CHAPTER 113: DRAGON BONES

The first room had impressed him.

But this second one...

If the outer forge had been filled with good weapons, sturdy and practical tools of war, this chamber was something else entirely.

The walls were bare in comparison, sparsely decorated, but each weapon that was displayed radiated a presence that dwarfed the rest.

There were fewer than a dozen, but the air felt heavy with their power.

Each carried a hum of restrained energy, faint pulses of energy that pricked against Azel’s skin.

His breath misted before him, though no furnace blazed here.

The weapons themselves were the source of the cold.

He walked forward slowly, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor.

It felt sacrilegious to speak loudly here.

Elyon’s voice broke the silence.

"I crafted all of these with my good hand," the smith said, holding up the other hand that he had before.

His tone was rough, though behind it lay an echo of pride.

"They don’t look as fine as the Empire’s ornaments, but these—" he gestured to the weapons, "get the job done, of course it’s reserved for personal customers."

Azel glanced at him sharply.

"Empire?" His lips curled faintly. "You’re far ahead of the Empire in this regard."

Elyon arched a brow at the boy’s tone, but Azel ignored him, already drawn to one of the blades.

He stopped before a strange weapon, a hybrid of bone and iron.

Its blade shimmered faintly blue, every ridge and groove etched with frozen breath.

Azel extended a hand just shy of touching it, feeling the magic pulse through the air.

"I can sense magical energy from this weapon," he murmured.

That was no small feat.

Weapons imbued with elemental force were rare — dangerously rare.

In the Starbloom Empire, only the most privileged hunters or generals wielded them, and even then, each weapon required resources and ores capable of killing the miner who harvested them.

Pure elemental ores were scarce, perilous, and few smiths dared approach them.

Elyon gave a careless shrug.

"Oh, that?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I just used some magic cores."

Azel’s head snapped toward him, incredulous.

’Just?’ His jaw tightened.

It was easier said than done.

In the Empire, an alchemist might spend months risking their life to extract the essence from the cores to place in the weapon.

But then again. These people were blessed by ice, that’s why all of it was possible.

Elyon spoke as if tossing a bone to a hound.

Before Azel could argue, Elyon gestured further down. "Come. Look at the real deal."

At the far wall, two swords were crossed in a proud display.

They were different from the rest, their blades bone-white, forged entirely from the skeletal remains of something vast and long-dead.

Unlike the others, their presence pressed heavily against Azel’s chest, the sheer magical density thick in the air.

"This is my latest work," Elyon said, his tone hushed but steady. "The Patriarch ordered it."

His fingers brushed one of the hilts reverently. "Twin blades, carved from Rank 3 monster bones and packed with their cores. Enough energy to freeze a charging beast to shards, or blast apart a wall of enemies."

Azel exhaled softly.

He had never seen his father, the Patriarch, fight.

But standing here before these blades, he understood something of the man’s strength.

A Patriarch wielding such weapons would be unstoppable on the battlefield.

"But," Elyon said, turning back, "you didn’t come here to admire my works. You need a weapon?"

Azel nodded and stepped forward.

"Yes. Two short swords," he said evenly. "And I want them bound to me. If I summon them, no matter where they are, they return."

He was testing, sure these kind of weapons existed in Starbloom but did they exist here?

Throwing daggers would have suited him better, but he had already noticed the disdain for daggers among these people.

A request for short swords would draw less scrutiny.

Elyon snorted. "That’s easy. Every hunter’s weapon has that built in."

Azel blinked. "What?"

The smith tilted his head, bemused. "Of course. It’s basic craft here. Even the goddess’s weapon has it, does it not?"

Azel felt his lips twitch.

He reached inward.

’Is that true?’

[Husband~ Yes it is] Kyone’s voice purred in his mind, sly as always. [You never asked.]

He sighed inwardly, pressing his palm against his forehead.

’Of course.’

"Can they at least be imbued with magic?" he asked, tone resigned but firm.

"Of course," Elyon said. "If you have the cores."

Without a word, Azel raised his hand.

His storage ring shimmered, and ten bright spheres spilled to the ground, cold blue light filling the room.

The air thrummed with the presence of the Ice Hornet cores he had harvested.

Elyon’s eyes widened, then glimmered with something like hunger. "Ooh... This will be enough."

He snatched them eagerly, already carrying them toward his workbench.

He waved his good hand sharply. "Now shoo, boy. You too, Anya. I need silence for this."

Azel’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, then he gave a simple nod.

He turned and slipped his hand back into Anya’s, pulling her along as they exited the chamber.

The door shut with a dull thud.

Silence fell.

For a long time, Elyon stood before the bench, staring at the ten cores glittering like fragments of frozen stars.

His hand — the one Azel had healed flexed open and shut.

The muscles were firm again, strong, warm with blood.

He clenched his fist tightly.

"I can’t believe this is real," he muttered. His voice cracked against the walls.

For years, his hand had been a husk, a reminder of his failure, his curse.

The ice had eaten through muscle, frozen blood, mocked him with its permanence.

He had resigned himself to live half a man, never to forge with both arms again.

And then that boy — so casually, so thoughtlessly had given it back.

He laughed, but it came out hoarse. "I should have thanked him better."

But no.

Words would not be enough.

Not for a man like Elyon, not for what had been given back to him.

"I’ll pour my thanks into the weapon," he whispered.

His gaze sharpened, hard as steel.

He strode to the center of the chamber.

His boot struck stone, and he crouched, fingers prying at a loose tile.

The stone lifted with a groan, revealing blackness beneath.

From the hollow beneath the forge, he reached down and dragged upward with a grunt of effort.

Bones clattered, pale and massive, far larger than human remains.

The chamber filled with the scent of age and power.

A rib the size of a man’s arm.

A femur thick as an anvil.

The remains of something ancient laid in his hand.

These were Dragon bones.

Elyon laid them across the bench with reverence.

His chest rose and fell, and his good hand trembled — not from weakness, but from awe.

"This will be enough for him," he said quietly.

The flames in the forge guttered, flaring higher, as though they too acknowledged the weight of his decision.

He set his jaw. "For the boy who healed me... nothing less than dragon bones."

And with that vow, Elyon began his work.