Page 1

Prologue

S ometimes, he still heard the distant roar of battle, muffled only by the steady clang of his hammer on the forge, the rhythmic strike of metal against metal. In those moments, the ghosts of war seemed farther away.

But there were times, like now, when his brother’s war cry echoed across the battlefield in his mind. No amount of steel or flame could silence it. The clash of weapons, the tang of blood on the wind, the haunting look in Gorkath’s eyes the last time they met—it all rushed back, vivid and unrelenting.

He had chosen to leave that life behind, to forge peace instead of destruction. The fires of the forge were meant to cleanse him, to burn away the past. Here, in Everwood, he could be just a blacksmith, shaping tools and horseshoes, not a warrior.

Yet the past, like the scars etched into his skin, never truly faded. The weight of his brother's betrayal, the faces of those he had fought alongside and against, lingered like shadows in the corners of his mind, waiting for moments like this to resurface.

Vorgath paused, lowering the hammer. His eyes drifted to the sword hanging on the wall, polished but unused. It was a relic of a past he had promised to abandon, but still, he kept it. A reminder, perhaps, that no peace was ever permanent. That, despite his best efforts, the past had a way of creeping back. And he feared the day when he would be forced to pick up the blade again.

But for now, he worked. Each swing of the hammer was a prayer—one that begged for forgiveness, for redemption, for peace that would last longer than the quiet between strikes.