The Vault was silent.
Arthur lay on the cold stone floor, chest rising and falling in short, tight breaths. His fingers twitched. The Codex still stood on the pedestal behind him—closed, unchained, and quiet. As if nothing had happened.
But something had.
His core burned. Not from pain, not quite. It felt like a forge had lit inside his chest and refused to go out. Heat pulsed through his limbs. His mind buzzed with afterimages—battlefields, oaths, names not his but somehow remembered.
Warden Rila crouched beside him.
"You're awake," she said, gently. "That's a good sign."
Arthur didn't answer at first. His mouth was dry. When he spoke, his voice cracked.
"What... was that?"
Rila didn't immediately reply. She offered him a waterskin. He drank.
"You saw a memory. Or rather, it saw you," she said. "The Codex holds more than techniques. It carries will. Lineage. Echoes of what came before. You touched it. It touched back."
Arthur sat up, slowly. "It felt like I lived their lives. For a moment."
"You did. And now some part of them lives in you."
He looked at his hands. They weren't glowing. Nothing visible had changed. But he felt heavier. Not in body—in presence.
Rila stood. "This is where your path as a knight begins in truth. Most train for years to form a Core. You were born with one—rare, but not unknown. But to refine it? To move beyond it? That takes more than training."
She gestured toward the Codex.
"Every knight walks the same path, but not in the same order. For some, it's through blood. Others, through war. For you—it's memory."
Arthur rose to his feet. The burning in his chest hadn't faded. If anything, it had focused. A tight knot of heat, just beneath his sternum.
"What do I do with this?" he asked.
Rila led him toward the Vault's back wall. A section of stone slid open with a whisper, revealing a narrow spiral stair.
"You forge it into something real," she said. "You've seen what the knight path demands. Now you shape your own mark into it."
---
The stair led to a smaller chamber. Not the forge itself—but a preparation room. It smelled of oil, steel, and ash. Weapons lined the walls, untouched by time. At the center, a small anvil. Waiting.
Rila stepped aside.
"A knight's first blade is not a gift. It's a rite. You'll forge the beginnings of your path into it—not strength, not mastery. Intention."
Arthur stepped forward. He could feel his heartbeat echo through the chamber.
"Strike only when you know why," Rila said. Then she turned and left him alone.
He picked up the forging hammer.
It wasn't ceremonial. It was worn, rough, and heavy. But it felt right.
He looked at the ore laid before him—storm-iron, dark and ridged. A rare alloy. Not given lightly.
Arthur closed his eyes.
He remembered the battlefield. The storm. The lone knight with no name. The Codex had shown him something ancient—and now it asked for something in return.
Not a vow.
A choice.
He opened his eyes. Raised the hammer.
And began to forge.