Thorgrim Frostborne's Arc

Chapter 9 of 11

The broken sword lay in two halves on the anvil. Ice edges already misted in the forge heat. Thorgrim knew the shards held the last of the blade's magic. If it faded, he lost his only chance to learn where the sword came from. The frost curse crawled up his arm, past the wrist now, blue and hard. He had traded the bond for the break. Now he needed answers before the pieces went dead and cold. "Elara," he said. "The magic's leaving them. If it drains, we learn nothing." Elara knelt beside the anvil. She had wrapped her cut palm in cloth. She touched the larger shard and pulled her fingers back. "Still warm. Barely." Her blue eyes moved to his arm. She had taught him how the curse worked. She recognized its spread at once. "It's climbing. Your bond kept it slow. Now it runs free." "Then help me read the shards first," Thorgrim said. He gathered the two halves against his chest. "The bush. It drew visions before. It might draw them from the pieces." He carried the broken sword to the crystal bush. The vines still glowed faint blue from his hawk's frost. The bird huddled on the iron, one wing dragging. Thorgrim pressed both shards to the crystal vines. He spoke the sword's name low, the name of the river that froze a village. The vines flared. Light crawled up the broken edges. A vision came, thin and flickering. He saw the forge as it once was. He saw hands at the anvil, exiled hands, Elara's people. They did not forge a weapon. They bent the metal into a shape that fit a lock. He saw them weep as they sealed the storm inside. "They made it here," Thorgrim said. "Under my home. They chose this place." He held the shards harder. The vision sharpened. He saw one figure lay a hand on the anvil and speak into the stone. He saw a mark cut into the iron, a mark he had not noticed before. "There's something in the anvil. A name. A maker's name." The light in the vines died. The vision broke. The shards in his hands went dull. The last magic was gone. Thorgrim set the dead pieces down. Elara had gone pale. "That mark. I know the hand that cut it." Her voice shook. "It was my grandmother's. She didn't only seal the storm. She left a way to answer for it." Thorgrim looked at the anvil, at the mark now clear in the iron. He had his lead. But his cursed hand had gone numb to the knuckles. The frost climbed toward his elbow, faster now. He flexed dead fingers and felt nothing. "I have where it began," he said. "Now I need to stop this before it reaches my heart."