The night melted slowly, as if clinging to the edge of the dunes with endless shadows, but time relentlessly carried its veil away. First, the brightest stars faded, then the fainter ones dissolved like they were cut from the fabric of the sky, and only then did the east become tinged with the thinnest orange edge. The desert, quiet just a moment before like polished glass, exhaled: a low hum of wind swept over the dunes, scattering the first handfuls of sand from their crests.

  The village, like a living organism, awoke according to its inner clock. In the dark windows, oil lamps flickered to life one by one. The elders were the first to wake: the creaking of their joints could be heard even through the morning breeze. They slowly approached the well, placing their bamboo staffs beside it, and before drinking, touched the stone rim with their palms—a gesture of gratitude to the source of life. Then the women came out into the courtyards: their long braids, tied with old leather cords, shivered from the morning chill. They kindled the clay stoves, lit tiny flames, and throughout the village drifted the scent of hot water mixed with the smoke of juniper branches.

  The children woke last. A young rooster, tasked with announcing the new day, crowed exactly three times; after the third, the shrill voices of children drowned him out. They ran out barefoot, bumping noses, plunging their hands into the cold water of the well, splashing precious droplets onto the sand, which inevitably drew sharp calls from their mothers. Life, which had slumbered so long under the night’s cover, was awakening.

  Only one house had not known sleep, keeping watch all night: the forge. In the twilight, the master kept pumping the bellows, and in the breath of the furnace lived its own dawn: dense, fiery. Around the hearth, the blacksmith had laid a neat layer of round stones, soaked with water; from them, the heated air exhaled thin streams of steam. While the white mist drifted between the walls, the master spread a dark cloth on the workbench, upon which lay tongs, hammers of varying weights, clamps, vises, and tiny alchemical cups filled with copper salts, arsenic, and rare resins. Everything was prepared for a ritual as meaningful as any prayer.

  The Meeting at the Well

  The stranger appeared just as the sky was shifting from gray to pale pink. He seemed to emerge from the desert itself: his cloak still held grains of the night’s sand, and caught within the folds of matte fabric were sparks of starlight. Reaching the well, he silently lowered a bucket. The clank of the chain rang like a gong, and the water splashed, reflecting the first crimson hints of dawn.

  The blacksmith came to meet him. The two men stood in silence, listening to the morning hum. The wind, as if reading their thoughts, alternately rose, flapping their cloaks, then died down to allow words to be heard.

  "Thirst is the last enemy of the desert," the blacksmith broke the silence. He spoke without hostility, but with the strength of a man accustomed to flame and the clamor of metal.

  "Perhaps," the stranger replied, sealing his flask and brushing off a sprinkling of sand from his damp cheeks.

  With those words, he raised his eyes. In that brief glance, the blacksmith saw countless nights on the road, the ring of blades, the bitter smoke of scorched villages, and an unyielding flame that—despite all he had endured—still burned in the depths of the wanderer's pupils.

  The Path to the Forge

  A narrow path led from the well, paved with uneven stones: half of the slabs had sunk beneath the sand, the rest were covered in a peeling lime crust. On these stones, merchants once laid out sheep heads, and boys pitted rhinoceros beetles in battle. Now, twilight reigned between the houses: thin rays broke through the shutters, and doors thudded quietly in the wind, like the sighs of dreams not yet left behind.

  To the stranger, each step along the old pavement seemed to echo voices long silenced: someone’s laughter, the gruff curses of a herdsman, the rasp of ancient tales. He caught fleeting scents—spicy reseda, dried chicory—that seemed long vanished from the land, yet still clung in the clay cracks and fence poles.

  Children clung to doorway edges, watching the stranger’s cloak intently. A few dogs gave short, anxious barks but quickly quieted, catching the scent of iron and distant fire in the stranger’s step. Desert people trusted their animals more than strangers’ words.

  With every step, the village seemed to retreat into its own shadows, and the wind that had wandered between homes gradually hushed, as if in anticipation.

  When the stranger reached the forge, he was met by the sharp heat pouring from within. A steady, dense wave of warmth flowed from the hearth, like from an open beast’s mouth. The roof above the furnace was partially burned through—on the wooden beams were streaks of soot as black as tar. But at that hour, the heat was not a threat: after the chill of night, the stones underfoot still held their cool, and the contrast felt not like danger, but a threshold—a boundary between the outside world and something else.

  The stranger stepped over the low threshold. The air inside was thick like stew: it smelled of coal, oil, metal, and faintly—of blood’s salt. And then he understood: this was not only a place where weapons were forged—this was a place where weapons were given voice.

  The blacksmith grasped the sword with tongs and slowly lowered it into the gaping maw of the fire. Within the forge, the flames writhed unusually—copper salts and sulfur had been added, turning the tongues of fire a deep blue-copper hue, like the color of mountain lakes before a storm.

  "Listen to the breath," said the blacksmith. "Metal, like a man, breathes. If the breath is short—it is afraid. If it’s long—it sings. But if it’s broken—then it lies."

  The stranger closed his eyes. Through the heating hilt, he felt a vibration: a weak hum turning into rhythm, as if the metal’s heart had begun to beat. The blade slowly glowed: first cherry-red, then dark orange, bright straw-yellow, and finally nearly white—like glowing salt. Time seemed thick and viscous: each second stretched like molten lead.

  The blacksmith gave a signal. The stranger took the bellows: at the master’s gesture, he gently but firmly directed a stream of air into the flame. The fire roared. For a moment, the metal flashed with a blinding light—like lightning. From within the forge came a muffled pop, as if the blade had screamed and then fallen silent.

  "It endured?" The blacksmith’s voice held not doubt, but quiet satisfaction.

  "It did not crack," the stranger replied. "It listens."

  "That’s the first step. Now spread the sword’s veins."

  The blacksmith drew the blade from the fire and laid it on a gleaming paneled anvil. He struck the central groove: once, twice, three precise hammer blows. The blade bent slightly, and dark steel rippled as if water had frozen mid-motion. The master filled the groove with a liquid alloy of sulfur and copper, then returned the blade to the fire.

  Steam rose in plumes, and within it the stranger heard a moan—not from the metal, but from memory, long-hidden and now awakening. In the smoke, he saw fiery flashes: roofs of his childhood village engulfed in flame; his mother’s face, arms wrapped around his shoulders; the burning ceiling collapsing downward—and a man with a scorpion tattoo on his wrist, holding a sword.

  The stranger clenched his fists. He did not look away—instead, he stepped into these visions, as into the fire. He would not retreat. He had to watch, to listen, to remember.

  The blacksmith shouted sharply:

  "Hold it!"

  The stranger broke free from the visions, seized the tongs, and held the blade steady at a perfect angle. The hilt trembled, but he did not falter. His body was as still as stone.

  "Ready?" asked the blacksmith.

  "Always," he replied.

  With a hiss, the sword plunged into the foaming trough. Steam surged upward in a thick column, slamming into the ceiling. Droplets settled on their skin, leaving pale salt marks, but neither man moved.

  For a moment, the stranger felt he was back in the fire. Roaring beams, choking smoke, screams of those who didn’t make it—all burst forth inside him. His soul shrank into a knot, his chest filled with heat, as if he himself were inside the barrel, not the blade.

  But his heart did not falter. It beat steadily.

  The blacksmith waited. Then he pulled the blade out. Water streamed off it like blood—black, gray, heavy. The blade had blackened but not cracked. On the contrary, fine veins sparkled across its surface like wood grain: new breath, new life.

  "It survived," the blacksmith said. "And so did you."

  The Song of the Blade

  When the blade cooled to a warm bluish tint, the blacksmith brought it into the light. A pattern emerged on the metal surface: lines like dried riverbeds ran from the guard to the tip, converging into a thin swirl—the symbol of the vortex. In ordinary light, it was almost invisible, but if you turned the sword at the right angle, the ornament flared with living light, as if remembering itself.

  The colors of the pattern were no accident. At the base—deep crimson streaks, like clotted blood. Closer to the center—warm gold, turning to silver at the tip, where the vortex line spiraled forward—into the future not yet come.

  "It speaks," said the master, pressing his fingers to the flat of the blade. His voice was low, not from fatigue, but from reverence for something that could not be explained in words. "Listen."

  The stranger took the sword in both hands. The metal was cool, but not alien: it felt not like a weapon, but like an instrument—stringed, ringing, alive. And in his chest, just above the solar plexus, a drumbeat began to grow—dull, pulsing. First like the echo of footsteps on dry earth, then like a drum in the heart. The words were not heard with ears—they rose from within:

  …names forgotten by sand… …flame become wind… …wind seeking a name…

  With each whisper, the vortex symbol on the blade glowed brighter. The light seemed not a reflection, but an inner radiance, as if something—mind, memory, or call—had awakened within the steel.

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  Ash understood: the sword wasn’t just accepted. It had awakened a voice. Not as a weapon—but as a being that reflected its bearer’s essence. It didn’t demand blood. It demanded truth.

  And in that moment, as if in answer, the wind burst into the forge—a draft swept across the table, blew dust from a corner where an old cloth lay, and lifted a spark from the forge’s ash, tossing it up toward the dawn.

  Flame became wind. Wind found metal. Only the name remained to be given.

  New Tempering

  The work continued until noon. The blacksmith polished the blade with forged grinding stones, running over it with a sculptor’s precision—layer by layer, stroke by stroke—until the steel gleamed with a soft, milky luster.

  On one side of the blade, he erased the old maker’s mark left by the previous owner—if there ever was one. In its place, he burned a new symbol: an interweaving of hammer and scorpion, fine as herbaceous calligraphy—a mark born in the desert, forged in fire, and recognized by the wind.

  The hilt was crafted with equal care. At its core lay the sinew bone of a desert dragon—a rare material that does not crack under heat but absorbs and retains warmth. The bone was wrapped in leather strips soaked in the venom of the margarod scorpion. In microdoses, the venom served not only as an antiseptic but as a magical seal: it locked the blade’s heat inside, preventing the spirit of the sword from spilling beyond its bearer’s will.

  The pommel was reinforced with a blend of copper and obsidian: bronze shimmered in the noon sun, while in shadow, it glowed crimson, like a drop of blood. The guard remained simple, barely curved, but on its inner side were engraved words in an ancient dialect known only to elder masters: “Breathe—and it shall breathe with you.”

  When the sword was finished, the blacksmith handed it to Ash. He gripped the hilt—and immediately felt it: the blade breathed. It did not pulse, did not tremble—it simply transmitted a subtle warmth to his palm, like the breath of an animal or the touch of a hand in silence. It was not magic. It was something deeper: recognition.

  Ash exhaled. He knew: such swords are never temporary. This blade would stay with him until the end—of the path, or of life. Perhaps longer.

  Loyalty is not forged. It is awakened.

  The Blood Rite

  “Now all that’s left is to give it your blood,” said the blacksmith. He pulled out a thin spike—a needle carved from a desert scorpion’s sting—and heated it in the flame until it glowed cinnabar red. “One drop, and the blade will breathe with your heart.”

  The stranger did not flinch. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing dry, cracked skin on his forearm, and without hesitation, drew the tip along the inner side. A fine, clean line—and a drop of blood, rich and thick, fell precisely into a spiral-shaped recess on the blade.

  The blood hissed, spreading along the rune channel. The metal did not merely accept it—it devoured it greedily, like earth drinking rain after a long drought. The wounds on the blade’s surface glowed softly from within, as if its inner network of veins had come alive.

  The forge smelled of iron and something sweet, like desert cacti blooming after the first spring storm. The blacksmith nodded, pleased. He watched the steel’s response like a father witnessing a child’s first steps.

  “Now it knows you,” he said. “Not by name. By blood.”

  The stranger held the sword in both hands. The pulse in his fingers synchronized with the faint rhythm inside the hilt—the steel now breathed in unison with his body.

  “What if I die?” he asked quietly.

  “Then the blade will sleep,” the blacksmith replied. “And wait. For your blood—or for one who answers its call.”

  Ash nodded. He felt he had bound himself to the blade not only in flesh. Somewhere deeper, at the level of will, the sword had made its choice too. And that choice was mutual.

  In the desert, it is not the one with a weapon who survives. It is the one the weapon speaks to.

  He touched the guard with his fingers—and the metal responded with a soft, almost imperceptible hum. Not a sound—but a resonance felt in the chest.

  The blacksmith silently extinguished the forge’s flame. The trial was over.

  Scorpion — The Sign of Fate

  At that moment, another scorpion emerged from a crack in the floor. It was even larger than the one from the morning: its pincers were obsidian-black, and its shell glowed like scorched bronze. It moved slowly, with the confidence of creatures untouched by time.

  It circled the forge in a wide arc—almost ritualistically—as if drawing an invisible line between past and future. The sound of its steps on the stone floor was soft but distinct—like a quill scratching across dried parchment.

  Then it stopped near the riveting stump. In its raised tail, a droplet of amber venom trembled, reflecting the fire’s glow and the silver gleam of the freshly forged blade.

  "The desert greets you," the blacksmith murmured, his eyes fixed.

  The stranger did not move. He did not tighten his grip on the sword, did not retreat or raise his hand—he simply watched, letting the omen unfold without interference.

  The scorpion stepped right, then again, tracing a symbol in the dust that resembled a double spiral. Coiling inward, it looked like a vortex—not one that destroys, but one that gathers. It gathered strength, memory, and meaning.

  For a moment, all was still. No creak of wood, no crackle of coals—only the breathing of two men and the quiver of air under tension. And then, without a sound, the scorpion vanished—absorbed into the earth like a raindrop into thirsty sand. Only a scatter of dust remained, with a faint mark of the spiral trailing deeper.

  The blacksmith wiped his brow. He didn’t seem tired, but purified, as if he had passed through a flame himself.

  "The scorpion is a sign of challenge," he said quietly. "The flame has seen your past. Now the wind will lead you to its source. But the path will not allow you to remain unchanged."

  The stranger said nothing. He merely raised the new blade and slowly ran his thumb along its spine. The metal was cool, yet felt alive, as if it breathed beneath the skin. On the inhale—a faint silver shimmer, soft as morning light. On the exhale—a crimson spark, a herald of blood to come.

  He gripped the hilt, and in his chest, a faint but steady pulse responded: the blade had accepted the sign. And now he knew where to go.

  Storm Over the Dunes

  By evening, the desert sensed the approach of a storm. Black clouds crawled across the sky like giashi—venomous, inky octopuses from ancient legends. Lightning flared without thunderclaps, only blinding with white light, leaving dark spots before the eyes. It seemed the sky wasn’t angry—it was remembering.

  The stranger gathered his belongings: his cloak, worn but still sturdy; a satchel with provisions; a leather waterskin steeped in the scent of sweetroot. He sheathed the sword on his back—and the blade settled into place as if it had always been there, since birth.

  The blacksmith followed him to the village’s edge. Under the looming sky, the homes looked like small islands in an endless sea of ochre sand. The villagers hid inside: no one wished to stand between earth and sky when the spirits decided who would take the first blow.

  Lightning slashed the heavens, and for a moment, the sand ignited with deep blue shadows. The wind wailed in a high note, like a string stretched between two mirages. A gust tore from the dunes, flung a handful of sand into Ash’s face, and flew off—like a herald of what was to come.

  The blacksmith placed a heavy, warm hand on the stranger’s shoulder—like a stone slab, like cooling steel after a strike.

  "The road will be longer than you think. But if the blade accepts your name, you will not lose yourself."

  "The name will come when the wind answers," the stranger replied.

  He raised his eyes to the sky, inhaling the storm’s scent: something bitter-resinous, something remembered from childhood—a mix of scorched grass, ozone, and distant damp. He knew: a storm was a rare blessing in the desert. Rainwater was precious, but each bolt carried the memory of fire.

  And if you’ve walked through flame, you must learn to tell when a flash bears light—and when it carries judgment.

  "When you return—you won’t be the one who left," the blacksmith added.

  The stranger didn’t answer. He simply nodded and stepped past the last boundary of the village, where the sky breathed heavy like a forge before the explosion of heat. Each step on the damp sand echoed dully, as if the desert too held its breath.

  The wind whipped his cloak, the storm coiled above, but his heart was calm: the blade at his back was warm. It breathed. It knew the way. And now—Ash knew it too.

  Departure

  The first drop fell on the hilt of the sword—heavy, steady, like a bead of mercury forged not by clouds, but by fate itself. The stranger felt the metal respond with gentle warmth, not surprised, but recognizing the water. As if the rain were not a hostile force, but an old companion returned from the road.

  He stepped beyond the village fence.

  The sand beneath his feet was still dry, but already beginning to shift—whispering, like a prayer, like a premonition. It stretched upward to the brooding sky, as if asking not for a drop, but for forgiveness. Asking for the return of moisture it had waited for not years—but centuries.

  And Ash walked—forward, toward the storm. And with every step, he became part of the rain.

  The blacksmith did not follow. He stood by the gate, hands clasped behind his back, until the figure dissolved into the darkening haze of the approaching storm. A crack of thunder rolled nearby, ran across the ground like a beast, and the entire village shuddered—as if remembering something ancient and terrifying.

  In that moment, a flame burst forth in the forge: a gust of wind had rekindled the remaining coals, sending up a pillar of sparks that painted the walls with ruddy shadows. But the master didn’t turn. He only clenched the copper medallion on his chest—a circle with a flame-shaped cutout, the symbol of the Inner Flame smiths, those who forge not only steel but also the path.

  The stranger, sensing the storm’s nearness, walked faster. The rain intensified: heavy drops beat against his cloak, washing away the last traces of dust, as if the desert itself wanted him to begin this path purified. The sand clumped, turning each step into a thick mire, but he didn’t slow—instead, his movements grew more rhythmic, more resolute.

  Each flash of lightning revealed the world’s outline for a moment: dunes etched with dark furrows, hills frozen like waves, and somewhere far ahead—a tiny point of light. Perhaps a torch. Or a gaze frozen at the edge of a dream.

  He knew: there began the land of the Burning Clan. There lived the man with the scorpion tattoo—the one whose face had burned into memory, whose shadow still lived in every nightmare. There was the answer. Or a new question.

  The sword on his back sang. The moisture didn’t mute it—on the contrary, it vibrated like a string, like a voice finally allowed to speak. Through cloak, skin, and bone, the stranger felt: the blade was calm. It knew where to go.

  The pain of the past was like a healed burn: it warmed but didn’t sear. It didn’t bind. It guided.

  The wall of the storm finally broke—lightning tore the sky with savage power, and it seemed the desert spirits were dueling, deciding who would remain and who would be taken. But no thunderclap made Ash pause. He kept walking—step by step, into the deepening void where the heavenly drum resounded.

  And with every step, a new silence filled his heart. Not the kind that follows death. But the kind that is born before the beginning.

  Sparks of the Future

  The storm melted on the horizon, like a giant whose wingbeats had exhausted even the power of lightning. The damp dunes glittered—each grain of sand, soaked in rain’s chill, now reflected the first rays of dawn like tiny mirrors.

  Ash climbed to the crest of the tallest dune. Behind him, in the bluish-lilac haze of dawn, still glowed a small orange dot—the forge’s flame. A tiny spark pulsed in the distant darkness, echoing the heartbeat that helped give rise to the renewed blade. He pressed his palm to his chest and bowed in silence:

  "Your flame walks with me."

  The new sword—Zhi Yun—gave a soft ring in its sheath, as if confirming his words. The metal radiated a living warmth: within each layer echoed the sounds of the morning wind, and now that wind was with him.

  Ash closed his eyes and listened. In the yielding silence of the desert, much could be heard: how grains of sand settled on the slopes, how moisture spread slowly beneath the surface after the storm, how high above, the sound of wings sliced through the cold air. And—most importantly—a delicate, barely perceptible chord, like singing strings. It was the blade and the desert speaking to each other:

  A name is hidden in the grains of days, and sleeps in the breath of night; but to the one who carries sparks of flame, the wind shall show the way.

  A smile touched his lips—not bold, not bitter, but quiet, like the finest form of gratitude. He understood: from now on, every step was an alloy of his blood and the forge’s heat, every spark beneath his boots a reminder that destiny cannot be reforged without fire—but fire draws its strength from the waters of future rain.

  With these thoughts, Ash turned northeast, where the dunes closed into a dark ridge. It was there, beyond the chaotic mass of stone forts, that the lands of the Burning Clan began. There, the scorpion etched in memory waited. There—was the question to which flame and sand demanded an answer.

  The wind snapped his cloak, caught the last drops that hadn’t yet dried, and wrapped tightly around the traveler. From beneath the hood came a quiet whisper:

  "The name is still forgotten."

  He took a step. Then another. Tiny flares of light scattered above the sand, as if affirming: when fire and water meet in the heart of a wanderer, the desert has no more walls, and the wind—no secrets.

  Thus ended the day of reforging, and began the day of searching.