Inside the high, arched sanctum of the Aethelgardian castle, the air was heavy with an oppressive, stifling tension. Emperor Arthur Delacronix was a portrait of unbridled fury. He paced the black marble floor with predatory intensity, his boots striking the ground like hammer blows. His wife, Queen Lysandra Delacronix, watched him from her throne, her demeanor forced into a mask of chilling calmness despite the frustration simmering behind her diamond eyes.
"Calm down," Lysandra urged, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Don't tell me to calm down!" Arthur retorted, spinning on his heel to face her. The immortality running through his veins couldn't soothe the sting of his public humiliation. "You know how hard we've worked to come this far, don't you? Everything we built is being mocked!"
"I understand your frustration, Arthur, but pacing a hole into the floor won't change a single thing," Lysandra said, her gaze steady and unforgiving.
Arthur paused for a brief, heavy moment, his chest heaving. He leveled a finger at his wife, his eyes narrowing. "You know what?"
"What?" Lysandra asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"This is all your fault," Arthur accused, the words dripping with bitterness.
Lysandra's eyebrows shot up. "What? Me?"
"Yes, you," Arthur doubled down, stepping closer to her throne.
"How?" Lysandra questioned, a flash of genuine anger breaking through her icy exterior.
"If you had finished the job—if you had destroyed the Thorenzians alongside the Vylonians when you were acting as Sariel—this never would have happened. They exist because you let them."
"So, you're going to play the blame game now, are you?" Lysandra stood up from her throne, the silk of her gown hissing against the metal.
"This is no game! This is the fact! The truth!" Arthur yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "And we must face it!"
"We should face the truth, you say?" Lysandra stepped down the dais, meeting his gaze as she walked directly into his space. "Alright, let's do it. Let's face the truth together."
She stood tall, her voice rising with an undeniable, tragic weight. "Who was it that went on a solo mission to place Aethelgard on the world stage? I did. Who had to endure the shame of marrying a man she didn't love while she was already wed, all for the power of this empire? I did. Who slept withthe men she hated to map the weaknesses of our enemies? I did! Did I receive assistance or help from my people? No!"
Arthur stopped, his anger momentarily stunned by the sheer force of her resentment.
"It was I who placed this empire on the throne of the world," Lysandra continued, her eyes blazing. "I stole the Oathkeeper's Shadows to bolster our military. I was the one who perfected the immortality project while you and the Council struggled with it in my absence. And yet, due to your arrogance and your sheer, staggering stupidity, you let the golden sword and the black blade slip through your fingers in front of thousands."
She leaned in, her voice a sharp, clinical hiss. "If we are talking about facts, Arthur, this didn't happen because I failed to destroy the Thorenzians. It happened because of your carelessness. Because you thought you were untouchable."
Lysandra turned her back on him and sat back on her throne, the silence that followed even more deafening than the yelling.
Arthur stood in the center of the room, the weight of her words sinking in. The sting of truth was sharper than his frustration. He looked at her, his posture finally slumping as the fury drained away, replaced by cold calculation.
"I apologize," he muttered, his voice quiet. He walked back to his own throne and took his seat, the two of them a unified, dangerous front once more.
After a long silence, Arthur barked at the heavy oak doors. "Guards! Guards!"
The doors swung open, and a palace guard rushed in, kneeling immediately. "Your Majesty," he bowed.
"Summon the Tetrarchs immediately," Arthur commanded, his eyes fixed on the horizon through the window. "Tell them to be here by nightfall. Cinder is done being patient."
The guard bowed low and retreated quickly, leaving the immortal monarchs in the shadows of their own throne room, preparing to unleash the full weight of the empire's iron hand.
Back in the Chronohelix hideout, the thunderous echoes of celebration had finally quieted. The joyous atmosphere had settled into a rhythm of purposeful activity: scouts repaired gear, elders oversaw the cooking fires, and the clatter of practice wooden swords rang out as warriors trained for the battles to come. In the heart of the camp, children darted between tents, their laughter providing a fragile soundtrack of normalcy to the resistance.
Away from the commotion, in the meadow where the wild flowers swayed, Valerus sat in solitary meditation. The two legendary blades, the dark, enigmatic Oathkeeper's Shadows and the radiant Aureblade, rested across his lap. His eyes were closed, his breathing rhythmic, as he pushed his consciousness deep into the cold steel beneath his hands.
Suddenly, the world around him shifted. The scent of the desert wind vanished, replaced by a silent, crystalline void.
Valerus stood before two young women. The first was a figure of absolute shadow—long, raven hair cascaded over shoulders clad in midnight-black garments. A small mask concealed her mouth, leaving only her piercing, dark eyes visible to him.
Standing beside her was a stark contrast: a girl draped in flowing golden attire. Her hair shone like spun sunlight, and her eyes held the brilliant depth of molten gold. Valerus recognized her immediately from his dream at the rock, but she appeared visibly upset.
"Hey," Valerus said, offering a tentative wave to the golden girl. "Um... what's your name? I realize I never actually caught it during our last meeting."
"Valerus El Joranda," the golden girl replied, her voice echoing with a sharp, resonant quality. "If we are to work together, we must know each other. How can you expect to master my strength if you do not even know who I am? This is why I was unwilling to absorb the Roogan's flames in the arena. What kind of warrior expects his ally to fight without even knowing her face?"
"I'm sorry, young lady," Valerus said, taken aback. "But you never told me."
"I did," she countered softly. "Your heart was simply too occupied to hear my voice."
"Occupied? When has my heart ever—"
Valerus stopped mid-sentence as a clear, melodic female voice began to ring inside his mind, vibrating through his very soul. It didn't come from the girl's lips, but from the blade itself.
"Apex?" he whispered.
"I see you finally hear me," Apex, the golden girl, said with a nod of approval. "You can only tap into my true power when you know my true name."
"What true power? You make it sound as if you're... a weapon," Valerus questioned, glancing between the two figures.
"That is correct," Apex said, her expression softening. She pointed to the black-clad girl beside her. "I am. And so is she."
Valerus's eyes widened in disbelief. "You guys are the weapons?"
"We are," Apex confirmed. "Creators—the men who forged us—gave us names of their own making. They were ignorant of the fact that we possess names of our own. Past masters treated us like tools, never caring to ask if the iron had a will. They were blind to the truth: weapons have spirits. We have names, just as humans do."
At that moment, a second voice—gentle, dark, and steady—rang in Valerus's head like a distant bell.
"Valor?" Valerus turned to the black-haired girl. "You... the Oathkeeper's Shadows... your real name is Valor?"
The dark-haired girl nodded slowly, her eyes locking onto his with an ancient, unwavering loyalty.
Valerus's eyes fluttered open in the waking world. The flowers still danced in the wind, and the girls were gone, but the two blades sat heavy and resonant on his lap. He lifted them, feeling a new, profound connection to the spirits within the steel.
"Apex and Valor," he muttered, the names tasting like ancient history.
Later that night, in the high, cold halls of Cinder, the citadel was gripped by a different kind of tension. One by one, the leaders of the provinces arrived under the cover of darkness. A guard stepped into the throne room, bowing low before the monarchs.
"My Lord," the guard announced. "All the Tetrarchs have arrived."
"Let them in," Arthur commanded, his face shadowed by the dim torchlight.
The guard retreated, and moments later, thirteen armed men stepped majestically into the throne room. They moved with a commanding presence, their heavy armor clinking rhythmically, their hands never far from the hilts of their swords. These were the high-ranking officials and their personal guards—the elite keepers of the Aethelgard order.
"Welcome, my brothers," Emperor Arthur said, standing to greet them. "I apologize for summoning you so abruptly and at such a late hour. But we have a cancer growing in our borders. We must discuss a certain enemy"