He looked at me, and the naked vulnerability in his eyes almost broke me.
"I told you," he said, his voice thick. "I won't let you freeze. Even if I have to burn myself out to keep you warm."
"Hey! Lovebirds!" Flynn’s voice cut through the heavy air, echoing off the cavern walls. "Unless you're practicing making little bitty metal babies, we need you on the slab! The big guy says the soup is ready!"
Kaelen squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a look of profound annoyance crossing his face, before he stepped back. The cold air of the forge rushed into the space between us, but it didn't bite this time. My whole body was humming.
He didn't bother putting his shirt back on. He grabbed his armor, holding it in one hand, and offered me the other.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
I flexed my metal fingers. They moved smoothly; the stiffness was gone.
"No," I answered honestly. "But I'm warm."
"That will have to be enough."
He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, flesh against metal, gold against silver, and led me back out into the light of the fire.
We walked toward the Anvil. Hephaestus was waiting, the hammer resting on his shoulder.
"About time," the Smith God grunted, eyeing Kaelen's bare torso and my flushed skin. He didn't comment, but his eyes dropped to my arm, seeing the golden hue. He nodded, a single, sharp jerk of approval.
"Get on the slab," Hephaestus ordered.
I looked at the dark iron block. I looked at Kaelen, his skin still glowing from our contact, and pushed myself onto the Anvil.
"Does it hurt?" I asked Hephaestus, my voice small in the vastness of the room.
Hephaestus positioned the tongs. He looked at me with those sad, ancient eyes.
"It is rebirth, child," he said softly. "Of course it hurts."
I lay back. The iron was hot against my spine. "Do it," I whispered.
FIFTEEN
Aria
Hephaestus limped around the massive, dark block of the Primal Anvil, dragging his lead-braced leg. He looked less like a god and more like a mechanic inspecting a catastrophic engine failure. He picked up a pair of tongs the length of a spear and gestured to the slab of iron.
"This is not magic, girl," the Smith God grunted, wiping grease from his forehead with a forearm scarred by eons of sparks. "Do not mistake it for a spell. Spells are poetry. This is engineering. We are about to strip you down to your very essence and rebuild you."
"You have a terrible bedside manner, old man," Flynn muttered, pacing the perimeter of the circle. He was twitching, his daggers sheathed but his hands flexing constantly, needing something to cut, something to kill. He smelled of sour fear and ozone.
"I am not a doctor," Hephaestus countered, slamming a heavy hammer onto a rack. "I am a blacksmith. And you four are the fuel."
He pointed to the floor around the Anvil. Faint, etched grooves marked the cardinal points, filled with centuries of soot and dried ichor.
"North," he pointed a crooked finger at Kaelen. "Fire. The source. You provide the initial thermal shock to soften the lattice. If it gets too cold, she cracks. If it gets too hot, she melts. No pressure, Dragon."
Kaelen stepped to the northern point. His face was a mask of rigid control, but through the bond, I felt a chaotic swirling of panic. He was terrified of his own heat, afraid that the thing that defined him would be the thing that destroyed me.
"South," Hephaestus barked, swinging his gaze to Thane. "Earth. The Anchor. When the pain hits, she will try to leave her body. Her soul will attempt to eject to escape the trauma. You have to hold her inside. You are the gravity."
Thane moved to the southern point, planting his feet like pillars. He looked at me, his brown eyes wide and sorrowful. He felt heavy in my mind, a burden of guilt that he was still struggling to lift.
"West," the Smith pointed to Flynn. "Motion. Breath. The reforging requires circulation. You must keep the energy cycling. If it stagnates, it pools. If it pools, it detonates."
