I ran my hands along the gilded frame of the massive door, feeling the etched sigil pulse faintly beneath my palms.
I then braced myself before forcing it open with both strength and will.
Like most things crafted by my father, the door was impossibly resilient, forged to withstand even the most ruinous of strikes.
Yet it was not merely strength that kept it sealed, it had to recognize you.
Only then would it part, revealing the kingdom within.
As the colossal slabs gave way, an entire inner realm unfolded before me.
Piled mountains of weapons, rivers of coin, and ancestral relics stretched into a horizon of excess.
A vault not of stone and steel, but of legacy.
I did not need a new sword for myself, but Mirabel was always breaking or reshaping hers.
Perhaps one of these blades could serve her well.
At the same time, I could look for that greedy snake, and for her weapon.
In this realm, however, combat was forbidden. Or rather, impossible.
Gravity here was not mere weight but law itself.
It was a primordial principle that warped space, inverted time, and threatened to collapse entire worlds with a flex of intent.
It was a magic I had long desired to master, but my body had never been able to bear the strain.
My father's dominion had been darkness and gravity; my mother's, water and void.
Though both could wield all branches of magic, these they had bequeathed to me as birthright.
The gravity saturating this realm was enough to annihilate creation in seconds.
Yet he had mastered it so fully that it remained docile, perfectly harnessed to preserve every treasure within.
Even in death, his discipline lingered.
As I walked deeper, past mountains of gold I could never spend, I let my fingers drift over relics half-buried in shadow.
There were weapons upon the walls, one strange device, crossbow-like but resembling a cannon, which he once laughingly called a prototype for a gun.
Though he claimed it would be the best version of his creation, which has somewhat touched this world.
He had abandoned the project, complaining that it was too feeble, too stubborn to accept mana.
His witless inventions always amused me; even in failure, he left echoes of his brilliance.
But it was not his works that tugged at my heart most. No, it was hers.
I passed his fractured replica blade, the Splinter of Worlds, its pale body cracked yet still potent, its rose-guard hilt fashioned from dragonhide.
A weapon only he could truly command.
My own Sotergramma, with its infinite cloth and paradoxical blade, carried equal mysteries.
But I had rarely drawn upon its full strength, fearing its consuming power.
And then my eyes caught it. My mother's sword.
The Silver Mercy.
Its blade was long and thin, silver like frozen moonlight, with a thorned guard entwined like roses.
The hilt was darker than midnight, a piece of the abyss itself.
At its pommel shimmered a small globe, a universe in miniature, swirling softly.
She had used it not merely to fight, but to paint the night sky with starlight, to make creation into a canvas of beauty.
I reached out. My fingers trembled as they brushed the blade, and at once my skin seared, wilting under its purity.
Blood welled along my fingertips. Even to touch it without mana was to invite pain.
Yet I could not help but smile at the memory of her humor.
I remembered how she would scold me for mishandling her tools, then laugh with that wry gentleness that made even reprimand feel like mercy.
Quickly, I grasped the sheath instead and strapped the weapon to my side.
It would be for Mirabel. Not quite a rapier, but slender, elegant, devastating.
Her style, brute force tempered by grace, mirrored my mother's own. Yes, it would suit her perfectly.
I wandered deeper still, until the vault widened into a cavernous hall where mountains of gold scraped the very limits of the realm.
And there I found him. The greedy serpent.
Seated casually upon his heap of wealth, golden eyes gleaming, he listened as Lancerial lectured with gentle fervor.
She was speaking of her lessons to my children.
The serpent merely nodded with feigned patience, but the instant I let my presence be known, both fell silent and bowed.
Before I could speak, his voice rose.
"Wait! Is that the Silver Mercy? Please, it is a cherished relic of your vault."
"Hmph. You were about to say 'mine,' weren't you?" I asked, stepping closer.
His form sharpened into focus: long white hair, skin pale with bronzed undertones that shimmered faintly, and golden eyes like minted coins.
His white robes were bound with gilded cords, his boots polished like temple relics.
And behind him, propped reverently, stood his most prized possession: the Spear of Ouroboros, said to rewrite fate itself, to pierce eternity.
Though its form was wrapped in a golden silk I could not pass without straining my eyes.
He bowed low. "Of course not. I am not so greedy as to claim yours as mine."
Lancerial smirked and ruffled his hair. "Moments ago, he was boasting about how all of this was his collection."
The snake flinched but endured, caught between pride and affection. His kind of love was always complicated.
I lifted the Silver Mercy, its blade glinting faintly. "A gift for Mirabel. Don't you think it suits her?"
Ouroboros's eyes widened. "Ah. In that case… perhaps I might offer you something even finer?"
My brow arched. "Better than my mother's favored blade? Try me."
He dove gleefully into the sea of gold, rummaging with manic precision, before emerging with a strange weapon.
Its scabbard gleamed white, dotted with silver stars; its hilt mirrored night itself, black against argent.
The pommel shone like a world rather than a galaxy, vast and silent.
But when he tried to draw it, the blade would not budge. He strained, then sighed.
"This was Queen Naliah's final creation. She called it the Roaming Giant. We have never been able to unsheathe it."
I blinked. My mother, the blacksmith, her secret craft known to so few, always mixing mercy with mischief.
I chuckled softly. "Ah. That sounds like her."
I gestured toward Lancerial. "Try it."
The serpent and she exchanged wary glances, but at last she grasped the hilt.
The blade slid free as though eager for her touch.
The sword was no mere weapon. It was a mirror, a reflection of its wielder magnified.
Lancerial's body shifted subtly, her form grew stronger, more statuesque, her beauty sharpened as though the world itself acknowledged her.
Not grotesque, not unnatural, simply… more.
It dawned on me with a quiet laugh. If a woman drew it, she was exalted into a higher version of herself.
If a man did so, it would reshape him into a woman.
My mother's humor, distilled into steel. She always did enjoy her little tricks.
Lancerial quickly sheathed the sword, cheeks tinged with awe. "What a strange thing."
The serpent, meanwhile, was utterly transfixed by her changed presence, his avaricious eyes alight with reverence.
It almost made me forget why I had come. Almost.
I tucked both the Silver Mercy and the Roaming Giant into my inner world, their weight vanishing into nothingness.
Then I turned back to him, voice sharp with intent. "Now, Ouroboros, will you lend your strength to the war that comes?"
Both he and Lancerial froze, their gazes fixed upon me, surprise and speculation mingling in their widened eyes.