Page 13 of Red Demon (Oria #1)

A New Beginning

A s I started my first day of work, I realized the demands of the forest had taken their toll. My mind had excitement to spare, but I’d thinned out, losing strength in my arms. Sweat stung my eyes as I hauled another bucket of pelleted charcoal into the smoldering furnace.

Galen stood a few paces away, holding a red-hot rod between thick mitts.

He vised it into place with deft hands, unconcerned by the heat, giving the rod his undivided attention as each thud of the auto-hammer shook the floor.

Asher whirled between the two of us, checking controls on the Chaeten fabricator, the machine that took the bars Galen was done with and produced what appeared to be a complete blade.

What came out only needed hilting, engraving, and a final polish.

What I found astounding was that Galen spent more time prepping the bars going into the fabricator than the remainder of the process.

“Why not reprogram the fabricator to do the whole thing?” I asked Galen. I’d been holding in the question for hours, not wanting to be a nuisance. That’s how the Chaeten built just about everything, including swords.

He angled the bar under the forging press once more before looking up to answer my question. “The metal remembers. That’s why the first touch—and the last—must be human.”

I didn’t understand what he meant by that. And when Galen didn’t explain further, I kept my hands busy shoveling another load of fuel from the other end of the workroom until the furnace roared.

“Wipe your hands, then pull down the blade on the wall behind the counter, boy,” Galen said, vising another raw steel rod. “The one with the green and gold hilt.”

I found it where he said, taking time to admire it on the way back. The grip showed enough minor scuffs between grooves of the design to indicate it was an antique. Yet as I removed it from the scabbard with a click, I held up a polished blade that caught the firelight with a gleam.

“This sword,” Galen said, running his finger down the fuller, “has walked beside an Attiq-ka for millennia in my family, and I share his name. The immortal Galen died in the Tower. He will no longer reincarnate down our line.”

With awe, I watched as the blade glowed blue behind his touch.

“Istaran adheres to Niire Mai —only used to take a life to save another—or kill a demon. It remembers every time it takes blood. Istaran remembers who holds it, and can track anyone who injures or kills its master.”

Galen offered me the sword. Carefully, I took it, the cool weight of the metal feeling strange on my skin. I wondered how many Chaeten lives it took in the war. The engravings on the sword came alive in my grip, the pale blue glow snaking from the hilt in mazes down the blade.

I almost dropped it, but set it down on the table instead.

“Interesting.” Galen’s black eyes twinkled with something inscrutable. Asher and his father shared a look.

“What was that?” I knew that cyan light was the sign of Asri magic at work.

Galen turned to rummage through a large wooden cabinet, shaking his head as if to uproot a thought. “Nothing dangerous.” He turned and gave me a squinting glare. “Or illegal. Istaran decided you were worthy of its trust.”

“Worthy how?” I stared at the hilted blade.

He huffed. “Wish I knew. Old magic, na .” He produced a similar-looking blade from the cabinets.

“I carry on what rituals I know, including a few I can’t claim to fully understand—knowledge the Attiq-ka took with them.

But they limit what is allowed, even for their soldiers.

The empire won’t let me make Oria-synched blades like Istaran, even for them. ”

He passed me a fresh blade, hilt first. It felt just as light as Istaran, every bit as sharp, but it didn’t glow, or otherwise creep me out.

“That’s a sword we made here. It will last—sharp—and I guess that’s good enough.

I do the first fold of carbon steel by hand as my grandfather did, using a grade to offer the blade durability and strength.

I take a nickel-titanium alloy next, to give the blade enough flexibility not to shatter.

The Chaeten machines—” He gestured behind him, to the large thrumming fabricator.

“—Are programmed to do what my ancestors taught me, but work faster, using electromagnetic pulses to build a matrix of the two materials.”

“So you don’t just melt them together?” I had no idea it was so complicated.

“Try your hand at the cold steel. You’ll get a feel for it.” He nodded at a raw bar on the counter.

I picked up the first rod, heavy and unyielding in my grip. My fingers traced the rough edges, imagining the heat that would soon mold it, the shape it would take once I knew what in the cold void I was doing.

He handed me another piece of metal. Brighter, shinier, light. “Try bending that.”

I did. Although it appeared strong, it gave in to my grip, springing right back when I released it.

“Good,” Galen said. “If you increase a material’s strength and hardness, it’s going to be brittle, breakable.

It’s sharp until it shatters. But if you want a metal that’s going to give way and not break on impact, it’s less sharp.

” He assessed me for a moment, looming over me with arms crossed. “ Ka are no different, I suppose.”

I met his gaze, not sure what I’d find there, but it was nothing cruel. He looked away.

“If you melt them together, you’d get a mediocre sword. But an engineered matrix of two alloys allows the properties of both, durable and true.” He handed me the replica sword again, the one he copied from Istaran.

“That’s incredible,” I said, and meant it.

The rest of the day, I worked alongside Asher, doing the first fold for the steel bars.

We’d heat them, flatten out imperfections with the forging press, heat them again, keep going.

When it seemed long enough to be a sword, we’d bend it over and flatten twice more before we passed the work to the fabricator.

Sweat dripped from my brow as I cranked the vise handle, feeling the raw heat of the metal beside it.

I brought the forging press down, the clang echoing in my ears, a primal rhythm that resonated deep to my bones.

It was too loud to talk much, but I was fine with that.

They’d offered me lunch, but I waved them off, insisting on eating some of the supplies in my pack instead. I wasn't a charity case. I was the guy who would finish aligning these bars in record time.

Galen ducked between the shop and workroom, then directed Asher upstairs by late afternoon.

I kept the fastest pace I could to finish the work, determined to prove to Galen he did not make a mistake hiring me.

My body could complain later, when I was back in my leaf and stick shelter that night.

My hungry belly could complain later too.

“I said you can stop now, boy,” Galen said.

From the look on his face, he’d said that before, but then his eyes turned to my work.

Beside me sat a stack of neatly aligned bars, their surfaces smooth and shimmering under the fabricator’s light.

Galen assessed them in appreciation before nodding at me.

I felt a flicker of pride at that, warm as the furnace room.

“The shop is closed; Ash has dinner ready upstairs,” Galen said.

“Okay.” I wiped my face down with a rag beside me. “Do you want me to restock the charcoal before I go?”

He frowned. “Go where, boy? Come up for dinner once you’ve cleaned up.”

I loosed a breath, not looking forward to the long walk back to my camp in the cold dark. But I didn’t want to be rude. After I washed my hands and face, I made myself load up two baskets of firewood for the kitchen upstairs, and carried them both up the stairs in one go.

Music played in the kitchen, a fragile string melody.

I couldn’t see the source, but the Asri always like their tech to be as invisible as possible when they bother with it at all.

The walls in the loft apartment glowed with a soft emanating light, a simple and sparse design compared to the house I grew up in.

Simple pottery in dark colors, a steel pot atop an open flame hearth, a granite tray over that fire for flat bread.

I lingered in the doorway, an intruder on a foreign life.

Asher flipped bread on the fire, his curly hair falling wet on his shoulders from a fresh shower. My clothes, the same as I’d been wearing for months, hung smudged with soot and wet from sweat. I probably smelled more awful than I knew. Maybe I shouldn’t impose.

Asher turned back from the fire, beaming. “Jesse, garlic on your bread or plain?”

The aroma of that bread and whatever stewed on the hearth pierced my defenses. My stomach rumbling was the ultimate betrayal, echoing louder than my pride. I shrugged off my worn boots by the shoe rack in the stairwell, shuffling over the threshold.

“Garlic, please.” I sat down, perched on the edge of a sturdy polished table, my spine stiff.

Galen leaned over the table, passing me a steaming mug before sitting down. His eyes, weathered and sparkling, met mine. “I was just telling Ash how much you got done. We’ll have a good rest at the end of the week at this rate.”

I took a sip of spiced tea—not a flavor I was used to. The herbs were soothing, almost icy on my tongue, but more hearty than a mint.

Asher set a steaming bowl in front of me. “Sweet potato and black bean stew,” he announced with a flourish. “Secret family recipe, so feel honored.”

Galen grunted, a sound that could have been amusement or disapproval. But his eyes held a flicker of warmth, and when I stole a glance at my plate beside my bowl, he was layering an extra slice of the flatbread on it. I felt a wave of gratitude for such a simple gesture.

Taking a bite, the earthy flavors lulled me into a comfortable complacency I hadn’t felt in months.