As I push through the wall of sand, I finally make it home, brushing off the grit clinging to my shoulders.

My mother greets me at the door, her voice soft but firm. “Let’s get you out of those sandy clothes into something better.”

I nod, offering her a tired smile, and make my way up the stairs. The house smells like dried sage and smoke—calming, familiar.

Once in my room, I strip off the cave-stained clothes and head to the bathroom. I pause in front of the mirror before washing my face. My reflection looks like a ghost of dust and sweat. I shake out my hair, and the color returns—pale blond again, instead of storm-slick brown. I lean closer.

There’s sand caught in my lashes, just barely keeping the storm from touching my green irises.

I splash cold water over my face. Let it wash away the weight of the mine. Let it settle me.

Back in my room, I pull on a clean white shirt and a pair of worn hide pants. Then I slide my feet into my boots—the ones with the Armstrong crest stamped on the toe.

I love these boots. I always have. Every time I wear them, I feel like I’m standing a little taller. Like I’m not just Maxime—I’m an Armstrong.

After one last look in the mirror, I grab my satchel.

It feels heavier now.

I stare at it a second longer than I mean to, fingers tightening around the strap.

Then I head downstairs, nerves tangled in my chest.

I descend the stairs, and the house feels quieter than usual. Not silent—but held breath quiet. The kind that settles in before storms or speeches.

At the bottom, my family is waiting.

My father stands near the hearth, tall and calm, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He’s wearing the ceremonial coat—dark leather etched with thin golden lines that glow faintly in the firelight. My mother moves to my side, smoothing the shoulders of my shirt, brushing a loose hair back.

“You look ready,” she says.

I nod. I don’t feel it.

A few family friends and elders from the town have gathered, seated in a wide circle around the center of the room where the forging table waits. It’s low to the ground, carved from red cedar, its surface marked with family sigils scorched deep into the grain. In the center rests the Armstrong deck—stacked and sealed in a leather wrap, gold cord tied around it like a prayer.

The town’s cardsmith, an older woman named Maera, stands beside it. She’s been part of every birth card ceremony since I was a boy. Her hands are thin and scarred from a lifetime of heat, but her touch has always been gentle.

She nods at me.

I step into the center, satchel in hand, and kneel before the table.

My father walks to my side. He says nothing—just places a hand on my shoulder before drawing a syringe from his coat. I already know the spot—it’s tradition. I turn, steady my breath, and let him lift the back of my shirt.

A quick pinch. A sharp line of heat.

A vial of blood is drawn from my back. He hands it to Maera, who places it carefully into a shallow bowl.

Then she looks at me.

“And the skin?”

I hesitate. Just for a second.

Then I reach into the satchel.

The room goes still.

When I place the crimson shard beside the bowl, the flickering forge flame darkens—burning quieter, lower. Maera pauses. My father’s brow furrows slightly, but he says nothing.

She picks up the skin with a pair of tongs and places it into the furnace’s fire. As it starts to glow, the color changes—from deep crimson to an unnatural, bright orange. When she removes it, it hisses softly, and scorches the cedar as it’s set on the table. She shatters the vial of blood over it, and the contents coat the hot skin.

The shard begins to melt.

But it doesn’t hiss like metal. It breathes.

The forging has begun.

As it melts, Maera beings to chant:

“From skin to bond, from blood to breath,

By name, by line, by fate beneath—

Let flesh remember, let form be true,

And let this card belong to you.”

The card begins to glow, signifying it has started taking shape. She repeats:

 “From skin to bond, from blood to—”

(She stumbles slightly. The flame flickers.)

“...from bone to breath...?”

(Her voice slows, uncertain. Her hands tremble.)

“Let… let form take hold—”

“Let... let the card… remember…”

The final word is not spoken aloud. The card finishes itself.