Chapter Twelve / Sigil Smith

“Engraving sigils is an art and also smithing. A smithing art.” Ezbalath said moving his hands along the steel in front of him. “What I’m doing is practicing with this piece of steel. A Sigilist Blacksmith would drown out days over these trying to perfect just a ridge in a sigil.”

Ezbalath moved his right hand over to a utensil, a small piece of pointed steel, and picked it up.

“This is a piece of steel that I created to mimic a tool we used to use to bind the sigil to another piece of steel. I don’t remember now what we used to call it, but I just like to call it my brush.” Ezbalath said taking his brush and hovering over the piece of steel. He then lightly poked the steel with the tip of the steel brush. It poked through the steel and left a small indent. “What I’m doing is channeling a small bit of my magic into the tip of my brush and testing the steel for its compatibility. The steel is a canvas, and sometimes you can get a bad canvas.”

A bead of sweat fell from Ezbalath’s left brow and onto the steel, sizzling momentarily before completely evaporating. “Normally this is done in a workshop and not in a smithy. But I like the heat. It’s like sitting in a sauna – good for the skin, and for your magic.”

Ezbalath moved the brush along his initial indentation and began weaving lines in the steel.

“There’s a standard to sigil crafting – words. Typically, the word corresponds to an element like fire or water, but some can even be merged to create a new element. Then those infusions are classified and tiered based on effectiveness.” Ezbalath said while his hand moved in a trance. “But for sigilists like myself, we came to realize that words are hollow without feeling. Those feelings come out no matter what shape they take, it can be words or drawings, or just lines in steel.”

Flicking his wrist, Ezbalath made another line in the steel. “There’s three tenants that make up magic. The mind, the body, and the magical coil. The coil intertwines and connects the others, the mind to focus, and the body to interact with. All three are needed to communicate with magic - the person’s magic coil, and the magic of the world.”

Ezbalath flicked his wrist once more and started another line. “Because of that, people used to say that the magical coil was proof of the soul. I wasn’t sure myself. It could be that the soul was just another form of the coil, instead of the reverse. A magical imprint of ourselves.” He sighed heavily. “Now I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

Ezbalath flicked his wrist for a final time and picked up the steel. He turned on the wood stool he was seated on and showed off the steel. Three long lines from side to side were engraved from the top to the middle part of the steel. A fourth line ran near the bottom.

“It probably doesn’t look like much.” Ezbalath chuckled and sighed. “All that matters, however, is feeling. It’d also probably look much different on other pieces like weapons or armor, or tools.”

“I call it Distant Love.” Ezbalath blinked. “What do you think?”

Ezbalath then turned his attention to the skeleton sitting on the adjacent stool. Whom, Ezbalath could only guess, continued to stare either at the steel or himself.

“Sorry if this is boring.” Ezbalath sighed and his shoulders became sluggish. “You’re the only one around to talk to right now.”

Ezbalath turned back to the wooden workbench and threw the piece of steel on top of a growing pile of them beside the workbench. He picked up another piece of steel and began on a new piece. His mind wandering but always going back to Gelicarus.

It had been a week since the battle for the next floor, since then Arn hadn’t woken from his sleep. Gelicarus only left Arn’s side to delegate the Skeletons, to prepare food for himself, Ezbalath, and Arn’s sleeping body.

Ezbalath had spoken to Gelicarus only a few times, and they were short. How is Arn? Did you sleep well? Do you need any help? Questions Ezbalath had asked about in those short interactions. Gelicarus barely responded to them. It was as if Gelicarus didn’t exist without Arn.

“Maybe he shouldn’t wake up at all.” Ezbalath whispered to himself. Then he paused mid engraving. He felt his heart beating against his bare chest. Why did I think that? He shook his head.

I was given a second chance. Ezbalath thought to himself and began engraving again. I’m grateful.

Then his mind raced to what he saw in the sword, a bottomless nothing, and his hand quickened. The engraving took sharp and cruel turns. He remembered the battle for the next floor; sweat beading down his face.

I saw him. I saw what he did. The tool dug into the steel, deep ravines carved from it, enough to be filled. His nose flaring. The blood. The smell. Ezbalath watched the hunched over figure carve out the insides of the being on the ground. He ate that... Thing. Monster.

Monster. Ezbalath carved more into the steel, grabbing the brush by the palm of his hand as he dug deeper. Monster.

Then his hand stopped. Ezbalath looked at the steel. He had carved a hole. He leaned back slightly on the stool and looked up at the uneven stone ceiling. Is any of this real? Am I still dreaming? I died.

Ezbalath could only think of Gelicarus’s expression. Empty. Ezbalath leaned down over the piece of steel as tears began to form in his eyes and fell into the hole. Wake up Arn. Please. I’m sorry.