OLD IRON AND THE LAST CUTTER

THE BEGINNING

I settle by the fire, trying to warm these old bones of mine. I look at no one, but I know you, reader, are listening.

You will meet many people on this journey. Some are good, others not so much. Some will give you what you need without asking for anything in return, while others will steal the very breath from your lungs.

But all of them have a story, and all stories deserve to be told.

I am Anan the Old.

I have traveled farther than most. I have seen things you would not believe if I told you. And I have known a man named Krysit, who did not know the power he carried within him.

This is his story. Or at least, the part of it I know.

Pay attention, reader. Because this is only the beginning.

1.THE GIFT

VILLA ORO, 1000 MILES NORTH OF OLD IRON

Krysit was alone in the workshop, as on so many other nights, when the metal grew soft beneath his fingers. There had been no dramatic moment. No flashes of light, no tremors in the earth. Only heat, a tingling sensation, and the certainty that something had changed forever.

He had been forging a plow blade—the last one he had—when the metal bent in his hands like clay. He had cut it effortlessly, without hammer or fire. Only with his hands, without even willing it. He had stood frozen, staring at them as though they did not belong to him.

Now, hours later, he remained seated on the workbench, his gaze shifting between his hands and the piece of bent metal, waiting for the tingling to return. He didn’t know if he could bear it again. But he could not help wanting to feel it once more.

To cut the Tear of the Fallen God.

That is what the Cutters do.

He had always heard stories about them. Men and women who could touch the blue metal of the Artifact and shape it. Who could cut it without tools, without effort. Who were taken to the capital, where they lived like kings... until the power consumed them.

Krysit had never thought he would be one of them.

He had never wanted to be.

The sound of the door pulled him from his thoughts. The healer of the village entered without knocking, as he always did. He was an old man, with knotted hands and a weary gaze. He had no gifts. He healed the old way, with herbs and counsel.

“Krysit,” he said, his voice low. “It is your sister.”

Krysit stood at once. He did not ask what was wrong, but he knew by the healer’s tone that it was not good.

Ltrana lay in the bed, wrapped in blankets that had once been grey before Krysit learned to remember colors. Her face was pale, almost translucent in the candlelight. Her cheekbones cast deep shadows. Her lips, dry and cracked, bore the bluish hue Krysit knew all too well.

It was not the face of a seventeen-year-old girl. It was the face of someone marked by death.

“She is not improving,” said the healer, standing by the door. “The elixir I give her only keeps her alive, Krysit, but it does not heal her.”

Krysit sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his sister. He did not need to touch her to know she was growing worse.

“What more can we do?” he asked.

“Nothing. There is nothing more I can do.”

The healer approached and lowered himself into the wooden chair beside the bed.

“There are healers in the capital,” he said. “True healers. With gifts. They can take away sickness with their hands.”

“And how am I to take her there?” Krysit asked, without raising his voice. “It is a thousand miles away. I have no horses, no money. I have nothing.”

The healer did not answer immediately.

“That is what you must decide,” he said at last. “But I will not lie to you: if you do nothing, she will not see the end of winter.”

He rose and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back.

“I am sorry, boy. I wish I could do more.”

The door closed.

Krysit remained seated beside the bed, looking at his sister. She slept, or seemed to sleep. Her breathing was shallow, irregular.

He did not wake her. He could not meet her eyes and tell her he could do nothing.

He went out to the workshop and closed the door behind him. The fragment of metal he had bent hours before still lay on the table, clean and perfect. He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he raised his gaze toward the window. Toward the south. Toward the capital.

“A thousand miles,” he whispered to himself.

And he knew he had no choice.

2. THE DEPARTURE

VILLA ORO, 1000 MILES FROM OLD IRON

Krysit prepared the cart.

It was small, made of old wood and worn-out wheels. He used it to haul the metal he collected from the forest. Now it would serve to carry his sister. He had no horses, so he would have to pull it himself—bearing the weight of his sister and all their meager belongings.

Ltrana sat on the workbench, somewhat calmer than before. She had not wanted to stay in bed, and Krysit had not insisted.

“What if all of this is for nothing?” she asked. Her voice was weak, but her gaze was steadier than Krysit had expected.

“We will make it,” he said. “I have to take you there.”

“And what if I don’t want to go?”

Krysit stopped and turned toward her.

“What do you mean?”

Ltrana looked at him. There was something in her eyes that Krysit could not decipher.

“I don’t want to be the reason you die,” she said. “I don’t want you to die on the road.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You don’t know that, Krysit. The road is long and dangerous, and you are a simple blacksmith, not a fighter.”

The young man knelt before her, meeting her gaze with firmness.

“I will not let you die. That is the only thing I know.”

Ltrana was silent for a long moment. She knew her brother well. She knew he was stubborn, and that she would never be able to stop him.

“All right, brother,” she said at last, climbing onto the old cart with considerable effort. “As you say. We will go.”

Krysit nodded with a smile. He stood and continued organizing the cart.

He had a thousand doubts.

What would he find on the road? Would they make it?

Could the healer of the capital save his sister?

But the only thing he was certain of was that he could not stay.

A thousand miles, he thought.A thousand miles to the capital.

He gripped both shafts with his hands and began to pull the cart forward.

3.THE ROYAL PALACE

OLD IRON, 2 MILES

The throne of King Vrek was an immense seat of dark metal, torn from the Artifact centuries ago. The chamber was circular, its walls of blue metal that reflected light like mirrors.

“Nothing?” he asked.

Ornt, the king’s advisor, shook his head.

“Nothing, Your Majesty. We have tested every blacksmith in the East, and those in the South as well. None have shown the gift.”

“And the North?”

“The North does not cooperate with us, Majesty. The lords say the official Cutter has not been seen in years, and they ask why Your Majesty hides him.”

Vrek rose from the throne and walked to the window.

“They ask me why I hide him. How amusing!” he said, without turning. “And what do you want me to tell them? That I lost him? That the power slipped through my fingers like water?”

“Majesty, it is not your fault...”

“No? —he turned, a twisted smile on his lips— Then whose is it? Tell me! The Artifact’s? The Supervisor’s? That blacksmith roaming the damned North?”

Ornt lowered his gaze.

“We do not know, Majesty.”

“You don’t know, he doesn’t know, no one ever knows anything, incompetents. But I know, oh, I know everything, and that is why I am here. And that is why the North laughs at me like a court jester.”

He sat back on the throne, like a man who no longer knows whether to stand or stay—a king without dignity or decorum.

“Five years have passed, do you understand? Five years since Hask was consumed, and the power is still out there, and I cannot find it. And do you know what the worst part is?”

Ornt looked up, fearful.

“That it has found someone. I know it. I feel it in my gut, and I know it is closer than we think.”

Ornt did not answer. It was better to let the King ramble when he fell into these crises. His head preferred to stay where it was.

Vrek stared at him, his eyes wide.

“Give the Envoy everything he needs. Give him horses, money, men. Do not let him stop until he finds someone with the gift—or else let him find another kingdom.”

“Sire,” said Ornt. “What if the power has not found anyone? What if it died with Hask?”

“That is not how it works, you demon of an advisor. The power never dies—it searches, it travels, it waits, and it does not stop until it finds someone who can hold it. It has always been that way, and it always will be.”

He leaned back on the throne and closed his eyes.

“And when it finds him, they will bring him here. He will be the next Cutter, and everything will go on as before.”

“And if he does not want to come?” Ornt dared to ask.

Vrek opened his eyes, astonished by such absurdity.

“Ha! Everyone wants something, you animal. Everyone wants to serve me. I... I know what he wants, and I will give it to him.”

Ornt did not reply. He preferred to remain cautious.

King Vrek strode out of the hall in long steps, and the advisor sighed in relief.