The Winter Prophecy

In this part of the hemisphere, the sun and moon had been in disarray since Perez usurped the throne. The skies reflected the turmoil of the kingdom, alternating between darkened days and unnaturally bright nights, as if nature itself were resisting tyranny. Winter reigned in the south, but the small village of Baruk, located near the Alps, still held on to the last vestiges of summer's warmth. Children ran through the dusty streets while villagers worked to earn a few coins from the lower nobility., trying to survive the growing instability of the kingdom. In the center of the village was an old forge, the heat of the fire competed with the silver glint of the metal being forged. The old blacksmith, once a war-hardened soldier, worked the steel with practiced precision.

“John, I need three pots bigger than the last ones,” The voice of Patrix the baker echoed in the blacksmith's store, skipping any formal greetings. “Regina invited the grandchildren.”

John didn't mind his lack of politeness.

“They'll be ready tomorrow,” he replied with a faint smile. “It's going to be a long few months, Patrix. Company will do you good.”

The heat of the forge did not bother him; in fact, he felt right at home near the roaring flames. Though, he wouldn't deny that he missed the warmth of laughter and conversation around a crowded table.
“If you're alone, you should join us. We've prepared an extra room for you.”
“I'm not alone.” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl sharpening a soldier's blade with meticulous concentration. The pride in his eyes was unmistakable. “I live with a moody, short-tempered little menace!”
“I love you too!”

At the sound of her voice, she ran to the entrance and threw her arms around him.
Physically, they couldn't have been more different. There was nothing visibly connecting them — except love. She had bright red hair and striking green eyes, while he had silver streaks and deep brown irises. But from the moment he held her in his arms, he knew. She was his to protect. He only wished that Petrus could have seen his daughter grow up, for Luna, her mother, barely had the chance to hold her.

“Sometimes I forget that you're related to the Strange One.”
Bluma's smile faded instantly, replaced by a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
“What did you just call me?!” She dropped the sharpening stone and stalked toward him like a gathering storm. “You should worry more about yourself and the five women at home, you lazy bastard!”
"Bluma"
John sighed, already anticipating what was about to happen.
"What did you say, girl?"
The older man took a cautious step back, startled by the fierce young woman who stood barely five feet tall.

“Bluma,” the smith repeated, recognizing the all-too-familiar pattern.
It was the same scene over and over again. The girl moved like a wild creature, ready to pounce.
“Let me go, Uncle,” she murmured, struggling in his grip.
“Look at your hands.”

As her emotions flared, so did the fire. Subtle flames flickered at her fingertips. John caught the orange glow and tightened his grip.
“You should keep that thing under control, John,” the old man scoffed, taking a step back. Another lost customer.
“Thing?!” Bluma slapped, trying to break free. “I'll teach you some damn respect, you dusty relic!”
“Bluma, for the love of the God!” John lifted her off the ground like a misbehaving child. “You really want to expose yourself? Do you want everyone to know?” He raised his hands, showing the smoke still curling from her fingertips.
“I didn't… I mean…” She gritted her teeth, frustration, and anger twisting inside her. “I didn't choose this!”
She screamed, her voice breaking as she threw tools to the ground. Small traces of magic flickered across the floor of the forge.

No one had ever told him that raising a teenager would be so hard. Especially one with a fiery temper and raw magic coursing through her veins.

“You run away from training, but you want to act tough with strangers?” He hesitated, wanting to say that she was just like Petrus—but his best friend had been the embodiment of calm. He would never admit it out loud, but she was just like him: impulsive, reckless, acting before thinking. “Be generous to your friends and merciful to your enemies.”
“Did you show mercy when you fought?”

They sounded like old comrades arguing. His jaw clenched, a dozen retorts lined up in his head, but he swallowed them. She was still an eighteen-year-old girl struggling to understand herself and the world around her. She was different from the other girls, and no amount of pretending could change that. There was fire in her, flames that burned through her bones, anchoring her to a fate she couldn't escape.

Perez had hoarded fire magic for himself, convinced he was the only one who could use it.
He had been wrong.
“I'll get more firewood. Watch the store.”
John grabbed his cloak and stepped outside. He needed to clear his head before he lost his patience.

He remembered the first time he held her in his arms. When he picked her up, he was startled by the red strands. How? Petrus and Luna were both golden-haired, their eyes the color of warm honey. In a kingdom ravaged by war, how had they given birth to a child with crimson hair and glowing emerald eyes?

The same question echoed among the humans. That summer, they had fled Tylia. Petrus, Luna, their newborn daughter, and he.
It was no accident. He knew that much.
Two years later, while playing with her, he had seen her eyes flicker with light. Something that looked like flames.
Bluma was special. Wild. Untamed.
But in Akrida, “special” often meant “different,” and different could mean imprisonment - or worse.
To the world, she was an anomaly. A girl to be whispered about. The “weird one.”
But to him, she was the key to their freedom.
Both truths lived in her.
“Tell me what to do.”
He looked up at the sky, at the ravens circling overhead — a silent prayer for guidance.
As he searched for peace, back in the forge, it wasn't just the fires of the furnace that burned hot.
“Who does he think he is?”
Bluma muttered to herself as she carefully balanced the silver that needed to go into an even hotter fire. “I never asked to be born this way. What am I supposed to do with all this? There's no way to put it out.”
She looked at her hands. They were pale and stained, just like before.
“Unbelievable.”
With a quick movement, she tied her hair into a messy bun, inadvertently smearing soot across her face.
“Hello? John?”
More customers arrived. She was terrible with people, but by a stroke of luck — and to her uncle's financial delight, she recognized this one.
“Esra? Esra!”
When she recognized him, she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Hey, little redhead.”
Esra laughed, spinning her around in the air as she did when they were children. 
She stepped back and noticed his uniform. “You're in uniform.”  She arched an eyebrow, noticing the embroidered crickets and the letter “A” on his chest. “What are you doing here? Mirah is still inconsolable.”
“I know.” He hadn't allowed himself to think about his mother. “And I came here for…”
“For me.”
An unfamiliar voice came from behind Esra. Bluma turned to see a boy, probably her age, taking off his cloak with a calculated movement.
“He needs a sword.”
“He has a name.”
The prince had wanted to remain unnoticed, but watching the simple, genuine interaction between old friends was the first real moment he had experienced since his arrival.
"Leo."
"Pleasure."
Bluma eyed him suspiciously. His politeness felt off.
"Don't you have a name?"
Leonay transmitted, carrying a provocative tone.
"Bluma." Her expression hardened, a shield raised instinctively. "What sort of sword do you need? Falcata? Claymore? Long range? Short blade? Any preference in steel?"

She moved through the forge as she spoke, waiting for his answer.
"What?" He blinked, overwhelmed by the flood of questions. "Who owns this place?"
"My uncle, but I also work here."
His mockery was subtle, but sharp enough to cut through her patience.
" No, you doesn't.." The prince let out a low chuckle, dripping with disdain. "These forges burn at over a thousand degrees."
"Yes, I know." She crossed her arms and studied him. He was clearly noble, not from the village. "You think I can't handle this because I'm a woman?"
"He didn't-"
Esra tried to cut in, recognizing the storm brewing in his friend.
"Actually, yes." Leonay's bluntness was like a knife. He never sugarcoated things. His honesty often cut deeper than intended. “This kind of craft takes years to master. How old are you? Sixteen?”
Bluma tilted her head in amusement.
“Eighteen.” She turned on her heel and picked up two swords from the collection. “A weapon is only as deadly as the one who wields it.” With a flick of her wrist, she tossed him one blade and grabbed her own. “You can have a legendary sword, but if you're a terrible warrior, it's just a piece of metal. But if you have even a simple knife and know what you're doing…”
She let the implication hang in the air.
“You want to duel me?”
Leonay raised his eyebrows, intrigued. He removed his cloak, revealing his royal attire. The surrounding villagers began to take notice. Bluma, however, was too focused to care.
“I don't think this is a good idea.”
Esra shifted uncomfortably, knowing exactly who Leonay was.
“This is a collector's edition. Made by the finest blacksmith in Akrida. If you win, it's yours.”
Her grin was fearless, her eyes aglow-not with magic, but with the sheer thrill of the challenge.
“What if I win?”
Leonay studied the sword. It was exquisite. Perfect for any soldier.

“That won't happen.”
Bluma met his gaze with unshakeable confidence.
“Ready?”
“Let's find out.”
They exhaled simultaneously, and in the next instant, the sharp ring of steel filled the air.
The first clash echoed through the forge. Bluma struck first, fast and precise, forcing him to retreat immediately. He blocked the attack with ease, but quickly realized that she was faster than he expected. She read his moves like an open book.
“Not bad.”
He muttered through clenched teeth, dodging another blow.
Bluma didn't react. She just pressed harder, pushing him further back. He attempted a surprise counter, but she effortlessly dodged, using his own momentum against him.
After two minutes of continuous fighting, Leonay exhaled sharply and glanced at Esra, who just gave him a knowing look - as if to say, I warned you.
“Tired already?”
Bluma teased, twirling her blade with ease.
She laughed. This wasn't just a fight. It was liberation.
“Girl, you have no idea...”
Frustrated beyond reason, he lunged at her again.
She barely moved.
Using his own strength against him, she let him fall forward, stumbling under his own force. Dust rose around him. For a split second, Bluma thought she saw something — air swirling unnaturally, forming a faint vortex around him. But she dismissed it.
Before he could rise, she pressed the tip of her sword against his chest.
“Do you know what I know for certain?”
She knelt to meet his gaze, a victorious grin tugging at her lips.
Leonay froze.
For the first time, he really saw her.
Her red hair framed her face like flames, and her green eyes glowed with a fierce intensity. He could have knocked her down at that moment and reversed their positions. But he didn't.
All he did was stare, transfixed.
For a second, he forgot where he was.
“You lost.”
She whispered, running the razor-sharp blade lightly along his chin.
“Did you--did you cut me?”
He touched his face, staring at the blood on his fingertips.
“I'm bleeding, you lunatic!”
“We should go.”
Esra, sensing danger, stepped in before things could escalate.
“I'm not leaving! This  crazy maniac cut me!”
“Hey, don't forget who you are.” Esra gestured subtly to the growing number of onlookers. “Prin-”
“Fine, fine. Let's go.”
Leonay exhaled and tossed a handful of gold coins in her direction.
“My sword, blacksmith.”
Bluma grinned, watching his frustration turn into something entirely else entirely.
“I hope we meet again, Your Highness.”
She had a feeling that this would not be their last meeting.