Razan's forge wasn't a building—it was a wound in reality.
Kael stood at the edge of a crater carved into the obsidian plains, staring down into depths that pulsed with crimson light. Heat rolled up in waves so intense the air itself warped, and somewhere far below, he could hear the sound of metal striking metal—rhythmic, relentless, like a heartbeat.
"Welcome to the Forge of Screams," Razan said, his voice carrying over the roar of unseen flames. "This is where legends are born. And where failures are unmade."
Kael's throat was dry. "What does that mean?"
Razan's golden eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Step inside and find out."
He walked forward—not down a path, but straight over the edge.
Kael's heart lurched as Razan fell, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. But instead of plummeting to his death, the Forgemaster's body shifted mid-fall, landing on invisible platforms that materialized beneath his feet like stepping stones made of solidified heat.
"Don't just stand there gawking," Razan called up. "Follow. Or stay up there and let the Mirror Shades find you. Your choice."
"He's not bluffing," Falshaar added. "Asharah's domain extends for miles. You're not safe on the surface."
Kael took a breath—then stepped off the edge.
His stomach dropped as gravity took hold, wind screaming past his ears. But just as panic seized him, his foot found something solid. A platform of crystallized fire appeared beneath him, and his body adjusted instinctively, landing in a crouch.
"Good," Razan observed from below. "Your body remembers even if you don't. Keep moving."
Kael descended in stages—each platform appearing just as he needed it, each step taking him deeper into the crater. The heat intensified with every level, until his skin felt like it was peeling away. But Falshaar's body endured, the black markings on his arms glowing brighter, as if feeding on the inferno.
Finally, solid ground.
Kael landed on a platform of black iron that stretched fifty feet in every direction. At its center stood the forge itself—a massive anvil carved from a single piece of what looked like frozen blood, surrounded by flames that burned black instead of red.
And surrounding the forge were weapons.
Hundreds of them.
Swords, spears, axes, and things Kael had no names for—each one radiating power so intense it made his teeth ache. They floated in the air, suspended by invisible threads, slowly rotating like satellites around a dark sun.
"Every weapon here," Razan said, running his hand along a blade that wept crimson tears, "was forged from something that died. Kings. Ark-Lords. Ancient Ghouls. Even a few foolish humans who thought they could challenge the Dominion."
He pulled one weapon free—a short sword with a blade that looked like shattered obsidian barely held together. The moment his fingers touched it, the weapon screamed.
Kael flinched, the sound drilling into his skull.
Razan smiled. "This one was forged from the Ark-Lord of Silence's final breath. Every time it cuts, it steals sound—voice, heartbeat, thought. Keep it up long enough, and your enemy simply stops existing."
He tossed it aside carelessly, and the blade clattered across the iron floor before dissolving into smoke.
"But you're not here to admire my collection," Razan continued, turning his full attention to Kael. "You're here because that body you're wearing is broken."
Kael's jaw tightened. "What are you talking about?"
"Falshaar's body is a weapon," Razan explained, circling him like a predator. "But it's been fractured. Every oath he broke, every king he killed—it left cracks in his essence. You're piloting a ship that's sinking, human. Without proper training, you'll collapse within a month. Maybe less."
"He's right," Falshaar admitted reluctantly. "I pushed this body past its limits. The swap bought me time, but you... you're paying the price."
Kael's hands clenched into fists. "Then fix it. Teach me."
Razan stopped circling, studying him with those molten-gold eyes. "Very well. Lesson one: pain is currency."
He moved.
One moment he was ten feet away; the next, his fist was buried in Kael's stomach.
The impact detonated.
Kael flew backward, crashing through three floating weapons before slamming into the crater wall. Stone cracked beneath him, and he dropped to the ground, gasping, tasting blood.
"Get up," Razan commanded, his voice echoing across the forge. "That was five percent of my strength. If you can't handle that, you're already dead."
Kael's vision swam. Every nerve in his body screamed. But something deep inside—some core of stubborn refusal—forced him to his feet.
"Good," he spat blood onto the iron floor. "Again."
Razan's smile was approval and cruelty in equal measure. "As you wish."
---
The beating lasted hours.
Or maybe minutes—Kael lost track as pain became his entire world. Razan didn't hold back, and he didn't teach in any conventional sense. Each strike was a lesson written in broken bones and torn flesh.
But slowly—painfully—Kael began to understand.
Falshaar's body wasn't like a human's. It didn't heal through rest—it healed through resistance. Every time Razan broke him, the body adapted, the black markings spreading further, glowing brighter. The Void Flame inside him grew hotter, more responsive.
"You're learning," Razan observed after Kael managed to block a strike—barely. "Your body responds to intent, not thought. Stop thinking like a human. Will your survival, and the body obeys."
Kael wiped blood from his mouth. "How—" he gasped, "—how do I do that?"
Razan's answer was another strike.
But this time, Kael reacted.
His arm came up in a guard that felt natural, instinctive. The Void Flame erupted along his forearm, forming a barrier that caught Razan's fist. The impact sent shockwaves rippling across the forge, but Kael held.
For three full seconds, he held.
Then Razan's power overwhelmed him, and Kael went flying again.
But when he hit the ground this time, he was smiling.
"There it is," Razan said, something like pride in his voice. "The spark of potential. You're beginning to understand—this body isn't yours, but it responds to you. Mold it. Break it. Rebuild it."
He walked to the anvil at the forge's center and placed both hands on its surface. The black flames surrounding it surged higher, and the air itself seemed to scream.
"Now comes the real lesson," Razan said, his voice carrying weight that made the ground tremble. "I'm going to forge you a weapon. Not from metal—from your own essence. It will hurt more than anything you've felt so far."
Kael forced himself to stand. "What do I have to do?"
"Bleed."
Razan's hand shot forward, faster than thought, and his clawed fingers pierced Kael's chest.
Pain exploded through him—white-hot, absolute, drowning. But Razan didn't pull back. Instead, he pulled, and Kael felt something being torn from inside him.
Not blood. Not flesh.
Essence.
A stream of black and crimson energy flowed from the wound, pouring onto the anvil. The moment it touched the frozen blood surface, the forge roared. The black flames became an inferno, and Kael screamed as his very being was ripped apart and reshaped.
"This is what it means to be forged," Razan shouted over the chaos. "To be broken down to your core and rebuilt into something stronger!"
Images flooded Kael's mind—not memories, but possibilities. He saw himself wielding weapons that didn't exist yet, fighting enemies he hadn't met, standing over the corpses of kings.
And he saw Falshaar.
Not as a voice in his head, but as a separate entity—chained to him by threads of fate and necessity. Their souls were intertwined, yes, but not merged. They were two beings sharing one body, and the tension was tearing them both apart.
"You need to synchronize," Razan's voice cut through the visions. "Stop fighting each other. Stop resisting. You're stuck together—might as well make it work."
Kael's consciousness reached out, finding Falshaar's presence.
"This is insane," Falshaar said, but there was no resistance in his voice. Only exhaustion. "If we do this, there's no going back. We'll be bound on a level deeper than flesh."
"Do we have a choice?" Kael asked.
"No."
"Then help me survive."
For the first time since the swap, Falshaar didn't argue.
Their essences merged.
Not completely—they remained distinct, separate minds. But where before there had been friction, now there was flow. Kael could feel Falshaar's knowledge flooding into him—centuries of combat experience, political maneuvering, the weight of broken oaths and spilled blood.
And Falshaar could feel Kael's humanity—his stubbornness, his refusal to break, his adaptability.
The forge exploded with light.
When Kael's vision cleared, he was on his knees, gasping. Razan stood before him, holding something that gleamed with dark light.
A dagger.
Its blade was pure black, but veins of crimson ran through it like living blood vessels. The handle was wrapped in what looked like shadow given physical form, and the entire weapon pulsed in rhythm with Kael's heartbeat.
"This," Razan said, placing the dagger in Kael's trembling hand, "is Oathbreaker's Fang. Forged from your essence and Falshaar's sins. It will grow with you, adapt to you, and—if you're strong enough—it will help you kill kings."
Kael stared at the weapon. The moment his fingers closed around the handle, he felt it—a connection. The dagger wasn't just a tool. It was an extension of his will.
"Use it wisely," Razan warned. "Every time you draw blood with that blade, it takes a piece of you. Kill too much, and you'll become the very thing you're trying to escape."
Before Kael could respond, the ground shook.
Not an earthquake—something approaching.
Razan's expression darkened. "Impossible. No one should know this location—"
The crater wall exploded.
A figure stepped through the dust and rubble, wrapped in tattered black robes, a cracked silver mask covering its face.
The Wraith-Bound from before.
But it wasn't alone.
Behind it stood seven more—an entire squad of the Court's executioners.
And leading them was a figure Kael recognized from the Hollow Court.
The Abyssal Prince.
The twelve-year-old smiled, his pitch-black eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
"Hello, Falshaar," he said in his terrifyingly innocent voice. "Father's funeral was lovely. I thought you'd like to attend... as the guest of honor."