Striva the Fierce was the old forger- the apocryphal progenitor of our village. They say that the day she disappeared she was 104 years old and fiery as the day she had arrived in this village. She was 28, barely a child, when she showed up at the decrepit blacksmith’s forge. She stalked in, from goodness knows where, and set herself in front of that broken down stone furnace, clapped her already sooty hands together, and got to work.

Day in and day out for a year she poured her sweat and elbow grease into repairing the old forge; breathing new life into it. And when she was done with that she went into the mountain and dripped more sweat into the earth to pull up the adamantine ore that she’d work.

When we were kids, our grandparents would tell us that her blood was imbued into the very stone of the mountain, and every sword and armor plate that was fired in her forge was infused with her fiery spirit. That fire flowed in her very veins and her mere presence on the mountainside boiled the concealed springs beneath the crust until they erupted to the surface and provided the water that Striva would use to temper her weapons.

This was hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago. A legend that lended itself to the history of the village, and that I find comforting recalling now as I sit in this icy, barren cell. We of Ironbrook claim the lineage of the fire blood of Striva. It’s this fire blood that lets me maintain a dim flame over my bare palm- just barely illuminating my dry, cracked hands but enough to stave off the chill.

I’m not supposed to use my fire; if I’m caught I’ll be whipped for certain. But it wouldn’t be the first time and I don’t sense any of the guards nearby.. and the flickering flame feels hopeful.

I sigh quietly, sending a mental prayer out into the darkness: “If anyone is out there, please, help us.”

The silence is heavy and enduring. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s hopeless, all the blood of Striva will slowly be enslaved or extinguished and that’ll be that. Closing my eyes I lean my head back on the stone wall and try to ignore the throbbing pain of lacerations on my back from my last session with the whip.

“Are you alright?”

I start and lash out with my hand, claws out, the fire disappearing instantly. “Who’s there?” I whisper fiercely.

A new light appears, another flame. An old man is kneeling before me, a tongue of flame hovers in the air between us. I can see his deep amber eyes enfolded in kindly wrinkles. His dark skin has a coppery sheen in the firelight. His appearance gave the impression of one who has spent many years out of doors under an unyielding sun.

“Argas.” He speaks quietly. Looking him over I see he wears the leathers of a warrior of a bygone era. His eyes, though they are first appeared gold, also reflect flecks of dark brown and red- like sparks.

I eye him cautiously. “How did you get in here?” My suspicion must be apparent, his eyes soften even as his gaze shifts from my face to the cuts on my neck- a gift from Shevasha to be repaid later- to my pronounced ribs, to the shackles tethering me by my wrists to a ring on the wall.

He looks into my eyes again, piercingly this time and I feel a shiver, as though this was not a man but an ancient entity probing for some answer to a question. *Do you want to leave this place?* I hear the voice in my mind, it’s his voice but deeper, more resonant. I nod.

*Hold out your hands, away from your body. I will free you.*

I hold my arms out in front of me, hands apart as far as they can in the bonds.

The man stands up, as he does I see a glint in the light as he draws an unreasonably large sword from his back both in length and width. It gleams green in the firelight and as he holds it the metal starts to glow. I watch in wonder as it seems to ripple with heat as if it had just been pulled from the forge. With a strength I wouldn’t have believed possible for a man his age, he swung the white hot sword up over his head.

His sword came down, and I saw the faces of my people in his blade.