While I still stand awestruck before the vastness of the hall we entered after crossing the teleportation gate, one of the magi kneeling in reception to Elder Marduk rises and walks toward him.
The man looks to be around fifty-five. His head is shaved, and his eyes are a deep shade of blue, almost black, carrying both firmness and severity. His attire is military, in black and red—with black dominant. The cut and grandeur of the uniform immediately remind me of Babel, leaving no doubt about his elevated rank within the order.
Over his shoulders falls a cape lined in crimson, its outer fabric black as coal. Both on the cape and the left side of his chest gleams the emblem of the Dark Throne, embroidered in dark silver thread. On the right side of his chest, however, rests another insignia: a diamond with three thorns inside.
Instinctively, I glance at Akame, still at my side in silence. On her uniform, the same diamond bears only a single thorn. The difference is striking—a hierarchy that explains itself without words.
The magus approaches Elder Marduk and whispers something in his ear. I cannot make out a word, but I clearly see the Elder's expression shift. He lets out a heavy sigh, laden with exhaustion—or perhaps frustration—like one receiving news too ill-timed to bear.
When he finishes listening, Marduk turns to us. His crimson eyes settle first on me, then on Akame. His voice, deep as ever, resounds with firmness, though laced with restrained irritation:
"Akame, take Elian to see a bit of the fortress, then show him the chamber where he'll sleep."
"Yes, Elder Marduk," she answers without hesitation.
Then she turns to me and signals with her head:
"Come, Elian."
I begin to follow Akame across the great hall we had just emerged into. With each step, the weight in my chest grows heavier—not just the fear of the unknown, but the burden of stepping into a world that, until yesterday, existed only in stories. The magi kneeling along the sides cast fleeting, calculated glances my way; they don't need to turn their heads for me to feel their eyes measuring me.
Akame walks with her usual steady calm. There's an authority in her that requires no noise: silent and effective. Still, she treats me kindly, with the polite warmth of someone accustomed to caring for the younger.
"Magus Akame," I call as we turn into a narrower corridor. She pivots lightly, as if expecting me to speak.
"Yes?" she replies. I seize the moment. "I know it's impolite, but… how old are you?"
She lets slip a short smile, almost surprised by the question, then resumes her stride.
"Twenty-five."
Twenty-five. The number hits me with a mix of surprise and pity. I recall our earlier conversation: the slain fiancé, the unborn child. It's hard to reconcile the serenity she carries with the abyss of loss etched into her past.
Does she treat me as a son? The thought flashes through my mind—swift, uncomfortable. I don't know if I want that… and I suspect she doesn't see me that way. Still, there's something in her care that steadies me.
The memory of her murdered fiancé and child stirs another, darker one: my last crime in that past life. The face of the family I destroyed surfaces, along with the taste of guilt—and of blood. The shame of who I was burns so sharply I fall silent for a long stretch, Akame's footsteps marking the corridor.
I no longer condemn myself the same way; I've learned that eternal guilt would consume me whole. But I still fear—fear that the violence in me will resurface, that I'll repeat the patterns I swore never to repeat. I pray, with everything I have, that I never become what I once was.
The corridor stretches ahead, longer than that of the arcane council. Portraits line the walls like sentinels: faces of elders who governed the order through the centuries, each frame a fragment of history weighing on shoulders even heavier than mine. Walking between them, I feel the gravity of the place—and with it, the responsibility now fastened to me.
We pass doors left slightly ajar, and I cannot resist peeking inside. In some rooms, magi bend over scrolls, scrawling symbols I cannot decipher. In others, men and women unleash small bursts of mana that flare with vivid colors. Each seems consumed by their own work, as though nothing exists outside the spellcraft before them.
"This is the magical development wing," Akame explains, catching my interest.
"Magical development?" I echo, curious.
"Yes," she answers naturally. "It's where magi refine their spells… or craft enchanted armaments."
My eyes are drawn to one chamber in particular. Inside, a broad-shouldered man with pale skin and striking blue hair hammers a piece of molten metal on an anvil. In his hand, a hammer unlike any ordinary tool—wreathed in energy that crackles like lightning, vibrating with every strike. Each blow sends a different color shimmering across the metal, matching the element he channels into it and into the array of magic stones spread around.
"That is the magical forgemaster Nilan," Akame says, following my gaze. "One of the smiths of the order. Many of the items we use pass through his hands."
I am entranced. It's as though the very mana in the air responds to each hammer strike, pulsing in rhythm, reverberating through the chamber. There's a raw beauty in it: fire, metal, and magic in perfect harmony.
Without realizing, I step forward. The half-open door swings wider with a creak that cuts through the forge's steady rhythm.
The sound makes Nilan lift his eyes. He fixes them on us, and at once my whole body prickles. His gaze is black, bottomless, piercing through me as though he can see every secret I've buried. It lasts only a moment, but long enough to make me feel weighed and measured.
Then, shifting his attention to Akame, his expression changes. The severity softens into respect.
"Magus Akame," he says, resting the hammer on the bench and removing a pair of protective goggles I hadn't noticed. His voice is deep, resonant, born of the forge's fire and steel. "What brings you here?"
"Good morning, Forgemaster Nilan," Akame replies, stepping into the chamber. Her voice is calm but carries the respect of one who knows the weight of this man. "I'm showing Elian some parts of the Fortress."
I step forward, copying her stance, and bow.
"Pleased to meet you. My name is Elian. I'm new to the Dark Throne."
"Elian…" Nilan repeats, frowning slightly, as if dredging the name from memory. For a moment, the bluish glow of the molten metal reflects in his narrowed eyes. Then his brow arches. "Ah… you're the boy Magus Iolanda commissioned the earrings for?"
"Exactly," Akame confirms without hesitation. "He is Elder Marduk's new disciple."
Nilan sets the hammer down again, folds his arms, and looks me over. His gaze, though steady, no longer bears the same hardness—only a contained curiosity.
"A pleasure to meet you, boy," he says, his voice echoing like struck iron. "How did you like the earrings?"