The hammer struck molten steel with the rhythm of a funeral dirge, each blow echoing through the palace forge like the heartbeat of a dying empire. Sweat dripped from my brow onto the red-hot blade, hissing into steam that rose between me and the truth I could no longer ignore—Emperor Xaldron had become a monster.
Six months. Six months since the crown settled upon his dark head, and already the Koronean Sea ran red with the blood of the innocent. I, Genfrey of House Malcor, once a trusted advisor to the royal twins, now hunched over an anvil in the bowels of the imperial palace, my noble bearing disguised beneath soot and callused hands. The irony was not lost on me—I who once counseled princes now forged the very chains that bound our empire in terror.
The forge door groaned open, and I felt the familiar chill that preceded death in these accursed halls. Three figures entered, their black cloaks marked with the silver serpent of the Nerds—Xaldron's elite assassins. My hammer never ceased its rhythm, but every fiber of my being screamed danger as their cold eyes swept the workshop.
"Blacksmith," the center figure spoke, his voice like grinding bone. "The Emperor requires a demonstration of your finest work."
I set down my hammer with deliberate care, buying precious seconds to steady my racing heart. "Of course, my lords. What manner of blade does His Imperial Majesty desire?"
The assassin's lips curved in what might have been a smile on a less lethal face. "Something... personal. A weapon worthy of executing traitors."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Another purge was coming. Another night of screams echoing from the palace dungeons, another dawn painting the courtyard stones crimson. I had witnessed seventeen such nights since taking this disguise, each one carving deeper wounds into my soul.
"I understand," I managed, my voice steady despite the storm raging within. "When does the Emperor require this blade?"
"Tonight."
The single word fell like an executioner's axe. Tonight, more of Xayon's supporters would die. Perhaps noble Lord Cryston, whose only crime was speaking fondly of the exiled prince at a dinner party three weeks ago. Maybe young Lady Selvara, caught weeping at her father's tomb—her father who had died fighting alongside Xayon against the northern raiders two years past.
As the Nerds departed, their footsteps fading into the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, I allowed myself a moment of pure, crystalline rage. Prince Xayon—no, I must remember he was no longer prince, just a man in exile—had possessed the supernatural speed of a Level 10 mage and the strength to cleave armored men in half with his great battle axe, Stormrender. Yet for all his power, he had chosen honor over ambition, exile over civil war. His brother Xaldron, equally gifted with telekinetic mastery and sword technique that could split lightning itself, had chosen a different path entirely.
The forge fire crackled, casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with malevolent life. I had seen what Xaldron's newfound dark magic could accomplish—the way he could reach into a man's mind like a surgeon with a blade, carving away memories, implanting thoughts, reshaping entire personalities with surgical precision. Lord Fenton, once Xayon's most vocal supporter, now groveled at Xaldron's feet, his eyes empty of recognition when shown portraits of his former prince. Lady Mercina, who had wept openly when Xayon departed, now spoke of him as if he were a stranger, her mind scrubbed clean of affection and filled with manufactured hatred.
This was the weapon that made Xaldron truly dangerous—not his masterful swordsmanship or his telekinetic powers that could hurl boulders like pebbles, but his ability to steal the very essence of who a person was and remake them in his image.
I selected the finest steel from my hidden cache, metal I had been saving for a blade worthy of a true king. The irony burned worse than the forge fire—I would craft perfection for a monster, because my disguise depended on excellence. A mediocre blacksmith would be forgotten; a master craftsman would be remembered, and memory in this palace was often fatal.
As I worked, heating and folding the steel with practiced precision, my mind wandered to the reports that filtered through the palace like poison in wine. Xaldron's paranoia grew with each passing day. Three more noble houses had been declared treasonous just this week—House Valdris for allegedly smuggling supplies to Xayon's exile, House Keront for possessing letters written in the exiled prince's hand, and House Belcar for the crime of their daughter once dancing with Xayon at a harvest festival.
The blade began to take shape under my hammer, its edge gleaming with deadly promise. Each fold of the steel seemed to whisper of the lives it would claim, the blood it would spill in service to madness. Yet I could not stop—to produce anything less than perfection would mean discovery, and discovery would mean joining the growing pile of corpses in the palace crypts.
Hours passed like centuries. The blade emerged from my forge as a masterwork of death, its fuller perfectly balanced, its edge sharp enough to part silk in the wind. The crossguard bore subtle engravings—serpents that seemed to writhe in the firelight, their eyes tiny rubies that gleamed like drops of blood. It was beautiful. It was terrible. It was exactly what Xaldron deserved.
As midnight approached, I wrapped the blade in black silk and made my way through the palace corridors toward the throne room. Guards in crimson armor nodded as I passed—after six months, the palace blacksmith had become invisible, part of the machinery of daily life. They did not see Genfrey of Malcor, advisor and friend to princes. They saw only a craftsman delivering his wares.
The throne room doors, carved from ancient ironwood and bound with bands of meteoric steel, stood partially ajar. Through the gap, I could see Emperor Xaldron seated upon the Crimson Throne—a monstrosity of black stone and red silver that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. His sword, Voidcutter, lay across his knees, its dark blade pulsing with contained malevolence.
But it was not the Emperor who made my blood freeze in my veins. Kneeling before the throne, chains binding his wrists, was Lord Cryston of House Daelor. Once a powerful voice in the noble council and a steadfast supporter of Prince Xayon, now reduced to a trembling shell of his former self. His ceremonial robes, once deep blue and silver, were torn and stained with what I prayed was not blood.
Xaldron's voice cut through the air like his legendary blade. "Tell me again, old friend, what you know of my brother's whereabouts."
"I know nothing, Your Imperial Majesty," Cryston whispered, his voice cracking with age and terror. "Prince Xayon—"
The sound that emerged from Xaldron's throat was not quite laughter, not quite a growl. "Prince? There is no Prince Xayon. There is only a traitor who fled rather than face justice for his crimes against the crown."
I pressed myself against the cold stone wall, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain it would betray my presence. This was not a simple execution—this was something far worse. Xaldron rose from his throne with fluid grace, and I could see the dark energy crackling around his fingertips like black lightning.
"You supported him once," the Emperor continued, circling his captive like a predator savoring the hunt. "Your speeches in the council chambers were quite eloquent. 'Prince Xayon possesses the wisdom of ages and the strength to lead us into prosperity,'" he quoted with venomous precision. "'His battle axe sings justice, and his heart beats for Karadia.'"
Cryston's weathered face went pale as snow-covered marble. "Those were words spoken in council—"
"Words of treason, spoken by a fool who forgot his place. But do not worry, Lord Cryston. I shall help you remember your true loyalties."
The dark energy around Xaldron's fingers intensified, and I knew with horrible certainty what was about to happen. I had seen it before—the way his victims' eyes went glassy and vacant as his mind-hacking abilities tore through their consciousness like a hurricane through a wheat field.
"Now then," Xaldron said, placing his hand gently on Cryston's forehead, "let us see what other treasonous thoughts hide in that aging mind of yours. And perhaps, when we are done, you might find yourself with a renewed appreciation for your rightful Emperor."
Lord Cryston's scream echoed through the throne room, through the palace, through my very soul. As his cries faded into whimpers and then into terrible, empty silence, I closed my eyes and gripped the silk-wrapped blade until my knuckles went white.
Somewhere beyond the Koronean Sea, in whatever desolate land had become his prison, Prince Xayon continued his exile, unaware that his empire burned and his people died in his name. The question that haunted my dreams night after night returned with renewed venom: How long before even his noble heart would break under the weight of such knowledge?
The answer, I feared, would determine whether Karadia died by madness or by war.
Either way, the Crimson Throne would drink deep.