The Virelian court was a marvel of elegant restraint—gleaming marble etched with starlit veins, sheer silks cascading like waterfalls from arched ceilings, and tall windows that opened to the sun-drenched cliffs of Virelia.
Aurean stood before the throne, straight-backed and composed, though the polished black of his armor and the blade at his hip betrayed the fire that now dwelled within him. His once-fragile frame had filled with quiet power. The silver in his eyes caught the sunlight like cut crystal.
Emperor Arcael, regal in dusk-violet and silver, smiled as he regarded the young omega before him.
"The royal craftsmen speak of you often, Aurean," he said warmly. "You've awakened a craft long dormant. They say the way you wield the blade is unlike anything they've seen in decades."
Aurean bowed his head slightly, lips curving in a modest smile.
"Thanks to your practice," the emperor continued, "a new set of Omega Blades is being forged—one that will be sent to Ardan, by Rythe's request."
The moment the name Rythe was spoken, Aurean stilled.
"…Rythe?" he asked softly, the word catching in his throat.
Arcael nodded, expression fond but unreadable.
"I met him not long ago. In a quiet kingdom just west of our border. He arrived alone, as always. Traded the very designs now inspiring our new work—for silk and woven roots, the materials we need to refine enchantments."
"He never takes anything for free," Arcael said with a quiet chuckle. "Still pays his debts with care, always. Even when none are owed."
The emperor's gaze softened.
"Even when you came to stay with us… he left something behind. Gave up something in return."
Aurean's brows drew together, heart knocking against his chest.
"What did he give up?" he asked, voice gentle, searching.
But Emperor Arcael only smiled faintly, a touch too sad for such a beautiful day.
"Only what a brother gives when he still hopes."
No further answer came.
Before Aurean could press, the emperor moved on.
"Much has changed in Ardan, and I cannot speak of all of it. But the time has come for you to return—though not directly. You will travel with Eiran, Rhaellis, and Princess Selene."
The princess, standing poised nearby in twilight-gray robes and adorned with runes on her gloves, dipped her head respectfully at the mention.
"Your destination is Calatheas—a trade kingdom cloaked in neutrality. It will allow us to move Virelian goods discreetly, including the latest wares you've helped inspire. Everyone speak of your acumen in design and trade with genuine admiration."
Aurean blinked, taken aback, then nodded with quiet pride. "I'm honored."
The emperor's expression darkened slightly with the weight of another task.
"Rhaellis," he said, turning, "before you leave, go to the craftsmen. They keep something for Rythe—his blade. Deliver it to Maelthir, the hidden pass beyond the Stone Vale. From there, it will find its way to him."
At that, Rhaellis—still and silent beside Aurean—stiffened.
It was slight. A blink too long. A breath held for half a second more.
But Aurean noticed.
The omega's silver eyes flicked to him, searching Rhaellis' face for a reason—anything to explain the moment's hesitation. But Rhaellis gave nothing away. He merely inclined his head in obedience, his voice even.
"As you command, Your Grace."
And that was it.
The audience ended with formality and quiet bows. As they turned to leave, Aurean felt the gravity of something unseen tug at the air between them.
Behind them, Emperor Arcael remained seated, his hands folded atop the armrest of his throne, his expression unreadable.
The Virelian forges stood at the edge of the royal city, built directly into the cliffs that overlooked the roaring sea. Heat shimmered in the air even from a distance, and the ever-present hum of hammer to metal sang like a war chant older than time.
Rhaellis stepped into the forge alone.
He wore no formal robes now—only fitted black, the emblem of his house faintly visible across the shoulder. The heat kissed his skin, but he didn't flinch. His violet eyes flicked across the wide chamber until they found them:
The Master-Craftsmen of Virelia.
There were six of them—each one cloaked in forge-grimed garments, their hands permanently lined with soot and seared calluses. The moment they saw him, the eldest among them, Master Garen, stepped forward.
He was wiry, ancient in his bearing, but his hands were still precise and sure.
"Prince Rhaellis," he greeted with a respectful nod, wiping his hands on a thick cloth. "We've been expecting you."
Rhaellis offered a polite incline of his head. "I'm here for the blade."
Garen gestured for him to follow. They walked deeper into the forge, past enchanted molds, glowing runes, and cooling racks filled with half-forged omega blades.
Eventually, they stopped before a long obsidian case laid upon a stone pedestal.
Garen opened it slowly.
Inside lay Rythe's blade—sleek and deadly, curved with an elegant savagery. The steel shimmered with deep shades of indigo and starlight, the runes along the spine pulsing gently like a heartbeat. It was unmistakably Virelian—but refined, upgraded.
Evolved.
Wrapped neatly around the hilt was a parchment tied with a thin silver thread.
Garen lifted the sword reverently and handed it to Rhaellis.
"As requested. The blade has been upgraded—lightened, reforged with star-slag and tempered in moonfire. She'll sing louder in battle now."
Rhaellis took it carefully, eyes drawn to the note still resting against the leather-bound hilt. He removed it gently and unfolded it.
It read, in clean, spare script:
To the One Who Walks Without Shadow,
The upgrade was successful. She will answer to you better now.
We did not forget. We never will.
—Virelian Forgemaster Garen, on behalf of the Six
Rhaellis's hand clenched around the scroll for the briefest moment.
He looked at the blade again. The same one Rythe had wielded with wordless precision. The same one that had once shielded them all from ruin. It glowed faintly, as though remembering its master.