The forge’s embers smoldered in the dark, their glow barely lighting the small workshop. Marion stood motionless, her fingers ghosting over the metal bow resting on the anvil. It was a masterpiece—its limbs forged from darksteel, reinforced with silver filigree, and carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight. A weapon of unparalleled craftsmanship. A legacy of the woman who had raised her.

  Her mother had always said that steel remembered the hands that shaped it.

  But memory was no shield against a blade in the dark.

  Marion’s grip tightened as the past threatened to pull her under. The sound of steel clashing against steel. A voice—her mother’s voice—crying out in defiance. The sickening crunch of bone, the wet gasp of dying breath. Blood pooling across the workshop floor, glistening in the firelight.

  She had been too slow. Too weak.

  The man who killed her mother had come under the guise of a traveler, seeking repairs for his broken sword. When her mother turned her back, he struck without hesitation. He had come for gold. Instead, he left with her life.

  And Marion had been left with nothing.

  She had spent a year in the forge, working alone, keeping herself alive. But grief had hardened into something sharper. She would never be powerless again.

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  Her hand drifted to her thigh, where a kusarigama rested in its sheath. The weapon had become an extension of herself—one blade for striking, one chain for binding, both fueled by the fire of her rage. She had trained relentlessly, the weight of the weapon a constant reminder of the blood she had not spilled when it had mattered most.

  A gust of wind slipped through the open doorway, carrying the scent of damp earth. Outside, Oakrest lay silent beneath the cold moonlight, the village unchanged by her loss. But Marion had changed. She had outgrown the walls of this place.

  Her gaze flicked to the old leather journal resting on her workbench. The only thing she had left from before her mother found her. A relic of a past she had never known, its pages filled with unreadable symbols—until now.

  The ink twisted, shifting into words she could suddenly understand:

  "The path is open. Return to Gaerün."

  A sharp pull gripped her chest. The forge flared, flames licking toward the ceiling as unseen forces coiled around her. The journal burned with a cold, white light, and the workshop blurred.

  Then, the world shattered.

  She fell.

  Through darkness and fire, through time and space, weightless and breathless. Wind roared in her ears. The air around her crackled with energy, pressing against her like unseen hands.

  Then—impact.

  She gasped, coughing as she pushed herself upright. The ground beneath her was damp, covered in soft, unfamiliar grass. The sky above was vast and endless, twin moons casting pale light over a land unlike any she had ever seen.

  Silver-leafed trees swayed in an unfelt breeze. Distant mountains loomed, their jagged peaks glowing with veins of eerie blue light.

  Marion's breath came fast and uneven.

  The journal had spoken the truth.

  She was in Gaerün.

  And she was alone.