Armaros could see the fire inside Azraela's blood. And what blood she bears, he gasped in thought. Pure. Uncorrupted. Ancient. Yet she's mortal. Of whose ancient bloodline this mortal had inherited, he was not sure. But one thing he was sure of: judging from the pristine quality of the fire in her blood, she was worthy. A protégé draped in shadows and silence: eyes steady, a quiet storm in human form.
Her violet eyes shimmered as she looked around, her gaze caught by the otherworldly glow, the molten sculptures, and the eerie symphony of hammer and flame.
Ironically, the cave wasn't hot despite the lava and fire throwing tantrums all over the place.
Azraela was surprised at this. "How did he manage to keep the cave's temperature moderate despite the lava-flows?" she whispered into Mirna's ear as they approached.
"He's a WeatherBender as well," Mirna silently explained.
As Armaros studied Azraela, his eyes narrowed; then widened in amusement when they rested on Mirna. "Well, well! What brings Sariel to my humble workshop?" he said.
"Sariel?" Azraela whispered.
Mirna gave a faint smile. "That name belongs to a woman I buried long ago."
"You can bury names, but you can't kill ancient blood," he replied, stepping away from the forge. "You're still her, whether you wear the robe or bear the sword."
"True," she said, brushing ash from her sleeve. "But I don't need to blow my trumpet about it."
Armaros smirked, tossing a cloth onto a nearby rack. "Then why are you blowing her trumpet?" His chin nodded toward Azraela.
Mirna's gaze hardened with something ancient. "Because she's The One."
The forge fell silent.
Even the lava quieted.
Armaros's face slowly lit up with intrigue. "The Gun Nun is also the Flaming SwordBearer?" He let out a low whistle. "Interesting."
Azraela stepped forward, uncertain. She wondered how much Armaros knew of her to have addressed her as Gun Nun at their first meeting. Nevertheless, she liked the nickname.
Gun Nun, she let her mind savor the pleasant sound of the name. It felt good.
When she spoke, her voice was low. "Mirna said you could help me."
"Help you?" Armaros grinned. "You've already helped yourself. You're still standing after the Sigil awakened your bloodline."
"How did you know?" Azraela wasn't surprised. She was just curious.
"I could read your blood, warriors princess," Armaros replied with a wave of his broad hand. "And that alone means you're more than bones and bullets."
Mirna placed a gentle hand on Azraela's shoulder. "She needs weapons worthy of what she's becoming. The storm ahead will eat through her old guns like paper."
Azraela's hand instinctively reached toward the empty space on her lower back. "They're part of me. I trained with them. Trusted them."
Armaros moved slowly now, circling Azraela like a hunter studying the flame in a new forge. His eyes scanned her blood, her spine, the faint glow at her fingertips. "No doubt. But trust alone doesn't win wars. Balance does. Harmony and heat. Spirit and steel." His voice dipped, dark and knowing. "You're changing. What's coming requires weapons that don't just shoot. They must listen."
Azraela tilted her head. "Listen?"
Mirna broke in. "You have no idea, darling." To Armaros, she said, "Her old weapons are obsolete."
The Blacksmith chuckled. "Everything gets obsolete. Especially when destiny sharpens its blade."
"She's changing," Mirna added, eyes flicking to Azraela's hands. "The Becoming is underway. The storm that's coming will swallow the unprepared. She needs something new. Something true to the warrior she's becoming."
At that, The Blacksmith's grin turned sly.
"I knew it. I could feel her heartbeat in the flame. This one doesn't just carry death. She speaks to it."
Azraela's gaze flicked upward. "Mirna said you'd understand."
"Oh, I understand more than you think, warrior princess," he said, stepping toward a sealed obsidian vault along the wall. "The old world trained you to shoot. But this new war will demand you listen. To your weapons. To yourself."
He waved his hand. A vault nearby etched into the cave hissed open, revealing two partially formed guns floating in suspended light. One gleamed pale and smooth; its lines clean, cold, sacred. The other was darker, rugged, humming faintly with kinetic life."
The last time they were used, they wrecked havoc on the humanity they were supposed to protect," Armaros said solemly, his mind cast faraway in distant thought. Remorse registered its mark on his face. "I tried to destroy they," he continued, "but they begged me to wait. To give them a second chance. To make it right. They whispered to me that someone worthy was coming for them."
"And you think that someone is me?" Azraela asked.
"I don't think, warrior princess," Armaros replied. "I feel. Your blood resonates with their heartbeats. I feel it strongly. Perhaps, you'll feel it too once you know the history of these wonders." Armaros took a deep breath as though reliving the story he was about to tell.
"Centuries ago, I forged these two brutal beauties for a Daemon and Vamp Hunter named Van Helsing. A nephelim. Like you. And like you, too, a protégé. He was, as you Earth folks would put it, a badass gunslinger. Eventually, the surviving but scattered Daemons and Vamps he hunted down united and ganged up against him. Long story short, they turned him into a Daemon. A Lykan, specifically."
Azraela's brow furrowed. "What's a Lykan?"
Armaros grinned like, Oh you still have a lot to learn, kid, and said: "A Werewolf. By turning him instead of killing him, they made him feel what it meant to be a Daemon. With his turning, he became dark. Darker than the darkest Daemon in the province. Darker even than the Count Vladimir himself, Dracula: who was considered the darkest Vamp in history. You know who Dracula is, don't you?"
"I've heard of him," Azraela replied.
"Good!" Armaros beamed. "At least, that gives you an idea of the kind of entities I roll with. Or roll against." He winked impishly.
"Quit showing off, Armaros," Mirna chided.
"But it's the truth, no?" Armaros challenged teasingly.
"Okay! You've made your point," Mirna admitted.
"Good!" Armaros beamed again. "Back to my story. The guns I forged for Van Helsing became the most dangerous weapon in history, not because he hunted Daemons and Vamps, but because he started hunting the Humans he swore to protect, with them. Slaughtered them by their hundreds of thousands. A genocide, to say the least."
"That's," Azraela paused, for want of what to say, "horrible!"
"Oh, yeah!" Armaros concurred, his eyes almost popping out in exaggerated emphasis. "A dark moment in history, I dare say. Anyways, being a human sympathizer, I could no longer watch Van Helsing keep butchering humans with the weapons I made for him to protect them with. So, I acted, even though I was not supposed to interfere in human history."
"And what did you do?" Azraela asked, her curiosity throbbing.
"I retrieved the guns," Armaros replied. Simply.
Anticlimax hit Azraela like a silent slap. This wasn't the answer she expected. "Obviously," she said, waving toward the suspended guns. "I meant," she rephrased, "what happened to Van Helsing?"
"Oh, him." Armaros shook his head in contemplating mood. "What happened to him? You don't want to know. Trust me."