some kind of antechamber, and she believed the actual well was through one of the doors circling the room.
The large chamber had walls with tapestries hung floor to ceiling, some displaying beautiful scenes in their embroidery, others bearing the symbols and patterns Iryana associated with the art of metal-forging. The central wall-hanging depicted Noshtiz, god of metal, surrounded by what were most likely his champions.
There was a raised platform in the center of the room, with posts at each corner bearing large lanterns that, with the help of the fixture on the ceiling, cast the entire room in a warm glow. On the platform sat a simple wooden cot and a padded stool around what looked to be a large metal jar that was clearly attached to the platform.
She could not describe the way the room smelled, but it was distinct.
Iryana took it all in. The reality of where she finally was brought tears to the corners of her eyes.
“This is the true temple, the chambers of the well.” The sudden sound of the Keeper’s low voice caused Iryana to jolt. “When we leave these chambers, you will be forged.”
Her knees weakened, throat bobbing, as that fate sunk into her.Shewould be metal-forged. The first Guardian of Klees to do so in over a decade. The thought was terrifying.
When the Keeper turned to her, Iryana forced herself to take him in again. He wasn’t the type of man who would have drawn her attention before; he had looked harmless, powerless up above. But down here, there was a magnetism about him. He was in his domain, and he watched her with brilliant green eyes that promised untold secrets.
Then she processed what he’d said about not leaving until she was forged.
“Doesn’t it take days? Weeks?” That was what she had assumed, based on how long her various family members had been gone for.
“Sometimes, yes. Once the forging has begun, it is dangerous to leave until it is done.”
The walls seemed to close in tighter. They would be deep underground for so long, not a glimpse of the sky. Iryana swallowed. She wasn’t necessarily claustrophobic, but being trapped there for so long…
The Keeper approached her.
“To be forged is not to be taken lightly,” he said, voice heavy with wisdom. “It is a careful art where many things can go wrong. There is always the chance you aren’t strong enough and the process will kill you. A chance we go too far, and magic is cut off from you forever. Assuming we succeed, your magic can always be reforged at any metal well, but once you have accepted the power of this well, trying to take the power of any other kind will kill you.”
Iryana dropped to her knees before him, inclining her head. She knew the words to say, had heard them in lullabies and nursery stories since her birth. “I understand the risk, Keeper. Please bind me to this well and guide my forging.”
Her heart was beating hard as she stared at the worn stone floor.
The dangers didn’t matter. She would risk it all for the Klees Guardians. For Hadima and Misha.
“Then, Iryana of the 18th, please sit, and we will begin.” The Keeper gestured at the long bench on the platform and sat himself down on the stool beside it.
Iryana complied, scrunching the fabric of her robe with her fingers nervously. She looked around, taking in mostly empty space, save for the bench, the stool, and a jar between them.
