Dawn came to Karadia like a dying man's last breath—pale, weak, and tainted with the promise of suffering. I had not slept after witnessing Lord Cryston's mental execution, could not close my eyes without seeing the way his noble features had twisted in agony before settling into the vacant expression of the mind-wiped. Another soul stolen. Another loyal heart turned to ash.
The blade I had forged lay delivered and forgotten on my workbench, its deadly perfection now just another tool in Xaldron's arsenal of terror. I had watched from the shadows as the Emperor accepted my work with the casual indifference of a man examining a piece of furniture. He had tested its balance with a few practice cuts that split the air with whispers of death, nodded his approval, then dismissed me with a wave that might have been intended for a dog.
Now, in the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the forge's narrow windows, I hammered out my rage on red-hot iron, each blow a prayer to whatever gods might still listen to the pleas of the desperate. The metal sparked and sang, and in its voice I heard echoes of better days—when Prince Xayon's laughter had rung through these very halls, when honor meant something more than survival.
The forge door burst open with such violence that I nearly dropped my hammer. Three figures strode in, but these were not the Nerds with their cold precision and calculated menace. These were palace guards, their crimson armor splattered with blood that had not yet dried, their faces bearing the hollow-eyed exhaustion of men who had spent the night killing.
"Emperor's orders," the captain barked, his voice hoarse from shouting commands over screams. "All metalwork in the palace is to be inspected. Now."
My blood turned to ice water in my veins. "Inspected for what, captain?"
"Weapons. Hidden blades. Anything that might serve a traitor's purpose." His eyes swept my workshop with the methodical gaze of a man searching for evidence. "Strip everything down. Every hammer, every tong, every scrap of metal. The Emperor believes someone in the palace is forging weapons for his enemies."
The paranoia was growing worse. I had expected this—had seen the signs in Xaldron's increasingly erratic behavior, his tendency to see threats in every shadow and betrayal in every sidelong glance. But knowing it was coming and being prepared for it were different things entirely.
I began pulling tools from their places, arranging them on the central table with careful precision. The guards watched my every movement, hands resting on sword hilts, ready to cut me down at the first sign of resistance. One of them, younger than the others, kept glancing toward the door as if expecting an attack. The night's work had shaken them all.
"How many?" I asked quietly, not looking up from my task.
"What?" The captain's voice was sharp, suspicious.
"How many died last night?"
The silence stretched like a taut bowstring. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, the young guard answered. "Seventeen. Seventeen noble houses declared traitors and... cleansed."
Seventeen. In a single night. The number hit me like a physical blow. House Merion, whose patriarch had once saved Xayon's life during a hunting accident. House Krestol, whose daughter had embroidered a banner for the prince's nameday celebration. House Vex, House Talmer, House Drenn—all reduced to memories and empty halls in the span of a few hours.
"The dungeons couldn't hold them all," the young guard continued, his voice cracking. "So the Emperor... he decided on immediate justice. We dragged them from their beds, their children screaming—"
"Silence!" The captain's roar echoed off the stone walls. "You speak of the Emperor's justice as if it were something shameful. These were traitors, all of them. Enemies of the realm."
But I could see the lie in his eyes, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he spoke. These were not hardened killers—they were soldiers who had been forced to become butchers, their honor sacrificed on the altar of Xaldron's madness.
As they methodically searched my workshop, overturning every box and examining every tool, I thought of the secret compartment hidden beneath the forge itself. Inside lay my true treasures—letters from Prince Xayon from the early days of his exile, maps showing possible routes to his refuge, and most dangerous of all, a half-finished message intended for the exiled prince, warning him of his brother's growing atrocities.
If they found those documents, my death would be neither quick nor merciful. I had seen what happened to traitors in Xaldron's dungeons—the way they emerged broken and mindless, their bodies intact but their souls carved away like meat from bone.
The search continued for what felt like hours. They found nothing, of course—I was too careful for that, too experienced in the arts of deception that had kept me alive these six months. But as they prepared to leave, the captain turned back with eyes like winter storms.
"The Emperor requests your presence in the throne room at midday," he said. "He wishes to discuss a special commission."
My heart nearly stopped. "What manner of commission, captain?"
"A weapon unlike any other. Something... personal." The word dripped with menace. "He mentioned that your previous work showed exceptional promise."
They left me alone in my ravaged workshop, surrounded by scattered tools and the lingering stench of their fear-sweat. A special commission. Personal. The words echoed in my mind like funeral bells, each repetition adding another layer of dread to the growing certainty that my time was running out.
I began methodically replacing my tools, using the familiar motions to calm my racing thoughts. What could Xaldron want that required such secrecy? What weapon could serve a purpose so dark that even his Nerds could not be trusted to craft it?
The answer came to me like a blade between the ribs: he wanted something to kill his brother.
Not just any weapon would suffice for such a task. Prince Xayon was a Level 10 mage whose supernatural speed could turn him into a blur of motion, whose strength could shatter steel with his bare hands. His battle axe, Stormrender, was a legendary weapon in its own right—forged by the master smiths of the old kingdom, blessed by the war-priests of Kelvar, and tempered in the blood of dragons. To face such a foe, Xaldron would need more than mere steel.
He would need something touched by the same dark magic that had twisted his mind and soul.
The realization sent ice through my veins. I had heard whispers of such weapons—blades forged not just with metal and fire, but with hatred and blood, cursed things that could cut through magical defenses as easily as flesh. The process was said to require terrible sacrifices, innocent blood mixed with molten steel, souls bound into the very structure of the weapon itself.
Was this what I was being asked to create? Not just a blade, but an abomination?
I sank onto my workbench, suddenly feeling every one of my forty-three years. The weight of my disguise, the constant fear, the nightly horrors I witnessed—it was all crushing down on me like stones in a collapsing mine. How much longer could I endure this? How much longer before the strain broke me entirely?
But even as despair threatened to overwhelm me, I thought of the alternative. Without someone in the palace to witness Xaldron's atrocities, who would carry word to the outside world? Who would ensure that history remembered the truth of these dark days? I might be the only person left who could warn Prince Xayon when the trap finally closed around him. Perhaps maybe Alvron, that's if she is on his side, no one could predict her next move.
The sun climbed higher outside my window, marking the passage of time toward my appointment with the Emperor. Each ray of light seemed to count down the moments until I would stand before the Crimson Throne and learn exactly what manner of horror I was expected to birth from fire and steel.
I began preparing my tools for whatever lay ahead, selecting the finest hammers, the sharpest chisels, the most precise measuring instruments. If I was to forge a weapon of darkness, it would at least be crafted with the skill of a master. Perhaps, in some small way, I could build a flaw into its making—some weakness that might serve Prince Xayon when the time came for the brothers to face each other in final combat.
The thought was a thin reed of hope in an ocean of despair, but I clung to it nonetheless. Sometimes, in the darkest hours, hope is the only weapon left to the powerless.
Outside, the bells of Karadia began to ring the hour. Midday approached, and with it, my audience with the monster who wore a crown.
I prayed to gods both old and new that I would have the strength to do what must be done, whatever the cost to my soul.