Twilight draped Hollow Bend in a shroud of bruised purple as Kade Shen and Lila Mei trudged back into the ghost town, the iron gauntlet slung heavy over Kade’s shoulder. The foothills had drained him—every muscle ached, his ribs throbbed where Iron Hand’s fist had grazed him, and a crust of dried blood flaked from his knuckles. But he’d done it. The gauntlet was proof, its dented steel a testament to a fight he’d barely won. The broken saber swung at his hip, its jagged edge whispering of the next step: Wei’s forge, and a blade made whole.

The smithy’s chimney puffed smoke into the dusk, a thin gray thread against the deepening sky. Kade pushed the door open, the heat washing over him like a wave, thick with the tang of coal and molten steel. Old Wei stood at the anvil, hammering a glowing rod, his scarred arms flexing with each strike. The clang rang sharp, a rhythm that paused as he glanced up, black eyes glinting in the forge’s glow.

“Back already?” Wei rasped, wiping sweat from his brow. His gaze dropped to the gauntlet, and a flicker of surprise crossed his weathered face. “Well, damn. You actually did it.”

Kade slung the gauntlet onto a workbench, its thud echoing in the cramped space. “Iron Hand’s down. Took his toy, like you said.”

Wei stepped closer, picking up the gauntlet with a grunt. He turned it over, tracing the dents and bloodstains with a calloused finger. “Broke three ribs with this once, the bastard. Mean son of a gun.” He tossed it aside, smirking faintly. “Guess you’re tougher than you look, Shen.”

“Had to be,” Kade said, voice rough. He pulled the saber free, laying it on the bench—hilt and shard side by side, their etched patterns catching the light. “Your turn. Fix it.”

Wei’s smirk faded, replaced by something heavier—respect, maybe, or caution. He lifted the hilt, studying it like a man reading a map to a place he’d forgotten. “Starfall steel,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Ain’t worked with its like in years. Takes more than skill—takes a spark.” He glanced at Kade. “You earned that much. Sit. This’ll take time.”

Kade eased onto a stool, wincing as his ribs protested, while Lila leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her sticks tapping a slow beat against her thigh. Wei stoked the forge, the bellows wheezing as flames roared higher, casting shadows that danced across the smithy’s cluttered shelves—hammers, tongs, scraps of metal glinting like teeth. He slid the saber’s shard into the fire, its edge glowing red, then orange, then white, and began to work.

“So,” Wei said, not looking up as he hammered the heated steel, “you don’t know squat about this blade, do you? Jian never told you?”

Kade’s jaw tightened. “Told me it was old. Mine someday. That’s it.”

Wei snorted, sparks flying as he struck. “Figures. Jian was tight-lipped—always was. But this ain’t just old, boy. It’s Starfall. Forged by an order that guarded these lands before the mines, before the towns. Warriors with a code—honor, balance, a duty to something bigger.”

“Guardians?” Kade leaned forward, the word tugging at the edges of his grief. “My pa was a rancher, not some knight.”

“Was he?” Wei’s hammer paused, his eyes sharp. “Jian Shen didn’t swing this blade like a rancher. I saw him once, years back—traders’ caravan got jumped outside Hollow Bend. Six bandits, armed to the teeth. Jian took ‘em down alone, smooth as a river cuts stone. Moved like he’d been trained, not just taught.” He resumed hammering, the clang punctuating his words. “Starfall trained their own. Passed blades like this down—family to family.”

Kade’s mind reeled, images flashing—his father sharpening the saber by the hearth, steady hands guiding Kade’s clumsy swings in the barn. “He never said…”

“Didn’t have to,” Wei cut in. “Starfall fell apart decades ago—scattered by greed, betrayal. Some say Darius Vane had a hand in it, back when he was just a blade for hire. Your pa might’ve been one of the last, or a son of one. Either way, he kept it quiet. Kept you quiet.”

The scout’s dying words—the star, your blood—slammed back, cold and clear. Kade’s hand clenched into a fist. “Vane knew. That’s why he came. Why he burned us out.”

“Maybe,” Wei said, turning the shard with tongs. “Vane’s a scavenger—hunts relics, power, anything he can twist. If he knew Jian carried Starfall steel, he’d want it. Or want it gone.”

Lila shifted, her sticks stilling. “Sounds like Vane’s chasing ghosts. What’s a dead order to him?”

Wei shrugged, pulling the shard from the fire, its glow blinding. “Power’s power. Starfall had secrets—techniques, maybe more. Vane don’t care if it’s dust, long as he can dig it up.” He laid the shard beside the hilt, aligning them, and grabbed a crucible of molten steel. “This blade’s got history, Shen. You wielding it—it’s waking something.”

Kade stared at the saber, its pieces trembling under Wei’s hands. History. His father’s hands on the hilt, his mother’s voice humming in the background, Mara’s laugh—all tied to this steel, now broken like them. “Then wake it,” he said, voice low. “Make it mine again.”

Wei nodded, pouring the molten steel into the fracture, a hiss filling the room as metal fused. “It’ll be stronger—Starfall tempering’s a trick I still got. But it’s yours to prove, not mine.”

The work stretched into the night, Wei’s hammer shaping the blade with a precision that belied his grizzled frame. Kade watched, mesmerized, as the saber took form—its edge smoothing, the etchings sharpening, a faint sheen rippling across the steel like starlight on water. Lila stayed silent, her gaze distant, fixed on the forge’s glow. Something in her posture—tighter, withdrawn—pricked at Kade’s notice, but he let it lie. His focus was the blade, the past it carried, the future it promised.

Hours later, Wei quenched the saber in a trough, steam billowing thick and white. He lifted it, the blade whole, its curve gleaming with a quiet menace. “Done,” he said, handing it to Kade. “Heavier now—reinforced. Don’t snap it again.”

Kade took it, the weight settling into his grip like it belonged there. He swung it slow, testing—the air parted with a faint hum, the steel alive in his hand. “It’s… right,” he said, the word clumsy but true. “Thanks, Wei.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Wei rasped, sinking onto a stool. “You’ve got Vane ahead, and he’ll smell this coming. Starfall’s a ghost he won’t let rest.”

Kade sheathed the saber, its hilt warm against his side. “Good. Let him come.”

Wei chuckled, dark and low. “Stubborn as Jian. Get some rest—bunk’s in the back. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Kade nodded, heading for a curtained corner where a cot sagged under dust. Lila lingered, her eyes on Wei, then followed, her steps quieter than usual. She stopped near the cot, hesitating, and Kade turned. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” she said, too quick. “Just… thinking.” She dropped onto a crate, pulling her duster tight. “Sleep, Shen. You’ll need it.”

He frowned, sensing the lie but too worn to push. He lay on the cot, the saber beside him, its steel a steady pulse under his fingers. Sleep came slow, fractured by dreams—his father swinging the blade, a starry sky raining fire, Vane’s shadow laughing through flames. And somewhere, Lila’s voice, sharp and distant, whispering words he couldn’t catch.

The past was waking, and it carried a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear.