The smithy was dim, only illuminated by the roaring flame of the forge which sat in its centre like a beating heart. It's amber glow painted the blacksmith's determined expression as he wielded his hammer fiercely. Each strike rang out with rhythmic precision, the sound echoing, as sparks burst from each blow like shooting stars.
Despite his ferocity, the dagger was cradled, a treatment reserved for all objects of history or skill. With each blow, he poured his energy
into the metal, transferring his strength. His sweat mixed with the tang of molten metal and charred aroma of smoking coal.
As he worked, Silas sang. It was a low, rumbling drawl, barely audible against the clash of metal.
The tune was solemn yet strong. It spoke of old battles, lost friends and the ensuing spirit of the steady. It was not Silas' song. These were the words of the weapon which
possessed his mind. It was the dagger's soul, its memories of its masters and
opponents that rang out in a bitter sweet melody.
As the tune came to a gentle conclusion, as did his hands. It was done. The weapon was restored.
It would serve Era well. It possessed a true, strong spirit. Setting down his tools, removing his gloves and leather apron, he glanced at the clock.
Midnight.
They were waiting for him, and the quicker he got this done, the faster he could begin crafting his plans for his new creation.
The order was waiting on him. Through their network of spies, the news of Era's trials will have reached them, and no doubt they were eager for more information. They were like festering fingers drawn to a honey pot, eager to dip their digits into the sweet nectar,
and Silas was their worker bee.
Revolting.
A portal materialised in the corner of the smithy, a void of darkness that swallowed the
light. Silas stepped through without hesitation.
—————-
The room on the other side was cold and oppressive. Torches flickered weakly on the walls, their light barely reaching the edges of the chamber. At the center stood a
stone table, its surface scarred and ancient.
Around it sat shadowed figures, their faces obscured but their presence heavy. Silas didn't need to see them to feel their scrutiny.
One of the figures leaned forward, her face catching the light. She was older than she appeared, her skin unnaturally smooth, her eyes hollow and cold. Silas recognized the
signs immediately— she was a user.
Ones like her were harder to identify, but still possible. Taking ichornreverses ageing, but it leaves its user with an artificial youthfulness. Those who take it obsessively, like an addiction, look botched. Almost as if, their wrinkly skin has been stretched and stuck back with pins. Their expressions are tight and restricted.
At first glance, they might seem twenty, but the longer you look the more their appearance becomes alien.
Those who take it well, are more natural looking but even then their eyes give them away. You can see the age and experience in
someone's eyes if you look close enough. Plus, the more you take ichor, the more the
eyes change. They begin to empty of emotion, they become cold, dead and
lifeless.
They might look young, but these people are all corpses.
This women seemed to be in her late sixties. The older approach probably helps the
innocent, cute nun façade she has going on Silas thought. Her eyes were bottomless pits.
"Greetings, Silas," she said, her voice sweet but laced with steel. "I'm Sister
Maria. Think of me as your… liaison."
Silas didn't respond. He didn't need to.
"Our order," she continued, her thin lips curling into a smile. "How is it
coming along?"
"On schedule," Silas replied, his tone flat. "You'll have the first batch by next week, as agreed."
Sister Maria nodded, her smile never wavering. "Good. But we have another matter to discuss." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "One of our nuns has
betrayed us. She's joined H.V.N. We believe you've had contact with her."
Here it comes.
Silas crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "Not my problem."
Her smile tightened. "Oh, but it is, Silas. You're part of this now. Whether you like it or
not."
"I forge weapons," he said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "That's all. Of course I'd be happy to expand my job requirements, but that comes with an additional cost."
Sister Maria leaned back, her eyes narrowing. "You're more than a blacksmith, Silas. You've been shaping these weapons for us. That makes you part of our plan."
Silas smirked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, they had no idea.
"Your plan," he said, "not mine. As per my current contract, all I am is a Blacksmith."
The room grew colder, the tension thickening.
Sister Maria's smile finally faltered. "You'll learn, Silas," she said, her voice dropping
to a whisper. "We don't ask. We require."
For a moment, the room was utterly still.
Then Silas moved.
One second, he was standing calmly, his hands at his sides. The next, his scythe was in his hand, its curved blade gleaming like a crescent moon. The air seemed to crackle as he swung it in a single, fluid arc.
Sister Maria's eyes widened, her mouth opening as if to speak—but no sound came out. Her head tilted, then slid cleanly from her shoulders, hitting the stone floor with a
dull thud. Her body remained upright for a heartbeat before collapsing into the
growing pool of blood.
The room erupted into chaos. Chairs screeched against the floor as the other members of the Order scrambled back, their shadows dancing wildly on the walls. Silas didn't flinch. He stepped over Sister Maria's body, his boots leaving faint red prints
on the stone, and took her seat at the table.
He leaned back, resting the bloodied scythe across his lap, and surveyed the room. The others were frozen, their faces pale, their hands trembling. Silas' was calm.
Now he could see them, he could tell instantly there was no-one of power in this room. Sister Maria had probably been the most senior person present.
Shame.
For her.
That meant her bosses had sent her here to die. She must have done something to piss them off.
"Anyone else have a request?" he asked, his tone casual.
No one answered. The only sound was the faint drip of blood hitting the floor.
Silas stood, the scythe vanishing into the folds of his coat as if it had never been there.
He turned toward the portal, his movements unhurried, and paused at the edge of the room. This had been a waste of time. His hope for a contract extension will have to wait, until they were ready to pay the price.
"Next time," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "send someone who knows
how to negotiate. You want information? You know my price."
He wasn't speaking to anyone present in the room.
He was speaking to Him.