The Webs weren't as unkind as the Palace dwellers might imagine. Of course, since it held the poorest areas and was filled with countless slums, there were bound to be hungry vagrants seeking money and flesh. However, there were just as many who upheld the warrior's code, strangely enough, treating dignity and strength like currency.
The history of the Webs dates even before the arrival of Tesson and before the establishment of the Iron Palace, as it was the first stronghold of humanity within the dark depths. It was the origin place of an invention that brought some limited stability to an underworld hounded by monsters, an invention now known as the day-lights, as well as the founding place of sand-casting techniques used to make high quality metals out of the dense sandstone walls of the underworld.
Though seemingly simple… the Webs were complex. And from the Webs came the Spiders.
As a feral child, hunting for scraps of meat amongst the other vagrant communities hiding in the city's underbelly, Zora's strength quickly allowed her to reach the top of the little hierarchy of the outcasts. And from that position, the Spiders came looking.
They picked her up, trained her, and gave her a position separate from her identity as a resident of the Iron Palace, as Tesson's daughter.
But now she had returned 'home', staring face to face with this man once again. She had returned a few times, back then, but each time left just as quickly. Those words had hurt her, but at some point she had found Talin. Then Mei, and Litost who had followed. And suddenly, she hadn't felt the need to go back anymore, because what she had called home had fundamentally changed.
"Thanks, pops. For the eggs. You remembered."
Tesson, though undeniably stressed, smiled. She noticed only now that the wrinkles around his eyes were creases from times long past, no doubt. He hardly smiled anymore.
"Of course I would."
The cracked box opened in Tesson's palm like a blooming flower, revealing a red jade orb with lines scribbled all over its surface. Perhaps it held a meaning for her father, as he looked upon it quite fondly. After all, Kenji's visits to the underworld had become less frequent over time.
"What does it mean?"
"Prosperity."
"Damn. I thought I'd get a new weapon."
"You will," he chuckled. "It can be made into any form, because you don't have a Tether for the Rune to be incompatible with."
Zora raised an eyebrow, but prodded.
"Then I want a big sword. Bigger than I am tall."
"Alright. I have time right now, so come with me."
When he turned his back, it looked weary and small no matter how high his shoulders sat. This was a much smaller man than she remembered, though his strides were just as large.
They had returned to Tesson's office, where his desk was only a few feet from the flaming forge, and papers saw burnt edges before ever even being addressed by his pen.
Velvety seats were scattered here and there, holding random assortments of weapons that glowed with all the energy of a fire hazard. Embers flew around the room, giggling as they refused to die. Yet, even with all that, nothing caught fire, as if fire itself was forbidden outside the forge.
Tesson took a breath, and with a single exhale the fire changed colors, slowly being stoked from red to blue to white. It was a level of heat that singed her hairs from a distance, as she sat in an empty chair to wait.
Eventually, Tesson brought out his hammer and began his work, setting a consistent metronome of metallic clangor– Zora's personal favorite percussion.
"Your hammer has a different sound than mine."
"Of course," he grunted. "My life's work can't be compared to a kid like yours'."
"Your hammer sounds… sad. Mine is missing something, but doesn't have the sadness that yours does."
"Sadness comes from stories, and stories grant me weight. It is with that weight that I bring down my heavy hand, and it is only with that weight, that I shall make a tool capable of incredible violence."
Thus, she sat in silence, watching the man hammer away at the Rune, all the while giving it his breath so as to form its shape. It was always a fascinating process, observing as the man spit white flames onto the Rune and it slowly fashioned a body of steel.
Then, the hammer. Suffice to say Tesson was right, in that the weight of his stories was what gave it that distinct sound, and even the sadness buried within the ringing was a blessing from the forge to the forged.
Hours burned as steel and Rune alike bent under the watchful hand of the maestro, becoming something greater than it was before. Every now and then, Tesson spoke and Zora listened, before once more returning to the chorus of the smith's percussion.
When he wasn't hit by the delirium of night, when he was sobered by day, his wisdom provided many points of consideration. Yet, it didn't soften the blow of the same words said in this room years ago. Where was his wisdom then?
She felt bitter, but simply hugged her knees. Azi wasn't allowed in the forge, so now she was truly alone with her father.
"Did Klead tell you, Pops?"
More hammering.
"I'm looking for the Mirrorblade."
Still, hammering.
"I'm going to create a Tether."
Silence. But only for a moment.
"Are you going to try and stop me?"
"...No. If that's what you want, go ahead. Try your best, Zora."
Then he went back to hammering. There was still sorrow in his rhythm, but it now included a hint of regret. She sat in stillness, simply waiting, coexisting with the sound of metal on metal.
***
The day-lights had died by the time Tesson had finished. Holding his furrowed brow, he excused himself quickly and left, leaving his finished product behind on the anvil, and Zora alone in the room. However, just before exiting, he had one last thing to say:
"Don't push the button until you have to. You'll know."
She sat up carefully in his absence, approaching the Rune– it was now molded into a bead, just like the weapons she used right now. Everyone used beads, but few could shape them into anything other than quality-of-life improvements. Making a giant weapon like this in the shape of a bead took incredible skill and considerable experience.
It was now silver in color on the outside, with red streaks flowing through its surface like molten lava and streaming towards a small inverted red circle, very obviously the button he was referring to.
As she picked up the bead, she noticed a near-invisible string connected to it on both ends, making it a necklace.
Mechanisms like this could only be made by Tesson injecting his very breath into his work, guiding it to the form he desired. Zora, with all the experience she'd gained over the course of her lifetime, could barely create the mechanism by which the weapons compacted into beads in the first place, reminding her starkly of the difference between her and her father.
Regardless, there was nothing she could complain about. She clasped the masterpiece's strings around her neck, trying to quickly acclimate to the uncomfortable feeling of having a presence swinging where there was nothing before. Her other beads fit squarely in divots along the necklace, lining up like ugly copies sitting besides one pristinely shaped pearl.
With one last look, she left the office behind. It looked lonely without her.
It would make sense that Tesson would be exhausted– he had just spent several hours on end in the forging process, literally giving his breath so that the result would be that much better. Yet he had moved on rather unceremoniously, excusing himself rather… simply.
She rolled the bead between her index and thumb, sighing as she looked at it. More than likely, his current state was the result of the purple juice he had drunk the night before– a mixture of opiates, one of an extreme dosage that he had derived himself. Now, he would be going through severe withdrawals, and he was likely suppressing a wild, drug-induced frenzy.
She hadn't wanted her father to push himself so hard, but it was somewhat inevitable when, every night at the dead hours of day-light, he would see the ghost of her mother in her face. Was this heavenly punishment for the dirty past she knew he tried to hide?
Regardless, his inability to recognize her would only grow worse as time went on. She had experienced this the first time, as the nights would change him, make his already beastly physique seem unrecognizable with the smell of pain and aggression. Though he would hold himself back at first, at some point he might hurt her– he already had, in the past.
That was the cost of keeping a king in chains.