Rise, My Sword

                          

The forge was a cathedral of fire and truth. Smoke hung like a heavy shroud, thick with the scent of scorched iron and something deeper , the ghost of old oaths and blood long-spilled into quenching barrels. This was not a place of delicate craft or elegant artistry. Here, metal was not shaped , it was broken, then remade. Lies did not survive the heat.

Akhen stood motionless in the heart of the chamber, a stark silhouette against the roaring furnace. His dark cloak drank the firelight, making him seem less a man and more an emptiness given form. One hand rested on the wrapped hilt of the sword at his side , a blade he had carried through deserts and dead cities, yet never once drawn in this world of dust and deception.

Along the walls, torches sputtered and hissed, their flames bending low as if in deference , or fear. The very air grew dense, heavy with the unspoken presence of what he was, what he carried.

He had not come to have the sword examined.

He had come to have it recognized.

Borin had walked with him as far as the heavy oak door, his face a mask of grim respect. He did not enter. Weaponsmiths, true ones, did not suffer fools, merchants, or kings lightly. He knew the fire within this hall was older than coin, older than crowns. This was a sanctum where bloodlines ended and legends were birthed.

Akhen approached the central worktable, a massive slab of obsidian so dark it seemed to drink the very light from the air. Upon its polished surface, he set two things: his matched pair of daggers, their leather grips worn from use, and the sheathed sword, long and unassuming, bound in simple cloth.

A younger smith, broad-shouldered with arms like young oaks, but with eyes green and raw with youth, leaned forward first. His curiosity outweighed the caution that kept the others at a distance. He picked up one of the daggers, its balance perfect, and twisted the blade in his calloused palm, testing its razor edge against his thumb with practiced care.

“You want it stronger?”

he asked, his voice rough but earnest.

Akhen’s voice was a low rumble, the sound of stones grinding in the deep earth.

“Not stronger. Deadlier.”

The boy’s brows drew together in confusion. Akhen elaborated, his gaze fixed not on the smith, but on the dancing flames of the furnace. “I want a system woven into the steel. Self-poisoning. There is a creature in the Ash Plains, the death-stone serpent. I want you to take its venom glands, liquefy them, and forge them into the blade’s fuller. A channel that bleeds venom into the steel itself. Whoever it cuts is finished, even if I am not there to see it.”

The boy froze, his lips parting. The forge, once roaring with life, seemed to fall silent around them. He had heard the tales. Everyone had. A creature with an obsidian gem fused into its skull , a stone said to hold a sliver of death itself. The snake’s curse was simple and terrible: once it marked a victim with its bite, it could not die until its prey was killed. Its life extended unnaturally, lingering in agonizing state if necessary, its sole purpose to ensure its target lay cold.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden quiet.

“You… you would forge such a curse into a blade?”

Akhen’s eyes, cold and calm, finally met his. There was no malice in them, only clarity. “The world will not forgive me for being merciful. So I will not forgive it for being weak.”

The boy nodded slowly, his hands shaking as he carefully set the dagger aside for the delicate, profane work. But as he turned back, his eyes flicked toward the sword still lying untouched on the obsidian table. Something in him stilled. The simple cloth wrapping could not conceal the aura humming from within, a silent thrum of immense, slumbering power. His gaze lingered, uncertain, then compelled, as if the blade were whispering his name.

He reached for it.

The moment his fingers brushed the sheath, a jolt of ice and fire shot up his arm. His skin broke into a cold sweat. The guild chamber seemed to tighten, the air growing thick and hard to breathe. The torches in their brackets strained, their flames flickering wildly as if in a gale. He stared at the sword for only a minute, but that minute stretched into an eternity. He saw visions , fractured images of falling kingdoms, burning stars, and a sky weeping blood. Sweat dripped from his head, his heart hammering against his ribs with a dread so profound it threatened to stop his breath.

Without a word, he snatched his hand back and stumbled away from the table, his face ashen. He bolted toward the grand stone staircase leading to the upper chambers, shouting with a voice cracked by terror.

“Master! Master , come down at once!”

The guild fell utterly silent. Even the distant, rhythmic clang of hammers in the far wings paused. From the upper chamber, heavy steps descended , deliberate, resonant, and impossibly heavy for their slowness. Each footfall was a tolling bell, marking the arrival of something ancient.

The one who emerged from the shadows made Akhen’s breath still for the first time in years.

The guildmaster was no ordinary smith. His hair was a cascade of white-gold, not from age but from some higher, purer source, shimmering faintly under the forge’s glow. His skin was weathered, yes, but it held a strange, timeless beauty , each crease of age was carved as though by divine sculptors, lending him an air of regality rather than frailty. His frame was lean, his body wrapped in blackened robes of heavy silk, stitched with intricate golden thread that seemed to writhe in the firelight. But it was his eyes that devoured the air around him: sharp, gleaming, emerald slits like those of a dragon that had once tasted gods’ blood and found it wanting.

He carried no hammer. His only weapon was the blade at his hip, and when his gaze fell upon the sheathed sword Akhen had brought, his hand went to it instantly, a reflexive gesture of both reverence and aggression.

“You” His voice was molten iron, burning through the silence with contempt. “Where did you steal this?”

In a single, fluid motion that defied his appearance, his own venomous blade leapt from its sheath, its tip pressing cold and sharp against Akhen’s throat. The killing intent he released was a physical force, suffocating and absolute. It wasn’t the heat of anger; it was the cold, cosmic certainty of annihilation. The entire forge trembled, and the younger apprentices, unable to bear the pressure, fell to their knees, gasping for air.

“This is no bauble for thieves or wandering brats,” the old man growled, his emerald eyes blazing. “This is Khavet, the Destroyer Sword. A national treasure? A fool’s term. It is a divine calamity sealed in steel.”

For the first time in his life, Akhen felt his chest constrict. His hand twitched toward his daggers—then he remembered they were on the workbench, being prepared for their unholy rebirth. His veins burned with the instinct to fight, to kill, but the sword at his throat carried a weight unlike anything he had ever known, a pressure that seemed to pin his very soul.

Cornered, desperate, his hand finally fell upon the weapon he had always avoided. The one thing that was his and his alone. His sword.

The moment his fingers gripped the hilt, the world cracked.

The sword pulsed, a wave of energy erupting from it. It glowed first with a divine brilliance, golden and pure as a newborn star. Then, as Akhen’s fingers tightened and drew the blade from its sheath, its light shattered into a furious, blood-red radiance. A reek of slaughter poured into the hall , the metallic stench of corpses piled high enough to blot out the sun, of rivers clogged with flesh and iron.

The apprentices screamed, their terror absolute. One collapsed instantly, eyes rolling back into his head, his mind broken by the vision.

Akhen, however, was not in the guild anymore.

The world dissolved into a vast, silent abyss, a demi-plane carved from shadow and coagulated blood. He stood on an endless plain of black glass that reflected a sky choked with dying stars. Before him rose a figure clad in interlocking plates of obsidian armor, taller than any mortal man, his aura as crushing as the heavens themselves.

The figure raised its helm. “You wear the skin of a man… but not the soul.”

With a hiss of ancient mechanisms, he tore off the great helm. A cascade of silver hair, like liquid moonlight, flowed down his back. His face , ageless, perfect, and cruelly beautiful , gleamed with an inner light, his eyes as cold and brilliant as frozen stars.

The helm fell from his grip, its ringing on the glass plain a death toll that echoed into infinity. Then, with the weight of eternity in the motion, the demon knight dropped to one knee.

“My name is Azrael,” he intoned, his voice echoing like thunder in the void, a sound that was both a vow and a challenge. “Forged for conquest, sealed for centuries. I have felt the touch of kings, priests, and pretenders. All were unworthy. But I know that fire in your soul. I was made to kneel before it.”

His starlit eyes blazed with a terrifying, absolute devotion.

“Command me, my liege.”

Akhen’s lips curled into a slow smile. It was a predator’s smile, sharp and full of triumph. Pride, a force he had always known as a bitter, solitary thing, swelled to an apex he had never imagined. His ego burned, but this time it was not hollow. It was crowned.

“Rise, my sword,” he declared, his own voice ringing with newfound authority.

“You shall destroy whoever dares stand in my way. Shed mortal blood until this world remembers its master.”

Azrael bowed lower, a gesture of profound acceptance. Then his physical body fractured into a billion motes of black and crimson fire, swirling into a vortex that funneled directly into the blade still gripped in Akhen’s hand. The Destroyer Sword screamed with life , not divine, but infernal, dripping with a bloodlust.

Akhen blinked, his breath ragged, and found himself back in the guild hall. The apprentices were still collapsed or trembling on the floor, the air thick with suffocating pressure. But now, the old demi-god smith himself knelt at Akhen’s feet, his head bowed, his own fearsome blade lying discarded beside him.

“The demon-angel… the Destroyer accepts him,” the old man whispered, his voice trembling not with fear, but with an earth-shattering awe.

“Eight centuries of silence… and the sun rises in the west once more.”

Akhen stared, bewildered. The old man’s killing intent was gone—replaced with a deep, primal reverence.

Slowly, the master raised his head, his dragon-like eyes filled with a new understanding. “You do not know what you hold. I was once a warrior in a forgotten age. I feasted on the corpse of a dying god to attain this long life, to craft things beyond the reach of mortals. And yet… the power that answers your call stands above even that.”

Akhen’s hand tightened on the now-living hilt of his sword. His heart thundered against his ribs, but he masked it with a chilling stillness.

The old man reached into his blackened robe and produced an ancient scroll, sealed with gold and wax. “Take this. It is a pact. From this day forth, every blade I forge until my death will be yours, and yours alone. I will forge for no king, no lord, no god. Only you.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber from the few conscious apprentices. They stared wide-eyed, unable to comprehend the scene. A living legend, a demi-god, swearing fealty to a wandering branded boy? It was impossible.

Akhen only nodded once, accepting the scroll. He then reached into his own bag and retrieved the small pouch of Ashveil powder , the remnant he had carried since his trial in the plains. He set it before the old man.

“A gift,” he said simply.

The demi-god’s eyes widened. He recognized the substance for what it was , not just poison, but the crystallized essence of a cursed land, a potent catalyst for profane enchantments. He said nothing, only bowed once more, his head touching the stone floor, sealing the exchange.

When Akhen finally stepped out of the guild, the sun was sliding westward, painting the spires of Solgar in molten hues of orange and red. The city breathed its usual filth , vendors shouting their last sales, beggars coughing in the alleys, and nobles riding in gilded carriages that parted the crowds like ships through water.

One such carriage, plated entirely in gold and drawn by four white steeds, rolled through the main street as though it were a moving temple. The guards flanking it, armored in immaculate white and bronze, kept the common folk at bay with the butts of their spears. People lowered their heads, many kneeling on the dirty cobblestones as the procession passed. It was the law of the highborn.

Akhen, however, did not bow. He walked on, his pace unbroken, as though it were just another cart of grain.

One of the guards, a man with a sneering face and cruel eyes, noticed. He saw the brand on Akhen’s neck and the insolence in his posture. With a shove born of petty tyranny, he pushed Akhen aside. Akhen’s feet barely shifted, his eyes remaining as cold and unmoving as a winter lake.

The guard’s face twisted in fury. He drew his blade to teach this “lowlife” the bloody price of respect.

Suddenly, the carriage halted.

From within, a boy emerged , perhaps no older than Akhen himself, though his robe glittered with golden embroidery that hurt the eyes. His hair was sleek black, his chin held high, his smirk a mask of cruel, inherited arrogance. A golden tattoo of a coiled serpent wound across the back of his hand, pulsing faintly with noble magic.

“I am Cassian of the Bonewalker clan,” the boy announced proudly, his voice carrying down the hushed street.

“Do you know what that means, branded trash? It means the marrow of kings runs in my veins. When I walk, Solgar bows.”

The crowd lowered their heads even further, some trembling.

Akhen did not. He simply watched, his expression unreadable.

The noble’s eyes narrowed to slits. With a theatrical display of arrogance, he strode forward and kicked Akhen squarely in the chest. Akhen staggered one step back, the impact jarring, but he did not fall.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers. The noble, Cassian, laughed, a high, grating sound. He raised his voice so all would hear.

“This dog thinks himself as a man! Watch how easily we break him!”

Another kick landed, harder this time. Then another. Akhen’s cloak tore, his body bending under the blows , but his eyes never lowered. He met the noble’s furious gaze with unnerving calm.

“Bow!” the boy roared, his face turning red with frustration and fury. “Kneel before your betters!”

The crowd dared not breathe. This was more than a beating; it was a ritual of humiliation, and the branded boy’s defiance was an offense against the natural order of the city. A guard, mistaking Akhen’s silence for weakness, raised his sword to end the spectacle.

And then ,

A crimson blade flashed from the shadows of a nearby alley.

It moved faster than sight, a whisper of steel followed by a wet, final sound. The guard’s head fell from his shoulders before the crowd could even scream, his body standing for a moment before collapsing in a heap. Blood sprayed across the side of the golden carriage, a shocking stain on its perfect facade.

The street erupted in terror. People scattered, scrambling over one another to escape, yet the ringing silence that followed was worse than the screams.

From the dark of the alley, a figure strode forth. His crimson hair burned like wildfire in the dying sun, and his golden armor gleamed like a piece of the dawn itself. His sword, already wet with blood, was held at his side with casual lethality.

The Bonewalker noble froze, his arrogance vanishing in a wave of pure terror. He began to tremble violently.

“T… th-th-the Royal Guard,” he stammered, his face pale as death. His body shook as he became aware of other figures shifting on the rooftops—assassins, dozens of them, their presence now a suffocating weight upon the street. They had been there all along, unseen.

But none of them moved. Not against this boy.

The crimson-haired warrior stepped forward and pressed his golden sword to the noble’s throat. His voice was utterly calm, yet deadlier than any shout.

“You dare raise your hands against royal blood?” he asked, his golden eyes flicking for a moment to Akhen. “Against the true heir of Solgar? Against the lord who will rule this world?”

The noble, Cassian, tried to speak, but only a choked gurgle escaped his throat.

“You shall be executed,” the crimson boy declared, his voice rising, clear and ringing for all to hear. “In two days’ time, before all of Solgar. Your family’s name will die screaming, and your head will fall beneath the same sun you defiled today.”

The Bonewalker heir was dragged away by two of the rooftop assassins who descended like ghosts, his screams for mercy echoing down the street. No one dared move to save him.

The crowd, those who remained, bowed deeper than before, their foreheads touching the cobblestones. Some muttered prayers. Others wept in fear. But all eyes, trembling with a mixture of terror and awe, turned toward Akhen.

The future king.