The western edge of the Ziglar estate pulsed with the ceaseless clanging and roaring of ironwork, as if the land's very heartbeat echoed from its forgeworks.
Smoke curled lazily into the sky—not from chaos, but from industry. The House of Ziglar's forgeworks weren't simply a division; they were a dominion all their own. Dozens of tall chimneys crowned the slate skyline. Deep bellows thundered in time with molten steel poured into soul-reactive molds, while hammer falls echoed like war drums. Here was the Smithy District: where heat ruled, iron became language, and fire never slept.
Charles walked through its central artery. His cloak trailed behind him, unfurling like a ripple in obsidian silk. Across the lane, every craftsman paused—sensing something unnatural. Power wrapped in silence. Gravity concentrated in a single man. They bowed instinctively, caught between fear and reverence.
He ignored them.
He wasn't here for greetings.
He was here for Borris.
Past the clangor of the main forge halls and into a quieter lane, Charles turned into a modest side shop. It was squat-roofed, soot-darkened, strangely serene. No banners adorned the walls. No apprentices crowded the space. Just a quiet haven, where metal whispered rather than screamed.
Inside, the scent of forged iron and old oil lingered—like memory itself. Tools lined the walls in exact, meditative order. At the center stood a man with graying hair, his back slightly hunched. He hammered a short blade, forging not for war, but for balance.
Charles watched a moment before speaking.
"Still using seven-tap rhythm to align the temper, old shadow?"
The man froze.
Then slowly, he turned.
Borris. Once one of Duchess Evelyne's most feared assassins—a phantom in the dark, whose blade drank traitor's blood before they realized they'd been condemned. Now? A smith with callused hands and a limp in his left leg.
"…Your mother's presence. And her gall."
Charles offered a faint smile. "And my own objectives."
Borris exhaled. "I heard whispers. The disgrace who came back in a storm."
"I prefer the strategist who arrived ahead of schedule."
The older man snorted. "What do you want, boy?"
Charles stepped closer. "SIGMA, scan him."
A flicker in the air. A silent pulse of light from nowhere and everywhere.
[SIGMA: —Unity Realm Rank 4 (Stagnated) —Diagnosis: Fractured Shadow Meridian Syndrome —Cause: Soul-imbued blade trauma (14.3 years ago) —Effect: Severed auxiliary soul channels; disrupted inner qi flow to lower limbs and diaphragm —Estimated Healing Window: 5–7 weeks via tiered Soul Meridian Regeneration Therapy. Phase-Shifted Alchemical Sessions required. —Probability of Full Recovery: 89.2%]
Charles nodded slightly to himself, then met Borris's gaze. "You were too dangerous to kill, too broken to keep. So they let you disappear into fire and steel."
"I chose this," Borris said.
"No, you survived this." Charles's voice dropped. "There's a difference."
The silence thickened.
"I need you," Charles continued. "As an instructor. I'm building an elite unit—silent blades. Shadows in command of stormlight. Wendy will lead. You'll shape the daggers behind her."
Borris arched an eyebrow. "And my smithing?"
"You'll forge for us. Weapons, tools, personalized kits. SIGMA will provide designs. You'll have access to rare metals and elemental alloys. Experimental matter molds await. A forge upgraded with runic stability and soul-infused hammers—yours."
"…And the leg?"
Charles snapped his fingers.
A golden vial materialized in the air beside him, shimmering softly. Inside, a swirling mix of violet and silver light glowed, shifting in slow, rhythmic pulses like a living storm captured in glass.
"Soul Meridian Elixir. One of many. You'll undergo phased healing sessions. We leave for Velmora in five days. You'll begin treatment on the way."
Borris stared at it for a long moment. "Why me?"
"Because you're the last man my mother trusted to lead killers with honor," Charles said. "Because I need someone who knows how shadows think. And because no one else ever bothered to come back for you."
"…And what do you ask in return?"
Charles stepped forward. "Absolute loyalty. Oath-bound. Your blade to me, your silence to my cause, and your fire to my future. In return, I give you your life back."
The smith was silent for a long time.
Then Borris knelt—not from weakness, but by choice.
"You have my loyalty," he said, voice steady. "Not because you offered gold or healing—but because your mother would've burned the world for a soldier she remembered. And I see her in you."
Charles nodded once.
"Good. Prepare yourself. Pack only what you forged with your own hands. You'll transfer to East Wing Manor. Wendy will brief you on our structure. When I return from Velmora… you begin."
He turned to leave.
But paused at the doorway.
"Oh—and Borris?"
The man looked up.
"I'll need three blades forged by next month. One for me. One for Wendy. One for someone who hasn't earned it yet."
"Names?"
"You'll know them when they bleed."
Then Charles was gone—leaving behind only silence, faint echoes of royal authority, and a shop that suddenly felt like the anvil of destiny itself.
The Blacksmith's Silence
That night, long after Charles had left, Borris sat alone in his forge.
The embers in the furnace had dimmed, their glow soft and steady. He hadn't relit them.
His callused fingers traced the sword he'd worked on earlier—balanced, graceful, useless for assassination but sharp enough to teach discipline. He'd planned to sell it to a minor officer tomorrow. Now... it felt hollow.
His legs ached.
His callused fingers traced the edge of the simple short sword he had been working on earlier—a plain but well-balanced blade, best suited for training discipline rather than silent killing. He intended to sell it to a junior officer tomorrow. Now, it felt useless in his hands.
But today, something shifted.
Charlemagne Ziglar. 'Charles,' as Lady Evelyne called him with his nickname when he was barely three months old.
Not the boy once limping through these halls, forgotten but for his ghost of a mother. No. The man today was different. Cold. Brilliant. Calculated. Not cruel.
And he remembered.
That, more than the offer or the elixir, struck Borris in the chest like a well-placed dagger. He had not been remembered in years.
Evelyne's death had shattered the unit.
Some scattered. Some died. Others faded—blades without cause. He took the forge as penance: to make, not destroy. The fire in his soul—dim—never died.
And now…
Now the fire asked if it wanted to burn again.
He stood slowly. Limping. Breathing through the ache.
He opened the small wooden trunk beneath his bed. Inside, wrapped in worn cloth and faintly scented of pine oil, lay his old armor. Black leather—reinforced with shadow-silk and soulplate. Beneath that, a single blade. Curved, slender, obsidian-edged.
Whispersong.
His personal dagger. The one he hadn't unsheathed since the day Evelyne died.
He unwrapped it with careful reverence.
"Looks like we're going to work again," he murmured.
The forge began to warm behind him, as if responding to his words.
And far off in the East Wing, a storm of strategy and steel was already gathering—and now, one more ghost had answered the call.
The Tempest Beneath Her Skin
Night had fallen, but the East Wing training grounds were far from silent.
Wendy stood at the center of the moonlit courtyard, barefoot on cold stone. Sweat soaked her battle tunic. Her long black braid clung to her neck. Her breath came sharp and steaming in the cold. Around her, the wind pulsed—not natural wind, but something elemental. Feral. Born from her blood and rage.
The Windblade Daggers of the Silent Tempest glimmered in her hands. Sleek, crescent-shaped, and alive with power. Every slash of her arm painted invisible arcs of force through the night. Mist hissed from the blades. The wind obeyed her now.
Yet her eyes… her eyes were full of ghosts.
A memory struck like lightning: her father, the Viscount of Mirevale, executed in the public square. Her mother was dragged from their manor in chains. The screams. The burning crest. The soldiers who laughed as they looted her home. Her family name, once whispered with admiration, now lies buried beneath the ash of conspiracy and silence.
Wendy lunged forward.
The daggers danced.
Her training dummy, enchanted with soft steel to absorb blows, exploded into a shower of splinters and straw.
"Again," she growled.
The wind swirled violently. Another target rose from the sigil-carved floor—this one harder, faster. She didn't hesitate. Gale Slash. Cyclone Throw. Whirlwind Bind. Each ability activated with feral grace as she blurred across the training floor. She was a tempest given form.
In the shadows of the viewing balcony, Charles watched.
He leaned against a column, arms crossed, silent.
She didn't know he was there. Or maybe she did, but didn't care. That was the thing about Wendy. She never fought for praise. She fought for memory. For the purpose. For revenge.
"SIGMA, status?" he murmured.
[Wendy Greystone: Core Realm Rank 3 | Wind Affinity (High-Grade) | Emotional Pressure Index: 84% | Kill Intent: Contained. Barely.]
Charles narrowed his eyes.
"Good."
She needed the edge. She needed the fury. He wasn't raising nobles. He was building weapons. And Wendy—she would become his storm.
With one last flourish, Wendy landed in a crouch. Her daggers returned to their sheaths in a whisper of wind. She didn't rise immediately.
Charles stepped forward, his boots tapping against the cold marble.
"You're pushing your body past threshold."
Wendy didn't look up. "You said I needed to become deadly."
"I said train smart. Not suicide by exhaustion."
She stood. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her spine remained unbroken. "You said I'd be your blade. I'm making myself sharp."
Charles studied her. In another world, she might have been a scholar or a lady of court. But fate had carved something else into her—steel where silk had once been.
"Do you know why I chose those daggers for you?"
She blinked. "Because they suit me?"
"No. Because they scream like you do—silently, with every breath. Because they carry the rage of the wind, and the restraint of a whisper. You don't need to prove yourself to me, Wendy."
Her jaw clenched. "I do."
He sighed. Walked closer. Then he did something unexpected.
He sat beside her.
"Tell me," he said. "Everything. From the beginning."
She hesitated. Then the dam cracked.
Her voice was low, flat at first. "I was three when the fire took our house. My nanny died shielding me. My parents… gone. They framed us for embezzlement and treason. We were loyal to the Ziglar Duchy—but too successful. Too loved."
Charles didn't interrupt.
"I lived in the ruins for three nights until the Sable War swept through the valley. That's when she found me—Lady Evelyne. She didn't even blink when I told her who I was. She just wrapped me in her cloak and told me I could cry later. She gave me to Anya. Told her to raise me like her own."
Wendy finally met his gaze.
"I haven't cried since."
Charles reached into his cloak and tossed something to her.
It was a silver coin. Old. Dented. The crest of Mirevale is faint but still visible.
"SIGMA traced one from the black market," he said. "One of the looted items that surfaced during the fall of your House. We're tracking them all."
Wendy's fingers trembled as she caught it.
"I can give you vengeance, Wendy. But not now. Not half-trained. You want blood? Earn it. You want justice? Build the strength to seize it."
"I will," she whispered.
"You're my storm," Charles said, standing. "But even the fiercest wind can be swallowed by a stronger tide. Don't be just a gust. Be the gale that breaks mountains."
She stood with him. Taller now, steadier.
"No mercy," she said.
"No regrets," he replied.
As Charles turned to leave, he paused. "Soon, I'm assigning you a private instructor—someone who specializes in shadow strikes and wind style."
She raised an eyebrow. "Another Ziglar relic?"
He smirked. "No. A retired assassin from the Empire. He owed my mother a favor."
Wendy laughed, for the first time in months. The wind danced around her again.
"I like where this is going."
So did he.
The storm was just beginning.