beyond the grand spires and bustling markets of Verralt, where the Holy Order shone brightest, lay a truth few dared to whisper. For every path of gleaming honor, there was a shadowed, brutal counterpart. This was the domain of the Penal Blades, a name that tasted like ash on the tongue and invoked a shudder even among hardened soldiers. It was no ordinary military unit; it was a living, breathing hell, a crucible for the Empire's most despised. Here, justice was not served, but bled. Here, redemption was not granted, but torn from the very fabric of existence through suffering.
Only the young and the strong found their way into the Penal Blades, their crimes – whether real or fabricated – deemed severe enough to strip them of all dignity save for the ability to fight and die. The old, the infirm, the genuinely disabled, or those simply too weak for war were not given this "opportunity"; they were cast aside into the Empire's deepest, most forgotten dungeons. The Penal Blades were the Empire's blunt instrument, a disposable vanguard thrown at the deadliest threats, ensuring that if they survived, they did so for the Empire, and if they died, no tears were shed.
Within this brutal fraternity, a cruel hierarchy existed, marking the path from damnation to a phantom hope of freedom. At the bottom, the wretched and newly broken, were the Ash Blades, destined to be consumed by the flames of battle. Those who clawed their way through the grind, proving their resilience, might ascend to the Iron Blades, men and women forged in constant conflict. And, in the rarest of instances, for those who survived unimaginable trials and displayed unwavering loyalty, lay the elusive rank of the Ember Blades – a title that hinted at the faint possibility of release, of proving oneself worthy enough to walk among the free once more. This ultimate ascent, however, came with an unbreakable magical bind: a seal that permeated their very being, ensuring that no former Penal Blade, no matter their rank, could ever lift a hand against the Empire or its people.
The heavy gates of the Penal Blade encampment clanged shut behind him, the sound a final, metallic knell for his past life. He stepped into a world of raw earth and grimy timber, where the air hung thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, fear, and the metallic tang of old blood. All around him, new recruits shuffled forward, a miserable procession of broken souls. He saw faces etched with desperation, some still clinging to a semblance of innocence, others bearing the hardened, predatory glint of seasoned thugs. Strong, young, and utterly expendable – that was the common thread. My father did nothing wrong, a stubborn voice insisted in Naithan's mind, a defiant whisper against the crushing weight of his new reality. But as he was herded down a long, echoing hall, the sheer bleakness of the place, the chill in the air that had nothing to do with the temperature, made a grim certainty solidify in his gut: Damn, this is going to be tough.
He was quickly shoved into a small, windowless room, treated with the callous disregard afforded to a piece of refuse. A hulking man, his face a roadmap of old scars, barked orders. Naithan barely registered the words as he was roughly stripped, his fine clothes tossed aside as if contaminated. A cold, hard tool was produced, its tip dipped into a shimmering, faintly glowing substance. Physical mana, he recognized with a jolt – an arcane material used for binding enchantments. With a sharp, stinging pain, the tool was stamped onto his upper back, leaving a burning mark that solidified his new identity. This was the seal, the indelible brand of a Penal Blade. It wasn't just a mark; it was a leash, he knew, a magical tether designed to prevent any future treachery against the Empire.
Before he could fully process the pain, he was forced to sit in the center of a large, glowing magic circle drawn on the floor. Low, guttural incantations filled the air, a deep hum resonating through the stone. He felt an invisible weight press down on him, a sensation of his very will being subtly bound, his innate magic – slight as it was – locked away, redirected. This was the sealing, the process that would ensure he could never intentionally harm the Empire, even if he somehow managed to escape this hell. It was a failsafe, a final, cruel twist of the knife for those deemed unworthy of trust. When the light faded, he felt diminished, altered.
Shoved out of the room, he found himself in a labyrinthine corridor, leading to the Penal Blade dorms. It wasn't the pristine barracks he'd once envisioned for a knight, but it also wasn't the squalid, iron-barred prison he might have expected. It looked, eerily, like a sprawling, communal jail, yet it had an odd, rough functionality. It's not bad, he thought, almost surprised, as he began to walk down the hall, searching for an assigned bunk or a place to simply exist.
His distracted thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted. He rounded a corner and, without warning, collided forcefully with someone. He stumbled back, bracing for a shout, or worse, a fist. But instead, his eyes met an unexpected sight. It was a girl, easily a head taller than him, her stance rooted, unyielding. She was a beast woman, her features a striking blend of human and something wilder: sharp, cat-like eyes with slitted pupils, and prominent, delicate whiskers that twitched with the sudden contact. Her physique was undeniably muscular and strong, sculpted by hard living and harder training, and on her forearm, distinct even through the grime of the dorms, was the unmistakable glowing symbol of an Ember Blade.
For a long moment, she simply stared at him, her golden eyes unblinking, assessing. Naithan prepared for an insult, a challenge, anything but the words that finally, shockingly, left her lips.
"Be my husband."
The statement hung in the stale air of the Penal Blade dorms, utterly incongruous with the grim reality of their surroundings. Naithan, still reeling from the day's brutal inductions, could only stare, dumbfounded. His initiation into hell had just taken a very, very unexpected turn.
---
The heat of the burning capital pulsed around Naithan, a roaring symphony of destruction. He sat on a crumbling rock, his back to the inferno, the faint, bitter smile from earlier still touching his lips. A grim eternity had passed since that jarring encounter in the Penal Blade dorms. Six years, a thought echoed, the span of an agonizing lifetime, forged in mud, blood, and fire. The boy from House Verralt was long dead. The naive recruit was a distant, painful memory. Now, only the man remained, scarred but resolute.
A shadow fell over him. The air shifted, carrying the faintest scent of wild herbs and something distinctly feline. He didn't need to look. He knew that presence better than his own heartbeat. The beast woman, taller now, if that were possible, and even more formidable, stood over him. Her cat-like eyes, no longer assessing, held a steady, unwavering loyalty. Her left ear was half-slit, a faded scar of old damage that lent her an even wilder, more experienced air. Her Ember Blade seal, a silent testament to trials unimaginable, pulsed faintly on her forearm.
"Everything is ready. Shall we move?" she asked, her voice a low purr, a question that was more a statement of shared purpose.
Naithan finally turned, the flames of the burning city reflected in his blue eyes like old memories. The world he'd once fought to protect was dying. He pushed himself off the rock, his longsword already in his hand.
"The Empress needs to know what she made. Let's move."