The throne room had been transformed into a cathedral of death since my last visit. Where once tapestries depicting the glory of past emperors had hung, now stretched banners of black silk embroidered with silver serpents—the mark of the Nerds. The ancient stained glass windows, which had once cast rainbow light across the marble floor, had been replaced with panels of dark obsidian that seemed to devour illumination rather than admit it.
Emperor Xaldron sat upon the Crimson Throne like a spider in the center of a web, his sword Voidcutter resting across his knees. The blade pulsed with malevolent energy, its dark steel drinking in what little light remained in the chamber. Around him, arranged in a precise semicircle, stood his inner circle—a collection of nobles who had either always supported him or had been... persuaded to see reason.
Lord Malthorn, the Emperor's new treasurer, whose predecessor had been found hanging in his chambers three weeks ago. Lady Sevrina, the court mage whose predecessor had simply vanished one night, leaving only a pile of ash and the lingering scent of sulfur. Duke Varex, the military commander whose loyalty had been purchased with the promise of expanded territories and the convenient deaths of his political rivals.
And standing at Xaldron's right hand, like a shadow given form, was Commander Thane of the Nerds. The man was a living weapon—tall, lean, with eyes like chips of black ice and scars that mapped a lifetime of killing. His dark robes seemed to absorb light, and when he moved, it was with the fluid grace of a serpent preparing to strike.
"Ah, our master blacksmith arrives," Xaldron's voice carried across the chamber, rich with false warmth. "Genfrey, is it not? The man whose skill with hammer and anvil has become the talk of the palace."
I dropped to one knee, keeping my eyes fixed on the cold marble floor. "Your Imperial Majesty honors me with his attention."
"Rise, craftsman. Today, we speak as professionals." The Emperor's voice carried an edge that made my skin crawl. "Commander Thane, show our guest the materials."
Thane stepped forward, producing a leather satchel from within his robes. He opened it with reverent care, revealing contents that made my blood freeze. Inside lay three items: a vial of what looked like liquid starlight, a fragment of metal that seemed to shift and writhe in the torchlight, and a small crystal that pulsed with an inner darkness so profound it hurt to look upon.
"Stellarium," Xaldron said, gesturing to the vial. "Distilled from the tears of dying stars, harvested from the void between worlds. Shadowsteel," he indicated the writhing metal, "forged in the heart of the Nether Realm, where light goes to die. And finally, a Soulstone—crystallized essence of the damned, containing the concentrated hatred of a thousand tormented spirits."
My mouth went dry as desert sand. These were not merely exotic materials—they were abominations, substances that existed in defiance of natural law. To work with them would be to court damnation itself.
"Your Imperial Majesty," I managed, "I am not certain my humble skills—"
"Nonsense." The Emperor's interruption was sharp as a blade. "You will craft for me a weapon worthy of an emperor. Not just any weapon—one specifically designed to kill a being of extraordinary power and speed. A weapon that can cut through magical defenses, that can pierce enchanted armor, that can end the life of even a Level 10 mage."
The throne room fell silent except for the distant sound of screaming from the dungeons below. Everyone present knew of only one Level 10 mage who might require such specific targeting. The unspoken name of Prince Xayon hung in the air like the stench of rotting flesh.
"The weapon must be a sword," Xaldron continued, his fingers caressing the hilt of Voidcutter. "I have always favored the blade's elegance over the crude brutality of axes and hammers. Something that can match my own skill while carrying the power to end gods."
I forced myself to nod, though every instinct screamed at me to flee. "What form would Your Majesty prefer? A longsword? A rapier? A—"
"A katana." The word fell from his lips like a prayer. "Single-edged, curved, with a blade length of exactly three feet. The handle wrapped in sharkskin and bound with silk cord dyed in the blood of virgins. The guard forged from meteoric iron and inscribed with the thirteen Names of Ending."
My knowledge of weaponry was extensive, but the Names of Ending were beyond my expertise—ancient words of power that belonged to the realm of the forbidden arts. "Your Majesty, I am not versed in the mystical inscriptions—"
"Commander Thane will provide guidance for the enchantments," Xaldron said smoothly. "Your task is to forge the physical weapon. His is to bind the darkness within it."
I glanced at Thane, whose smile was like the grin of a skull. The man radiated malevolence so palpable it made my skin crawl. Whatever guidance he provided would come at a price measured in souls.
"The process will require... specific conditions," Thane spoke for the first time, his voice like grinding stone. "The forging must take place during the dark moon, when the barrier between worlds grows thin. The stellarium must be heated to exactly 2,847 degrees—any cooler and it will not bond with the shadowsteel, any hotter and it will consume the wielder's soul upon first draw."
"And the Soulstone?" I asked, though I dreaded the answer.
"Must be shattered at the moment of quenching, its essence driven into the blade while the metal is still soft enough to accept it. The hatred of the damned will give the weapon its hunger for specific prey."
The technical details were horrifying in their precision. This was not some hastily conceived weapon—it was a masterwork of damnation, planned and designed with the same care a master architect might lavish on a cathedral.
"How long do I have?" I asked.
"The dark moon rises in seven days," Xaldron replied. "That gives you time to prepare, to gather your strength, to... make peace with any gods you might still worship." His smile was winter itself. "For after you complete this work, you will have moved beyond their reach forever."
The threat was clear. I would forge this abomination or die, but even success would mark me as surely as if I had carved the mark of the damned into my own forehead. There would be no going back, no redemption, no return to the light.
"I will need assistance," I said, buying time to think. "The materials you've provided are beyond the scope of normal metalwork. I'll require apprentices, specialized tools—"
"Already arranged." Xaldron gestured to the shadows near the throne room's entrance. Three figures stepped forward—young men in their twenties, their eyes glassy and vacant. Mind-wiped servants, their personalities scrubbed clean and replaced with absolute obedience. "These will serve your needs. They are skilled in the basic arts of smithing, and they will ask no questions."
Looking at them, I felt a chill deeper than winter. These had once been people—sons, brothers, perhaps lovers with hopes and dreams. Now they were empty vessels, their souls carved away to make room for Xaldron's will. In their faces, I saw my own potential future.
"You may go," the Emperor said with a dismissive wave. "Commander Thane will visit your workshop tomorrow to begin the preliminary preparations. I trust you understand the importance of discretion in this matter."
I bowed deeply, clutching the leather satchel to my chest. "Of course, Your Imperial Majesty."
As I turned to leave, Xaldron's voice followed me like a curse. "Oh, and Genfrey? I do hope you won't disappoint me. I've grown quite fond of our little arrangement, and it would be such a shame to see it end... poorly."
I walked from the throne room with measured steps, though every fiber of my being screamed at me to run. Behind me, I could hear the low murmur of conversation as the Emperor's inner circle discussed other matters—the assignment of newly vacant noble titles, the redistribution of confiscated lands, the planning of further purges.
The corridors of the palace seemed to stretch endlessly before me, each shadow hiding potential watchers, each alcove concealing possible threats. Servants scurried past with downcast eyes, maids whispered prayers under their breath, and guards watched everything with the paranoid intensity of men who knew their own lives hung by threads.
I passed the palace kitchens, where Cook Marta was quietly weeping over a pot of stew. Her son had served in House Cryston's guard, and his fate was now sealed along with his master's. In the courtyard, I glimpsed Master Jorik, the stablemaster, teaching a young boy to tend the horses. The normalcy of it was almost obscene in the context of the horror that surrounded it.
The chapel bells were ringing vespers as I finally reached my workshop, their bronze voices carrying across the palace grounds like a lament for the dying. I set the satchel on my workbench with hands that trembled despite my efforts to remain calm.
Seven days. Seven days to forge a weapon that would damn my soul and potentially doom the one man who might still save this empire from its madness. Seven days to find a way to craft perfection that might somehow, impossibly, contain the seeds of its own destruction.
As night fell over Karadia, I began to plan. Not just for the forging of a cursed blade, but for a gamble that might cost me everything—including my life.
Somewhere beyond the Koronean Sea, Prince Xayon continued his exile, unaware that his brother was crafting the instrument of his destruction. The question that haunted me was simple: could I find a way to warn him without condemning us both?
The answer would determine whether hope died forever, or if it might yet find a way to bloom in the darkness of the Crimson Throne.