The Undying Mount of the Eternal Forge

The Forge does not create animals. It never has. Vyranthos is not a horse and never was.

When Theron Cindermane was pulled from the crucible, the molten metal kept pouring after his body had formed. It pooled beneath him, cooled around him, and rose again into a shape no Forgemaster had ever seen. Four legs. A neck like a battering ram. A skull encased in armour that was already there before anyone thought to add it.

The Forgemasters did not design Vyranthos. The Forge decided he was necessary.

He does not eat. He does not rest. He does not age. The metal that forms his body is the same alloy as every warrior in the collection, but denser. Heavier. When his hooves strike the ground, the sound carries across the Ashen Plains like a second heartbeat.

He has thrown every rider who ever tried to mount him except one. Theron did not climb onto Vyranthos. He was already there when the metal cooled. They are one pour. One creation. Separating them has never been attempted because no one is sure what would happen if you tried.

The armour on his face is not protection. It is identity. The ornate crest and engraved plate work mirrors the craftsmanship of the warriors themselves, because Vyranthos is not a companion to the warriors. He is one of them. The only one with four legs instead of two.

Other warriors walk their posts. Theron and Vyranthos ride theirs. And nothing that moves across the Ashen Plains has ever outrun the sound of those hooves.