The sun barely rose above the walls of the capital as I looked at the Tower’s entrance. Standing back from the smooth, seamless stone, I searched for any flaw or variation—something to break the illusion of permanence.

  “There’s gotta be a keyhole here somewhere,” I muttered.

  No hinges. No handles. No seams. Just two enormous stone slabs that fit together so flawlessly they seemed carved from one block. My palm brushed the surface, cool and smooth as glass.

  I crouched low, inspecting the base of the door. Nothing. Not even a scuff mark. Whoever built this didn’t leave any mechanical clues behind. Just the glyphs above, humming softly as if waiting for something to respond.

  I stood up again and rubbed the back of my neck. “This is just like that damn mountain,” I said aloud, glancing up at the towering spire. “Except I’m all out of riddles and moonlight.”

  My shoulders hurt. I hadn’t really slept. A part of me was still back at the inn, under warm blankets with Seraphina pressed against me, feeling the comfort of her skin and the quiet steadiness of her breath. I would have given anything to be there still.

  Instead, I was here, staring at a blank wall that didn’t want to be opened. I looked up at the glyphs again. They weren’t instructions; they were a challenge. I frowned. “Could it really be that simple?” I muttered. “Like some old story… say the right words, and the doors open.”

  A bitter half-smile touched my lips. Speak, friend, and enter. But no friendly words came to mind. No password. No logic puzzle. Just ancient symbols carved in silence, waiting.

  Instead, I was here, staring at a blank wall that refused to open. I looked up at the glyphs again. They weren’t instructions; they were a challenge.

  I turned back toward the Tower’s gates, then slowly lowered myself onto the nearest bench. The morning was still, the streets mostly empty. The light had begun to creep down the Tower’s flanks, spilling across the grass like a slow tide.

  A shape moved from the corner of my vision. Quiet. Intentional.

  The cloaked man sat beside me with the kind of ease that comes from belonging somewhere you shouldn’t. Same worn traveler’s cloak. Same stillness in his posture.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said, his voice low and dry, like wind brushing old parchment.

  I didn’t look at him right away. “You’ve been watching.”

  “I watch what changes,” he replied, eyes fixed on the Tower. “And you,” he finally turned his head toward me, “you’ve changed quite a lot since the road.”

  I studied him in return. He was older than I first thought. The kind of older that didn’t wrinkle so much as wear down, like steel exposed to sea air. His cloak was faded but clean. No insignia. No color. Just function. And the way he held himself… not a merchant. Not a priest. Maybe once a soldier. Or something more dangerous.

  I followed his gaze back to the Tower. “You said you watch for changes. What kind?”

  “The kind that wake things.” He leaned forward slightly. “For centuries, that Tower’s been sealed tighter than a king’s vault. But glyphs don’t glow without reason. And relic metal doesn’t hum without cause.”

  I frowned. “Hum?”

  He turned to look at me, as if surprised I didn’t already know. “You don’t hear it?”

  “I hear the sound of a hammer. The ring of the anvil. The hiss of quenching oil. The scrape of a file,” I said. “Metal sings when you shape it. But hums? That’s not what I’d call it.”

  He studied me again, this time more intently. “Then it’s not your ears it speaks to.”

  I shook my head. “Look, I didn’t do anything special. I found some scrap, it felt right. It held up in the forge. That’s all.”

  “And yet,” he murmured, almost to himself, “you bent mithril like it was willing. It’s a sign.”

  I turned my hands palm-up in my lap. “I don’t believe in signs. I just wanted to make something for my wife.”

  “And yet, here you are,” he said softly. “At dawn. Watching a tower no one understands.”

  The silence settled between us again. Then he said, “Do you feel it?”

  I hesitated. “...Something happened last night in my journal. When I overlaid the glyphs—two pages. They aligned. Lines, shapes... something clicked.”

  The man nodded slowly, as if that confirmed much more than I realized.

  “I thought so,” he said. “The signs don’t come all at once. But they’re coming faster now.”

  I looked at him sharply. “Signs of what?”

  He turned his gaze back to the Tower. “The rift in the north. It’s opening. Quietly. And not from our side. Scouts say shapes move beyond the ridge. Camps. Smoke. Old banners we hoped never to see again.”

  My stomach clenched.

  “And this?” I asked, nodding toward the Tower.

  “This hasn’t stirred in over two hundred years,” he said. “Now the glyphs glow. Metal hums. A smith walks into the capital, forging with techniques no one understands. And he can’t sleep. So he walks straight here.” He looked at me, eyes hard. “Don’t tell me you think that’s a coincidence.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I stood slowly, brushing the dust off my coat. The Tower loomed behind me, silent as ever, but it was no longer asleep.

  “Thanks for the talk,” I said.

  The cloaked man didn’t look at me; he just kept his eyes on the stone—watching, waiting.

  I took a few steps away, then stopped and looked back.

  “If you ever want a better view,” I said, jerking my chin toward the city, “stop by the forge. It’s louder. Hotter. But you see more up close than you ever will from the shadows.”

  He didn’t answer, but his mouth curled into what might have been a smile.

  I left him there, silent on the bench beneath the rising sun, with the Tower casting its long shadow behind us.

  The streets were just beginning to awaken as I made my way back through the capital. The smell of fresh bread and coal smoke filled the morning air. By the time I arrived at the Copper Candle, the front shutters were open, and the first clatter of pans echoed from the kitchen.

  I quietly slipped upstairs and entered our room. Seraphina still slept, one leg tangled in the blanket, her hair forming a soft halo against the pillow.

  And for a moment, the Tower—and everything else—could wait.

  The light in the king’s study was dim despite the hour. A hearth crackled softly in the corner, more for atmosphere than warmth. At the central table, surrounded by open scrolls and scattered letters, King Thalen of Eldros sat with one elbow resting on the armrest, his other hand propping up his head as if the weight of the realm had anchored his spine.

  Ink smudged the side of his thumb as he turned the next sheet—an unsigned letter from a neutral border lord, warning of troop movement in the far north. Another underneath it bore a seal from the Southern Union, requesting an emergency summit. The rest were no better. Courtiers with unease. Allies with questions. Rivals with eyes that saw too much.

  He hadn’t slept in three nights, and it was clear. A knock broke the silence.

  “Enter,” he said, voice flat.

  The door opened with ceremony, but the two who entered spared no effort. General Kitch, broad-shouldered and without armor for once, stepped in first. Behind him, dressed in deep blue and marked with runes on each sleeve, High Mage Selian moved like a storm contained.

  “Your Majesty,” the general said, bowing. “There’s new word from Vaelthorn.”

  Aldric raised an eyebrow. “Finally.”

  Selian handed him a sealed report. “A direct scout transmission. Verified.”

  The king broke the seal with a practiced flick, eyes scanning line by line. His brow twitched. Once. Then again. By the time he looked up, the quiet in the room had become taut.

  “Activity in the central tower,” Thalen said, voice sharp now. “And a blacksmith. No—a master. One working mithril?”

  The report trembled slightly in Thalen’s grip. “That metal hasn’t yielded to a forge in generations.”

  “Not since the fall of the last workshop,” Selian confirmed. “And even then, only the Engineers knew how to make the metals respond. No other living smith has shaped either in more than three hundred years.”

  The king looked between them, shadows under his eyes deep and hollow, then handed the report to the general. “Do we think this smith is one of them?”

  The general reading the report shifted. “No guild history before this year. He claims to come from Brackenreach with his wife.”

  Selian’s voice lowered. “It’s not conclusive. But if he’s not an Engineer, then he’s something worse—someone who figured out what they did without ever being taught.”

  King Thalen leaned back in his chair as the wheels of war and history spun once more behind his tired gaze. He steepled his fingers. “Vaelthorn’s holding, for now. The scouts say the gate remains open?”

  General Kitch gave a grim nod. “Confirmed. The breach hasn’t closed since the first flare. Creatures we’ve only seen in old texts have crossed—scouts say they’re probing. Not marching. Not yet.”

  Selian added, “We’ve seen wardline disruptions, minor arcane bursts near the old ley pools. Something is waking.”

  Thalen’s gaze returned to the map beside the letters, the northern edge highlighted in red. “And the alliance with Vaelthorn? Holding?”

  The general exchanged a quick look with Selian. “On paper,” he said. “But they’re running low. Supplies. Mages. Men. They’ve built up walls but no depth. If that gate becomes a front…”

  “It will,” Selian said softly.

  Thalen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then we’re buying time.” Thalen’s jaw tightened. He looked at the parchment in his hand as if it might bite.

  “A handful of weeks,” the general replied. “If we’re lucky. And only a few months after that… they’ll be here.” The room held its breath. Neither man needed to ask who they were.

  “A smith who shapes mithril,” he muttered. “A tower stirring. A gate opening. And no time.” He slowly rose from the chair, as if even that movement was beginning to drain him.

  “Send a messenger,” he said. “To Vaelthorn, asking them what aid they need and what aid we can provide. And General—” he looked to Kitch with sharper eyes “—inform your scout stationed there. I want him to get to know this blacksmith better. I need everything—background, habits, how he works. We’ve been in the dark long enough.”

  General Kitch silently nodded and moved toward the door. Selian remained a moment longer, eyes still on the flickering fire.

  He whispered, "He may be our last chance."

  Thalen waited until the general left, the heavy door closing behind him with a dull thud. Only then did he speak again, keeping his eyes on the hearth.

  “Selian,” he asked, “have the mages in Vaelthorn contacted you or your tower recently?”

  Selian stepped forward, folding his arms behind his back. “Only in fragments. Their communications have become sporadic. They’re nervous.”

  “About the northern gate?”

  “No,” Selian said slowly. “About the Tower. The one in the capital.”

  Thalen’s gaze lifted.

  “They say it’s stirring,” the mage continued. “Not just the hum of old glyphs. They feel pressure. Movement. Like something beneath the stone is… aware.”

  A silence hung between them. Then Selian said, “This is the first report where the blacksmith has been mentioned directly. Until now, it was all unease. Now, it’s names, places, work. His forging of mithril wasn’t just an event—it was a signal.”

  Thalen’s brow furrowed. “And the guild?”

  “Quiet on the surface. Respectful, even. But there are murmurs—the kind that don’t stay buried. And the nobles..." Selian took a small breath. “They’re whispering. A new earl was recently appointed. Unusual timing. No known ties to the court. So far, just gossip.”

  The king’s voice sounded tired once more. “Gossip has burned kingdoms before.”

  Selian tilted his head. “Which is why I haven’t dismissed it.”

  Thalen stayed silent for a moment, then spoke without looking up from the fire. “What if they’ve returned? The Engineers.”

  Selian hesitated before replying. When he finally spoke, his voice was cautious yet steady. “Their magic… isn’t like ours. It’s shaped, directed, and contained within substance. They don’t cast spells—they craft answers. But we have always respected each other’s craft. They built things for us. We protected their work. There was balance.”

  Thalen looked up at him now. “So what disrupts that balance?”

  Selian’s face tightened slightly. “The Church.”

  A beat. The king frowned. “Go on.”

  “There are factions within the High Temple,” Selian said. “Old voices. Doctrines that have never truly faded. They claim the Engineers defy divine law—that creation without blessing is blasphemy. Some believe their return would be an insult to the gods. They’ve tolerated whispers and relics because they were dormant. But if the Engineers return?” He hesitated, then said it. “The priesthood may fracture. Or worse—turn openly hostile.”

  Thalen leaned back slowly, the weight of that implication settling in his chest like stone. “We have the gates to the north breaking. Armies stirring beyond the veil. If the Church splits now…”

  “They won’t just split,” Selian said. “They’ll tear through the realm trying to root out anything they see as heresy. Including those trying to save it.”

  Thalen’s fingers tapped the edge of the desk. “So if that blacksmith is an Engineer…”

  “Then we need to protect him,” Selian said softly. “Even if we can’t say it out loud."