CHAPTER 112: ELYON, WINTER’S GREATEST SMITH

Elyon stood slowly from the ground.

He was massive — broad-shouldered, chest like a mountain, his frame filling the workshop with a weight all its own.

Azel found himself blinking upward at him, and a stray thought slipped into his mind before he could stop it.

’If he’s this tall already... when I reach his age, will I be like seven feet tall too?’

"Ah... Anya, is that you?" Elyon’s voice was gravel, rough but strangely warm.

He took two lumbering steps forward, and his sharp eyes narrowed as he saw the girl smiling.

A rare thing, if Azel’s observations were correct.

"I never knew you could smile this much," Elyon said softly.

Anya’s cheeks bloomed crimson, and she turned her head quickly, embarrassed at being seen so open.

Her hand was still entwined with Azel’s, fingers delicate against his.

Elyon noticed instantly.

His expression hardened like tempered steel, and his gaze cut into Azel like a blade.

"And you, boy..." His voice dropped, a low rumble filled with promise. "I don’t care if you’re royal blood or the chosen of gods themselves. If you hurt my niece..."

He flexed the fingers of his good hand, the muscles in his arm rippling like coiled iron.

"I will chop you up and use you as scrap iron to forge my next sword."

The words slammed into the silence of the room.

Anya’s head whipped back in horror.

"Uncle!" she hissed, mortified. "Don’t say things like—"

But Azel only raised one brow, resisting the very strong urge to roll his eyes.

’Dramatic much?’ he thought, watching the man posture like some vengeful executioner.

Still... his focus returned unerringly to the frozen arm.

There was something deeply wrong with it, something that tickled at his divine instincts.

Elyon caught where his gaze landed.

Slowly, the edges of his mouth tugged upward in a knowing smirk.

"Oi. Interested in my hand, are you? Then why not prove yourself properly?" Elyon’s voice grew sharp, edged with challenge. "Go on, boy. Touch the goddess’s sword."

Anya’s breath hitched. "Uncle—!"

But Azel sighed instead, without ceremony, he reached into his storage ring and drew out the weapon.

The room froze.

The blade slid free, shimmering with an ancient, wintry radiance.

Elyon staggered back, eyes wide, his entire massive frame trembling.

"H-HOW?!" His booming voice cracked with disbelief.

It was the exact same tone Azariah had used when he first saw Azel wield it, and the memory nearly made Azel snicker aloud.

Letting go of Anya’s hand, Azel twirled the blade casually, the divine frost trailing like ribbons of moonlight in his wake.

His crimson eyes glinted.

"Because I’m chosen, of course." His voice carried a quiet arrogance, one that dared anyone to deny him.

Elyon was speechless.

’Kyone, why did the sword freeze his arm?’ he asked silently.

[Oh, that?] Kyone’s amused voice flowed through his mind like bells chiming in frost.

[I set the enchantment during wartime. A safeguard. Should I ever lose the weapon, it would punish anyone unworthy who tried to wield it. If they lack both Winter blood and divine resonance, their whole body and soul becomes encased in ice. These men have Winter blood, yes — but no divinity. Thus, they suffered.]

[The Patriarch was unable to wield it because he didn’t have enough divinity]

’Figures... Can I at least free the ice on his left hand?’ Azel mused, glancing at Elyon’s frozen limb.

Despite the man’s bluster, Azel respected the steel in his eyes.

And truthfully... he liked his work.

A smith without both hands was shackled.

[Of course, Esteemed Husband,] Kyone purred. [Your divinity can undo what mine once sealed.]

Sliding the sword back into his storage ring, Azel strode forward with quiet confidence.

Elyon stiffened, his eyes flicking warily to the approaching boy.

"Youngling... what are you doing?" Elyon demanded, though there was the faintest edge of unease beneath his tone.

"My Prince?" Anya echoed, her grip tightening nervously on her sleeve.

But Azel ignored them both.

He simply reached out and clasped Elyon’s frozen hand.

A jolt of warmth spread outward from his palm, laced with the pulse of divinity.

The ice trembled, faint cracks zigzagging across its surface.

Elyon’s jaw clenched as he felt it.

The immovable prison that had bound him for years now tremored under the boy’s touch.

With a final sharp crack, the ice shattered, cascading into glittering shards that dissolved into the air.

The arm revealed beneath was ghastly — it was thin, wasted, skin clinging to bone like parchment.

Elyon’s breath caught in his throat.

But Azel wasn’t finished.

A soft glow unfurled from Azel’s palm, threads of light weaving into Elyon’s flesh.

The light seeped up his arm, wrapping it in warmth.

Slowly, impossibly, the withered limb began to recover.

Muscle reknit, sinew stretched, color flushed back into the skin.

Anya gasped, clasping her hands together, eyes shimmering with awe.

When the glow faded, Elyon’s arm was whole again as it had once been in his youth.

The smith flexed his fingers in disbelief, staring down at the restored limb as though it belonged to someone else.

"I only did that because you’re close to Anya," Azel said coolly, brushing his hands off as if it were nothing.

Then, almost silently, he added to himself: ’And because I want a discount on your work.’

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Elyon stared at him, then at his hand, then back again.

And then he threw his head back and laughed.

A booming, belly-deep laugh that shook the rafters.

"HAHAHA! Thank you, boy! I had almost resigned myself to being half a smith for the rest of my days. And yet you—" He slapped Azel’s shoulder with his newly healed hand, the impact nearly sending him staggering. "You’ve given me back the full power my craft!"

Anya’s eyes were wet, though she blinked furiously to hide it.

Elyon’s laughter finally died down, and his expression sharpened once more, though now with respect rather than hostility.

He turned, his boots echoing against the frost-hardened floor as he walked to the back of the workshop.

With a grunt, he kicked open a heavy iron door, the hinges groaning.

Beyond, a faint glow pulsed like the heart of a volcano.

"Come," Elyon said, his grin spreading wide. "Let me show you the real smithy."