The Masked Legacy

The palace guards, donned in armor and standing at attention, stared in disbelief as Thorne and his escort came into view. Though their expressions quickly shifted from shock to a welcoming warmth, it was clear that no one had truly expected the blind son of Chief Darius to return from the Garden of the Gods. Whispers passed between them, and their astonishment was palpable.

"Scion Thorne!" one of the guards called out, stepping forward to greet him. "By the gods, you've returned!"

The palace guards, donned in armor and standing at attention, stared in disbelief as Thorne and his escort came into view. Though their expressions quickly shifted from shock to a welcoming warmth, it was clear that no one had truly expected the blind son of Chief Darius to return from the Garden of the Gods. Whispers passed between them, and their astonishment was palpable.

The courtyard of the palace was alive with the familiar sounds of Ironhold—distant conversations, the clang of swords during training, and the low hum of activity. Yet, there was something different about today, something that felt more vibrant, as if his return had sparked a wave of curiosity.

Thorne dismounted from the mount as the guard captain stepped forward, bowing deeply before him. "Your father is in the forge, Scion. He's been there for hours."

Thorne nodded in response, feeling a sense of anticipation building in his chest. He knew exactly where his father would be—smelting and forging, his pastimes when palace duties permitted him. Chief Darius had always found solace in the grand forge, working the molten metal with his hands as if it were a form of meditation.

As they walked through the halls of the palace, Thorne could sense the warmth in the air, the acknowledgment of his return. Servants and guards alike greeted him, their voices carrying hints of both surprise and respect. This was his home, after all, and despite the odds, he had come back.

Soon, the sounds of the forge echoed through the halls—loud, rhythmic, and steady. The pounding of metal against metal filled the air as Thorne approached the entrance. His heart beat in sync with the familiar hammer strikes, each blow resonating deep within him.

His father's forge was a massive, open space filled with the scent of burning coals, molten iron, and sweat. The flickering light of the forge illuminated the room, casting shadows that danced against the stone walls.

He could see the blacksmiths of Ironhold hammering and forging.

And there, in the center of it all, was Chief Darius, his muscular frame hunched over the anvil, hammer in hand. He worked with a methodical rhythm, the pounding of his hammer against glowing iron like the heartbeat of Ironhold itself. Sparks flew with each strike, lighting the room in bursts of fiery brilliance.

Smelting had always been Darius's way of unwinding, of finding focus amidst the chaos of leadership. It was said that when he forged weapons for the warriors of Ironhold, each piece carried a part of his unwavering strength and conviction. Thorne had often admired his father's work, even though he couldn't see it with his own eyes. The way his father crafted with such precision, transforming raw metal into powerful tools of war, had always inspired him.

Thorne stepped forward, and as if sensing his presence, Darius stopped mid-swing, lifting his head from the anvil. Slowly, the chief turned, his eyes locking onto Thorne. There was a moment of silence, a pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity, before Darius dropped the hammer and crossed the forge with wide, determined strides.

"Thorne..." Darius's voice was a low rumble, filled with a mixture of disbelief and pride.

They stood there for a moment, father and son, the heat of the forge surrounding them. Without another word, Darius reached out, gripping Thorne's shoulder with a firm hand. No words were necessary; the weight of everything that had transpired was understood between them. Thorne had survived, and that alone spoke volumes.

"I knew you'd make it," Darius said, his deep voice filled with warmth. "I never had any doubts... welcome home, son."

Without waiting, Darius pulled Thorne into a tight embrace, his muscular arms enveloping his son. Darius, a head taller, had to bend slightly to hug him. Thorne felt the solid strength of his father's frame, the smell of metal and sweat clinging to him, and for the first time since leaving for the Garden of the Gods, the weight of everything hit him.

"I'm home, Father," Thorne managed to say, his voice trembling slightly as emotion washed over him. Darius pulled back, his eyes soft as he noticed the tears streaming down Thorne's face. He reached up, wiping them away with a rough hand.

"No need for this in front of me, son," Darius said, his fingers slipping under the edge of Thorne's blindfold. He gently pulled it off, revealing Thorne's eerie, irisless eyes.

Thorne's heart skipped a beat—he always feared how people would react to seeing his eyes.

But his family had always been very accepting.

He felt nothing but calm acceptance. Darius didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. There was only love.

In that moment, Thorne realized how much he had missed this place—his home, his father, his sister. The weight of their absence had been a constant ache in the back of his mind while in the jungle, but he had pushed it aside to stay focused.

Now, standing here, the ache faded as he was embraced by the warmth of home. His chest tightened, and before he knew it, tears flowed freely. Darius, always so steady, wiped them away again without a word.

Thorne quickly composed himself and reached into his ring. With a small flicker of concentration, he withdrew the dark wood he had collected as his mask source. Holding it out to his father, he couldn't help but feel a quiet pride.

Darius's eyes widened as he took the wood in his hands, his rough fingers gently tracing the material. "You found your source..." His voice was low, filled with wonder and pride. He examined the dark wood with the hands of a master craftsman, weathered and strong from years spent in the forge.

"This... this is perfect, Thorne."

Thorne could see the gleam in his father's eyes, the same gleam he got whenever a new project inspired him. Darius held the wood carefully, as if it were a precious treasure.

Thorne wasn't surprised by the question. Getting to the garden was one thing; returning unscathed, with the source in hand, was another challenge entirely. The maskless, had only dared to venture into the garden's outer zone. The middle and inner zones remained shrouded in mystery, said to conceal the path to the land of the gods.

"I almost gave up, Father," Thorne confessed, his eyes flickering with a newfound determination.

"But with this..." He closed his eyes, envisioning the power the source held.

"Perhaps my sight..."

Darius, understanding the unspoken hope, ran his hand over the wood. His gaze met Thorne's, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

"You've done well, son."

He returned the source to Thorne.

"With this, your mask will be something truly remarkable," Darius said, his voice brimming with excitement. Then he looked back at Thorne, his expression softening.

"You've made me proud, son."

Thorne's throat tightened again, but he managed a small smile.

"Thank you, Father."

Darius clapped him on the shoulder, his smile broad. "Come now, it's been a long journey. You've earned some rest."

Under the surprised faces of the royal blacksmiths, father and son left the forge