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 honour, 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. The mark on his back pulsed with a dull, constant ache, a phantom presence that subtly influenced his movements, a painful reminder of his lack of control.
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.
He walked into the training hall, a vast, echoing cavern of pain. The first hours were dedicated to the "rules," bellowed by a drill sergeant whose voice was pure gravel. The schedule was a suffocating chain: training from four in the morning until ten, a thirty-minute break, then more training from eleven-thirty until five-thirty in the evening. After that, sleep. Roaming the dorms after lights out meant instant, unquestioned death. Promotions, they were told, came only through brutal performance in battle, a faster climb through the tiers of Ash, Iron, and Ember. It was a regimen designed not for endurance, but for breakage. No human could live under these conditions, Naithan thought, his blood chilling.
The training began. Initially, it was a melee of new recruits, a chaotic tangle of flailing limbs and crude weapon-work. Naithan, despite his refined training as a knight apprentice, found himself surprisingly capable, even able to hold his own, even dominate, against the unpolished rabble. But then, the real heat began.
They entered. The "Three Stars." Naithan didn't know why they were called that, not yet. But as he watched them move, a primal fear coiled in his gut. They were not men, but monsters. Three of them would descend on a single opponent, a whirlwind of coordinated, lethal strikes. They moved like a shooting star, a blurred, devastating impact. They didn't just fight; they killed. The clang of steel, the sickening crunch of bone, the wet thud of bodies hitting the dirt arena floor – it was a symphony of slaughter. Yet, no one truly died. The magic of the arena, a grotesque enchantment, prevented final breath, but it did nothing to stop the agony, the bone-shattering impacts, the pulverizing blows. It was a torment, ensuring they could fight with unbridled savagery, knowing their lives weren't at stake, only their bodies.
The heat in the arena became unbearable, a suffocating, visceral pressure. Naithan fought, but the exhaustion was a living thing, draining him, turning his limbs to lead. He couldn't even take it, could barely stand, but he forced himself. When the first break finally came, he crumpled, half-dead, gasping for air, every muscle screaming in protest.
A shadow fell over him. The beast woman. She knelt, her presence strangely grounding amidst the chaos. Without a word, she offered him a piece of dry bread and a hot potato. It was a meager offering, yet in this hell, it felt like a feast.
"How was the first half?" she asked, her voice flat, devoid of the earlier theatricality.
Naithan forced a ragged breath. "It wasn't so hard." The lie tasted like ash, his body screaming at him. He could barely muster the strength to lift his head, his eyes hollow, barely clinging to consciousness.
The second half began. He couldn't stand. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to collapse, to surrender. But he stood. He dragged himself to his designated cabin, knowing that if he stayed on the floor, if he didn't keep moving, he would be trampled, beaten, simply vanish into the mud.
Later, she came to him again, her eyes piercing. "Why are you not getting killed?" he rasped, the question tearing at his throat. He'd seen her move, seen her avoid the worst of the blows with impossible speed.
"It's the power of the Ember tier," she replied simply, her voice low.
Naithan was about to ask more, about the Ember tier, about her power, but she leaned in, her proximity an invasion of his desperate space. A wave of killing intent slammed into him, pure, raw, and utterly terrifying. He froze, every instinct screaming at him to flee, to cower. He'd never felt anything like it in his life, not from his father's stern gaze, not from a charging knight. This was the honed essence of death, focused and precise.
"I want you to join me," she whispered, her voice a low growl that vibrated through his bones, "and help me in battle. I am getting you out."
The sheer, focused malice in her aura was terrifying, but the last four words cut through the fear, sparking a desperate, fragile hope. He couldn't speak, his throat constricted, but he met her gaze and nodded. The raw, terrifying intent, the monstrous strength – it was his only path out.
"My name is Seraphina Stonehide," she added, her voice a low, gravelly rumble, her cat-like eyes burning into his. "Remember it. We'll need each other to survive this hell."