Chapter 2 – Forged in the Same Fire

The iron cage rattles violently as the prison carriage hits a rut in the mud road. I grab the rusted bars to steady myself, my body thrown hard against the wood. Through the driving rain, the silhouette of the northern mountains is a jagged, unforgiving line against the bruised twilight. We have been moving for two days. I haven’t slept.

Beside me, close enough that his unnatural body heat radiates through the damp air, Garam sits perfectly still. He is massive, the span of his shoulders crowding the narrow cage, his head bowed. He is not chained to the bars. He is chained to me.

The heavy, cold iron links binding my left wrist to his right are forged from the bells of a temple burned by the King’s order five years ago. I recognize the uneven temper of the metal. The court uses these specific chains because they carry the screams of the dying monks, a magical resonance designed to suppress any creature born of magic.

Garam shifts. The thick links pull taut between us. A deep, grinding sound emanates from his chest—not a growl, but the sound of grinding gears, of stone cracking under pressure. His eyes, burning like banked coals in the gloom, flick toward my exposed neck. He inhales slowly, drawing in the scent of my skin.

"You smell of rust," he says. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in my own ribs. "And salt. And the distinct, sharp tang of a blade quenched in oil just before it shatters."

My breath catches. The scent he describes is the exact metallic tang that fills my forge when I draw a particularly violent memory out of a weapon. It is the smell of my own life force, burned away piece by piece.

"I smell of a blacksmith who has been dragged into a war he did not ask for," I reply, keeping my voice steady, though my heart hammers against my ribs.

He leans closer. The heat rolling off him is oppressive, almost suffocating in the enclosed space. "You smell like the iron you shape. You are saturated with it. It is… intoxicating."

The word hangs in the air, heavy and loaded. He is a monster that eats iron. I am an armorer whose very skin is steeped in the memories of the metal I forge. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow: to him, I am not just a guard. I am a feast.

Suddenly, the carriage lurches to a violent halt. Outside, a shout goes up, followed immediately by the sickening thud of an arrow finding flesh. The horses scream. We are under attack.

Rebel forces. They must have learned the King is moving the Bulgasari to the front lines.

Through the narrow slits in the cage, I see shadows detaching from the tree line. Men armed with crude, desperate weapons—scythes, hunting bows, stolen military swords. There are too many of them. The royal guards escorting us are already falling, overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

A heavy axe bites into the wood of the carriage door, splintering it. The rebels are trying to break in, not to free us, but to kill the beast before it can be used against them.

"They have iron," Garam says, his voice suddenly sharp, the rumble turning into a predatory hiss. His eyes flare from dull embers to a blinding, searing orange. "So much iron."

The chains binding our wrists jerk violently as he lunges toward the splintering door. I am pulled off balance, slamming into his side. His skin feels like a furnace, scorching hot against my wet clothes.

"Stop!" I shout, trying to brace my feet against the floorboards. "If you break the cage, they will kill you!"

He turns his burning gaze on me. The heat is so intense my skin blisters. "They cannot kill me with iron. They only feed me."

He raises his free hand, the one not chained to mine, and grabs the iron bars of the cage window. The metal instantly glows cherry-red, hissing as his heat transfers into it. He isn’t trying to break the bars; he is trying to eat them.

But as his jaws part, revealing teeth that look like jagged shards of obsidian, he stops. A tremor runs through his massive frame. He groans, a sound of profound agony, and falls back against the wall, clutching his head.

"The bells," he gasps, the fire in his eyes flickering erratically. "The memories in the chains. They are screaming. Too many voices. Too much pain."

The magical suppression of the temple bells is overloading his mind. The Bulgasari eats metal, but it also absorbs the memories forged into it. The chains binding us are saturated with the terror of the burning monks. He cannot eat the cage while the chains are active. He is paralyzed by the noise.

Outside, the rebels have breached the outer perimeter. A spear thrusts through the window, grazing my shoulder. I wince, the sharp sting of the cut pulling me back to the immediate danger. If I don’t do something, we will both die in this cage.

I look at the heavy iron chains linking us. I know the exact temper of this metal. I know how to filter the memories out of it, to silence the screaming voices. But it requires skin-to-skin contact with the metal, and it requires a sacrifice.

I look at my left hand. My thumb and index finger are already smooth, the fingerprints burned away by past extractions. I only have three fingers left with full tactile sensation. If I filter these chains, I will lose another.

"Garam," I say, my voice tight. "Look at me."

He forces his eyes open. They are wide with pain and a desperate, starving hunger.

"I can silence them," I tell him. "I can pull the memories out of the chains. But you have to promise me."

"Promise… what?" he grinds out, the heat radiating from him in waves.

"When I silence the chains, you eat the cage. You get us out of here. But you do not eat the weapons of the men outside. You do not kill them."

He stares at me, the hunger warring with confusion. "They are trying to kill you."

"That is my condition," I say, my voice hard, though my hand trembles as I reach for the cursed iron binding us. "Do we have a deal?"

The rebel’s axe shatters the lock on the carriage door. The door swings open, revealing a dozen angry men, their weapons raised.

Garam looks at the men, then back at my hand, hovering over the chains. The heat from his body is burning the air out of my lungs.