Page 228 of Emylia

I added the rod of blackened silver to the crucible, plunging it deep into the coals. It hissed as it melted, swallowed by flame. I watched, transfixed, as the metal softened—then completely liquefied—until it shimmered like molten moonlight–then darkened, transforming into liquid onyx.

I steadied my grip on the tongs and tilted the crucible. Liquid silver poured into the mold like quicksilver, hissing as it met cold, solidified earth. My arms trembled from the strain, but I didn’t let go.

It had to be perfect.

I whispered to the ring. “Please let this work.”

This was the moment.

Where I discovered whether my power was strong enough to wield and shape something I couldn’t see—only feel through my magik.

Heat pulsed beneath my fingers as I pried the cast open. My magik sparked, wild and instinctive, as though recognizing what this was.

Who it was for.

Droplets of water splashed against my skin as I quenched it. Then I reached in–plucking it from the cold depths of the basin, still steaming, still alive. When I lifted it, the phoenix stared back—bold and defiant, like it had won. There was a fine crack at the base.

A flaw.

A scar.

Absolutely perfect.

“You’ll love this,” I murmured. “You idiot.”

It was rough around the edges—just like both of them—yet already beautiful.

I refined Sebastian’s ring, filing down the rough edges until the band was perfectly smooth–the phoenix rising from the ashes, so lifelike it looked ready to take flight. The wings flared upward, flames licking the base of the tail.

Sebastian had always reminded me of fire—reckless and radiant, dangerous in the way beautiful things often are. And somehow, always rising.

The split ruby made it even more meaningful–like the phoenix wasn’t just carved into flame, but forged from it. And now he could carry it with him. A reminder. A tether. A piece of me, etched into something indestructible.

Maalikai’s ring next.

I dropped another rod of blackened silver into the crucible and plunged it deep into the flames. The fire snarled around it, licking and biting until the metal surrendered—melting into a pool of molten silver, bright and furious.

This wasn’t just heat. It was transformation. Consecration.

I gripped the tongs tighter, every muscle straining for control.

Then I poured.

Slow. Measured. Terrified.

The silver flowed like liquid starlight, searing and sacred, hissing as it hit the cast I’d carved with magik and will alone.

This was no ordinary forge.

This was a crucible of power.

I waited, counting the seconds until I could be sure it had cooled. Or at least–cool enough to be set. Because let’s be honest–I didn’t have the patience of a Goddess.

Then, with a breath held tight in my chest, I reached for the cast. Fingers trembling, I began to pry open the mold—slow, careful—like I was unveiling something sacred.

A glint of onyx caught the firelight.

The first hint of what I’d created.

---