The Dying Man's Gift

# Chapter 1: The Dying Man's Gift

The cobblestones of Ironholt's Merchant Quarter still held the day's heat, radiating warmth through the thin soles of Kira's boots as she pressed herself into the shadow of a baker's stall. The smell of burnt sugar and yeast clung to the evening air, mixing with the ever-present stench of horse dung and cheap tallow from the street lamps being lit by the city's lamplighters.

She watched the old man from across the square.

He was easy pickings. The kind of mark that made a girl wonder if the gods were finally smiling on her, or setting her up for a harder fall. He walked with the distracted shuffle of someone whose mind lived in books and dusty archives, his robes—fine wool, dark blue, the kind that cost more than Kira had seen in a year—trailing through puddles he didn't bother to avoid. A leather satchel hung from his shoulder, its strap worn thin from years of use.

But it wasn't the satchel that interested her.

It was the book he carried in his left hand, pressed against his chest like a mother cradling a newborn. Old. Bound in something that might have been leather once, but had darkened to the color of dried blood. Silver clasps caught the lamplight as he passed under a street lamp, and Kira's fingers twitched.

Silver clasps meant silver inside. Or at least enough coin to make the risk worthwhile.

She'd been watching him for three days. She'd learned his habits, his routes, the way he paused at the fountain in the Temple Square to catch his breath, the way he always bought a meat pie from the same vendor before disappearing into the Ironholt University's eastern gate. He had no guards, no escort. Just a walking stick he leaned on more heavily each day, and a cough that rattled in his chest like stones in a tin can.

Easy pickings.

The street vendors were packing up their stalls, the last customers drifting home as the evening bells rang from the Cathedral of the Eternal Flame. Kira counted the chimes. Seven. The Church guards would be changing shifts soon, which meant a gap in patrols. A window of opportunity.

She slipped from her hiding spot and began to circle.

The old man had stopped at the fountain, as he always did. He sat on its edge, his shoulders hunched, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The book never left his hands. He set it on his lap, his fingers tracing patterns on its cover as if reading something only he could see.

Kira moved closer, keeping her head down, her hands in her pockets. The streets were emptying, but enough people remained for her to blend in. A girl in a threadbare coat, her hair a tangled mess of dark curls, her face smudged with dirt. Just another street urchin, invisible to the eyes of proper folk.

She'd learned to be invisible. It kept you alive on the streets of Ironholt.

The old man coughed—a wet, rattling sound that made a passing merchant's wife hurry her children past him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Kira saw something dark smear across his skin.

Blood.

He was dying. That much was obvious. But dying men didn't usually carry books with silver clasps through the city at dusk. Dying men stayed in their beds, surrounded by priests and weeping relatives.

This one was different.

Kira was ten feet away when he looked up.

His eyes met hers.

They were pale blue, the color of winter sky, and they held a clarity that surprised her. No fever glaze, no confusion. He saw her. He *knew* her.

And he smiled.

"Child," he said, his voice a whisper that somehow carried across the space between them. "I've been waiting for you."

Kira's feet stopped before her mind caught up. Her heart hammered against her ribs. *Wrong. This is wrong. He was supposed to be distracted, supposed to be easy—*

"I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice flat. "I was just passing through."

"You've been following me for three days." He coughed again, and this time she saw the blood drip from his lips onto the cobblestones. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? An old scholar may be absent-minded, but I'm not blind."

Kira's hand went to the knife at her belt. "If you're trying to scare me off, it won't work. I've dealt with your kind before."

"My kind?" He laughed, a sound that turned into another fit of coughing. "I doubt that very much. There's no one left like me. I'm the last."

"The last what?"

He looked down at the book in his hands, and something shifted in his expression. Grief. Regret. And beneath it, a desperate hope that made Kira's skin prickle.

"The last Runesmith," he said. "Or I was. Until now."

The word hit her like a slap. *Runesmith.* Even on the streets, among the gutter rats and the beggars, she'd heard that word. It was whispered in dark corners, used to frighten children into obedience. *The Runesmiths caused the Sundering. The Runesmiths broke the world. The Runesmiths were destroyed, every last one, their knowledge burned, their works shattered.*

But the Church had done the destroying. Everyone knew that. The Church of the Eternal Flame had hunted them down, one by one, for a thousand years.

And this old man was claiming to be one.

"You're mad," Kira said, taking a step back. "I'm leaving. Find someone else to bother."

"Wait."

The word was a command, and despite herself, she stopped. The old man struggled to his feet, his walking stick clattering against the fountain's edge. He swayed, and for a moment she thought he would fall. But he steadied himself, his grip on the book white-knuckled.

"You're a thief," he said. "Don't bother denying it. I can see it in the way you move, the way your eyes never stop scanning. You've survived on your own since you were what? Ten? Eleven?"

"None of your business."

"Everything is my business now." He took a step toward her, and she saw the effort it cost him. His face was gray, his lips tinged with blue. "I don't have much time. The Church has been hunting me for months. They're close. They'll find me tonight, if they haven't already."

"Then run."

"Where would I go?" He laughed again, a bitter sound. "I'm dying, child. The corruption has spread to my lungs, my bones. I have hours left, maybe less. But I have one thing left to do, and you're going to help me."

"I'm not helping anyone. I don't know you."

"You will." He held out the book. "Take it."

Kira stared at the offered tome. The silver clasps gleamed in the lamplight, and she could see now that they weren't simple fastenings—they were engraved with patterns, swirling lines that seemed to shift when she looked at them directly. The leather cover was cracked and worn, but she could make out the faint impression of a symbol: a hammer crossed with a star.

"The book," he said. "Take it. It's yours now."

"I don't want your book."

"It's not about wanting. It's about needing. The world needs this knowledge, and you're the only one I can trust with it."

"You don't know me. I could sell it. I could burn it. I could throw it in the river."

"Yes." He smiled, and there was something almost fond in his eyes. "You could. But you won't."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because you're still here. Because you haven't run. Because when I looked into your eyes, I saw what I've been searching for." He coughed, and this time the blood was darker, thicker. "You're the last. Find the forge."

"The last what? What forge?"

He didn't answer. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed.

Kira caught him before he hit the ground.

She didn't think about it. Her body moved before her mind could object, her arms wrapping around the old man's frail frame, lowering him gently to the cobblestones. The book fell from his hands, landing at her feet with a heavy thud.

"Hey." She shook his shoulder. "Hey, old man. Wake up."

His eyes fluttered open. The clarity was gone now, replaced by a feverish brightness that made her stomach clench. He grabbed her wrist with surprising strength, his fingers digging into her skin.

"You're the last," he said again, his voice a ragged whisper. "The last Runesmith. Find the forge. The forge beneath the mountain. The forge that remembers."

"I don't understand—"

"You will." His grip tightened. "The book will teach you. It will show you. But you must protect it. They'll try to take it. They'll try to destroy it. You must not let them."

"Who? The Church?"

"Everyone." His eyes drifted, focusing on something she couldn't see. "The Church. The Architect. Everyone who wants to control the world. They'll all come for you now. But you're strong. Stronger than you know."

"I'm a thief. I'm nobody."

"You're a Runesmith." He smiled, and his teeth were red with blood. "The last one. The world's last hope."

Then his eyes went still.

Kira sat there, frozen, the old man's hand still gripping her wrist. His chest no longer rose and fell. His skin was already cooling beneath her fingers.

He was dead.

And she was holding a dead man's book.

The sound of boots on cobblestones snapped her back to reality. She looked up, and her blood turned to ice.

Church guards. A dozen of them, maybe more, their white and gold armor gleaming in the lamplight. They were spreading out across the square, their hands on their swords, their eyes scanning the shadows.

And their leader—a woman with a shaved head and a scar that ran from her temple to her jaw—was pointing directly at Kira.

"There!" the woman shouted. "She has the book! Seize her!"

Kira didn't think.

She grabbed the book, shoved it under her coat, and ran.

Her boots pounded against the cobblestones as she sprinted into the maze of alleys that crisscrossed the Merchant Quarter. She knew these streets like she knew her own heartbeat—every dead end, every shortcut, every hidden passage. She'd spent years mapping them out, learning them, making them her own.

But the guards knew them too.

She heard them behind her, their boots echoing off the walls, their shouts bouncing between the buildings. They were fast. Faster than she'd expected. And there were more of them than she'd thought.

She ducked left, through a gap between two buildings barely wide enough for her shoulders. The book pressed against her chest, heavy and awkward, throwing off her balance. She stumbled, caught herself on a rain barrel, and kept running.

The alley opened into a small courtyard, and Kira's heart sank.

Dead end.

The walls were too high to climb, the windows too small to squeeze through. The only way out was back the way she'd come, and she could hear the guards closing in.

She pressed herself against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The book burned against her skin, or maybe that was just the heat of her own fear. She could feel its weight, its wrongness, the way it had changed everything in the span of a few heartbeats.

*Find the forge. The forge beneath the mountain.*

What forge? What mountain? She didn't know anything about runes or forges or any of it. She was a thief. A street rat. She stole to eat, to survive, to stay alive one more day.

She wasn't anyone's last hope.

The guards were getting closer. She could hear their voices, their orders, their footsteps. They'd be in the courtyard in seconds.

Kira looked down at the book in her hands.

The silver clasps glowed.

It was faint—barely visible in the dim light—but it was there. A soft, pulsing light that seemed to beat in time with her heart. The symbol on the cover, the hammer and the star, shimmered and shifted.

She touched it.

And the world went white.

---

When she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else.

The air was cold and damp, smelling of earth and stone and something metallic. The ground beneath her was rough, uneven, and when she reached out, her fingers touched rock.

She was in a cave. Or a tunnel. Some kind of underground passage.

The book was still in her hands, but the glow had faded. The silver clasps were dark, ordinary, as if they'd never done anything strange at all.

"What the hell..." Kira whispered.

Her voice echoed, bouncing off unseen walls, fading into the darkness ahead. She couldn't see anything beyond a few feet in any direction. The only light came from somewhere behind her—a faint, orange glow that flickered like fire.

She turned toward it, and her breath caught in her throat.

The tunnel opened into a vast chamber. Pillars of stone rose toward a ceiling she couldn't see, their surfaces covered in carvings that seemed to writhe and shift in the firelight. At the center stood a forge—an enormous, black iron construction that looked like it had been built by giants. Its chimney disappeared into the darkness above, and its fire pit glowed with embers that had never gone out.

Standing before the forge, his back to her, was a figure in a hooded cloak.

"I was wondering when you'd arrive," the figure said. His voice was deep, resonant, and old. Older than the old scholar. Older than the stones around them. "I've been waiting a long time."

Kira's hand went to her knife. "Who are you?"

The figure turned.

He was ancient. His face was a map of wrinkles, his beard long and white, his eyes the color of molten gold. He wore robes of deep crimson, and on his chest was the same symbol that adorned the book—the hammer and the star.

"I am no one," he said. "I am everyone. I am the echo of a thousand Runesmiths who came before, and the whisper of those who will come after." He smiled, and his teeth were white, perfect, impossible. "I am the forge's memory. And you, child, are the last of my line."

"I don't understand."

"You will." He gestured to the forge. "Come. Sit. Let me tell you a story. A story of a world that was broken, and a power that was hidden, and a girl who will either save it or destroy it."

Kira's fingers tightened on the book. "I don't want to save anything. I don't want to destroy anything. I just want to survive."

"Survival is not enough." The old man's eyes met hers, and she saw something in them that made her chest ache. "Not anymore. The world is dying, child. The Sundering didn't end a thousand years ago—it's still happening, still spreading, still consuming everything it touches. The Church has hidden the truth, but the truth remains: the world is unraveling, and only the Runesmiths can mend it."

"I'm not a Runesmith."

"You carry the book. The book chose you. That makes you a Runesmith." He stepped closer, and she saw that his feet didn't quite touch the ground. "Master Aldric spent his whole life searching for someone like you. Someone with the spark. The gift. The potential to carry on what we started."

"Master Aldric?"

"The old man who gave you the book." The ancient figure's expression softened. "He was my student. My last student. He was supposed to be the one to carry the knowledge forward, but the Church found him too soon. The corruption in his lungs was their doing—a curse laid upon him when he refused to surrender the book."

Kira's stomach turned. "They killed him."

"They tried. He was stronger than they knew. Strong enough to find you, to give you the book, to set you on the path." The old man reached out, and his hand passed through her shoulder like smoke. "But the path is long, and hard, and full of danger. The Church will hunt you. The Architect will hunt you. Everyone who wants to control the world will try to take what you carry."

"Then I'll give it to them."

"No." His voice was firm, but not unkind. "You won't. Because you've already felt it, haven't you? The pull. The call. The way the book speaks to something deep inside you, something you didn't know was there."

Kira wanted to deny it. She wanted to say the book was just a book, that the glow was just a trick of the light, that everything that had happened was just a series of coincidences.

But she couldn't.

Because he was right.

She had felt it. The moment she'd touched the book, something had awakened inside her. Something that hummed with power, that sang with possibility, that terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure.

"I don't want this," she said, and her voice cracked. "I didn't ask for this."

"No one asks for destiny, child. It chooses you." The old man began to fade, his form becoming translucent, his voice growing distant. "But you can choose how you meet it. You can run, and hide, and let the world burn. Or you can stand, and fight, and become what you were always meant to be."

"Wait!" Kira stepped forward, reaching for him. "I don't even know your name!"

"My name is lost to time. But you can call me what the old Runesmiths called me." He smiled, and there was sadness in it, and hope, and something that might have been love. "Call me the Forgekeeper."

Then he was gone.

And Kira was alone in the darkness, holding a dead man's book, with the weight of a dying world on her shoulders.

---

She emerged from the tunnel into a forest she didn't recognize.

The moon was high overhead, casting silver light through the branches of ancient oaks. The air was clean, fresh, nothing like the smoke and filth of Ironholt. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called out, and another answered.

Kira stood at the mouth of the cave, the book clutched to her chest, and tried to make sense of what had happened.

The guards were gone. The city was gone. She was somewhere miles away, maybe hundreds of miles, with no idea how she'd gotten there or how to get back.

The Forgekeeper had said the book chose her. He'd said she was the last Runesmith. He'd said the world was dying, and only she could save it.

But she was just a thief. A street rat. A girl who'd spent her whole life learning to be invisible, to stay quiet, to survive.

She wasn't a hero.

She wasn't anyone's last hope.

And yet...

She looked down at the book. The silver clasps were dark, but she could feel something pulsing beneath them. A warmth. A presence. A voice that whispered in a language she didn't understand, but somehow knew.

*Find the forge.*

The words echoed in her mind, and she realized with a start that they weren't just the old man's dying words. They were the book's words. They were the Forgekeeper's words. They were the words of something ancient and powerful and patient, something that had been waiting for her for a thousand years.

She didn't want to be a Runesmith.

She didn't want to carry the weight of a dying world.

But the book was in her hands, and the forge was calling, and somewhere deep in her chest, something was stirring. Something that had been sleeping for seventeen years, waiting for this moment.

She closed her eyes, and she listened.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw a mountain. A forge. A path of light that wound through shadow and flame.

And she knew, with a certainty that terrified her, that she was going to follow it.

The book's cover glowed faintly in the moonlight, casting silver shadows across her face. Kira opened her eyes, looked at the symbol of the hammer and the star, and made her choice.

She tucked the book into her coat, turned her back on the cave, and began to walk.

Behind her, in the darkness of the tunnel, the forge's embers flared to life.