The ironwork on the western edge of the Ziglar estate kept banging and booming, making the land's heartbeat reverberate from its forgeworks.
The smoke that rose into the sky didn't come from anarchy; it came from the factories below. The Ziglar forgeworks loomed, with bellows roaring and steel flowing. The hammers sounded like battle drums. In the Smithy District, the heat stayed, the iron talked, and the fire never went out.
Charles walked the main road, his cloak snapping behind him. Craftsmen paused, their tools hovering at the sense of his presence. He drew the room's attention, and they bowed—torn between terror and respect.
He didn't pay attention to them.
He wasn't here to say hello.
He was here for Borris.
Charles slipped into a narrow side shop past the forges, finding quieter air. The squat-roofed, sooty space felt unusually peaceful. He paused, scanning the room.
He pressed his shoulder to the wall, muscles coiled, gaze locked on Borris, reading each motion and waiting with patience for the right moment.
"Still using seven-tap rhythm to align the temper, old shadow?"
The man froze.
Then slowly, he turned.
Borris. Once one of Duchess Evelyne's most feared assassins—a phantom in the dark, whose blade drank traitor's blood before they realized they'd been condemned. Now? A smith with callused hands and a limp in his left leg.
"…Your mother's presence. And her gall."
Charles offered a faint smile. "And my own objectives."
Borris exhaled. "I heard whispers. The disgrace who came back in a storm."
"I prefer the strategist who arrived ahead of schedule."
The older man snorted. "What do you want, boy?"
Charles stepped closer. "SIGMA, scan him."
A flicker in the air. A silent pulse of light from nowhere and everywhere.
[SIGMA: —Unity Realm Rank 4 (Stagnated) —Diagnosis: Fractured Shadow Meridian Syndrome —Cause: Soul-imbued blade trauma (14.3 years ago) —Effect: Severed auxiliary soul channels. Disrupted inner qi flow to lower limbs and diaphragm. —Estimated Healing Window: 5–7 weeks via tiered Soul Meridian Regeneration Therapy. Phase-Shifted Alchemical Sessions required. —Probability of Full Recovery: 89.2%]
Charles nodded slightly to himself, then met Borris's gaze. "You were too dangerous to kill, too broken to keep. So they let you disappear into fire and steel."
"I chose this," Borris replied.
"No, you survived this." Charles's voice dropped. "There's a difference."
The silence thickened.
"I need you," Charles continued. "As an instructor. I'm building an elite unit—silent blades. Shadows in command of stormlight. Wendy will lead. You'll shape the daggers behind her."
Borris arched an eyebrow. "And my smithing?"
"You'll make for us," she said. "Weapons, tools, and custom kits. SIGMA will provide the designs. You will have access to uncommon metals and elemental alloys. Molds for experimental pieces are waiting. The forge offers runic stability and hammers full of souls—yours."
"...And the leg?"
Charles snapped his fingers, swift and curt, command radiating from the movement.
A golden vial appeared, shining softly. Inside, violet and silver light pulsed, swirling like a storm in glass.
"Soul Meridian Elixir," Charles said. "One among many. You will have healing sessions in phases. In five days, we'll be leaving for Velmora. On the way, you'll start treatment."
Borris stared at it for a long moment. "Why me?"
"Because you're the last man my mother trusted to lead killers with honor," Charles said. "Because I need someone who knows how shadows think. And because no one else ever bothered to come back for you."
"…And what do you ask in return?"
Charles stepped forward. "Absolute loyalty. Oath-bound. Your blade to me, your silence to my cause, and your fire to my future. In return, I give you your life back."
The smith was silent for a long time.
Then Borris knelt—not from weakness, but by choice.
"You have my loyalty," Borris said, voice steady. "Not because you offered gold or healing—but because your mother would've burned the world for a soldier she remembered. And I see her in you."
Charles nodded once.
"Good. Prepare yourself. Pack only what you forged with your own hands. You'll transfer to East Wing Manor. Wendy will brief you on our structure. When I return from Velmora… you begin."
He turned to leave.
But paused at the doorway.
"Oh—and Borris?"
The man looked up.
"I'll need three blades forged by next month. One for me. One for Wendy. One for someone who hasn't earned it yet."
"Names?"
"You'll know them when they bleed."
Then Charles was gone—leaving behind only silence, faint echoes of royal authority, and a shop that suddenly felt like the anvil of destiny itself.
The Blacksmith's Silence
Borris sat alone in his forge that night, long after Charles had left.
The embers in the furnace had lost some of their brightness. His rough fingers ran over the sword he had labored on. It was poised and graceful, better suited to teaching discipline than to killing. He was going to sell it to a low-ranking officer the next day. It felt empty now.
His fingertips traced the short sword—a balanced training blade, not a weapon for killing—meant for sale, but now it felt useless.
But today, something shifted.
Charlemagne Ziglar. 'Charles,' as Lady Evelyne called him with his nickname when he was barely three months old.
Not the boy once limping through these halls, forgotten but for his ghost of a mother. No. The man today was different—cold, brilliant, calculated. Not cruel. The offer or the elixir struck Borris in the chest like a well-placed dagger. He had not been remembered in years.
Evelyne's death had shattered the unit.
Some scattered. Some died. Others faded—blades without cause. He took the forge as penance: to make, not destroy. The fire in his soul dimmed, but it never died.
And now…
Now the fire asked if it wanted to burn again.
He shoved himself up from the bench, limp pronounced, forcing each step while clenching his jaw against the pain.
He opened a wooden trunk beneath his bed. Inside, wrapped in cloth scented with pine oil, lay his old armor—black leather with shadow-silk, soulplate, and beneath, a single, curved, obsidian-edged blade.
Whispersong.
His personal dagger. The one he hadn't unsheathed since the day Evelyne died.
Borris held his breath, unwrapping the blade with measured care. Each movement was reverent and precise, revealing its razor edge.
"Looks like we're going to work again," Borris murmured.
The forge began to warm behind him, as if responding to his words.
The Tempest Beneath Her Skin
The East Wing train had left, though it was dark. Wendy stood barefoot in the moonlit courtyard, her tunic saturated with sweat, braid sticking to her neck. In the night, her breath steamed.
The wind around her pulsed with power. In her hands, Windblade Daggers sparkled. Every slice sent arcs of force through the night, and the blades hissed in the mist. Now, the wind answered.
Her memory flashed: her father slain, mother dragged away. Screaming, a flaming crest, stolen goods, jeers. Her family's name is buried in conspiracy and silence.
Wendy jumped forward.
She spun, daggers cutting precise, controlled paths, momentum always in her hands.
Her training dummy, which was made of soft steel to absorb blows, blew up into a shower of straw and splinters.
"Again," Wendy growled.
The wind swirled violently. Another target rose from the sigil-carved floor. This one is harder, faster. She didn't hesitate. Gale Slash. Cyclone Throw. Whirlwind Bind. Each ability activated with feral grace as she blurred across the training floor. She was a tempest given form.
In the shadows of the viewing balcony, Charles watched.
He leaned against a column, arms crossed, silent.
She didn't know he was there. Or maybe she did, but didn't care. That was the thing about Wendy. She never fought for praise. She fought for memory. For the purpose. For revenge.
"SIGMA, status?" Charles murmured.
[Wendy Greystone: Core Realm Rank 3 | Wind Affinity (High-Grade) | Emotional Pressure Index: 84% | Kill Intent: Contained. Barely.]
Charles narrowed his eyes.
"Good."
She needed the edge. She needed the fury. He wasn't raising nobles. He was building weapons. And Wendy—she would become his storm.
With a precise sweep, Wendy landed in a crouch, daggers returning to their sheaths with a whisper of wind. She remained low, muscles taut.
Charles stepped forward, his boots tapping against the cold marble.
"You're pushing your body past threshold."
Wendy didn't look up. "You said I needed to become deadly."
"I said train smart. Not suicide by exhaustion."
She stood. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her spine remained unbroken. "You said I'd be your blade. I'm making myself sharp," Wendy said.
Charles studied her. In another world, she might have been a scholar or a lady of court. But fate had carved something else into her—steel where silk had once been.
"Do you know why I chose those daggers for you?"
She blinked. "Because they suit me?"
"No. Because they scream like you do—silently, with every breath. Because they carry the rage of the wind, and the restraint of a whisper. You don't need to prove yourself to me, Wendy," Charles said.
Her jaw clenched. "I do."
He sighed. Walked closer. Then he did something unexpected.
He sat beside her.
"Tell me," he said. "Everything. From the beginning."
She hesitated. Then the dam cracked as Wendy began to speak.
Her voice was low, flat at first. "I was three when the fire took our house. My nanny died shielding me. My parents… gone. They framed us for embezzlement and treason. We were loyal to the Ziglar Duchy—but too successful. Too loved."
Charles didn't interrupt.
"I lived in the ruins for three nights until the Sable War swept through the valley. That's when she found me—Lady Evelyne. She didn't even blink when I told her who I was. She just wrapped me in her cloak and told me I could cry later. She gave me to Anya. Told her to raise me like her own."
Wendy finally met his gaze.
"I haven't cried since."
Charles reached into his cloak and tossed something to her.
It was a silver coin. Old. Dented. The crest of Mirevale is faint but still visible.
"SIGMA traced one from the black market," he said. "One of the looted items that surfaced during the fall of your House. We're tracking them all."
Wendy's fingers trembled as she caught it.
"I can give you revenge, Wendy. But not right now. Not half-trained. You want blood? Get it. You want fairness? Gain the strength to take it."
"I will," she said softly.
Charles stood up and said, "You're my storm. But even the strongest wind can be swallowed by a stronger tide. Don't just be a gust. Be the wind that breaks mountains."
She stood by him. Now taller and steadier.
"No mercy," she said.
"No regrets," he replied.
As Charles turned to leave, he paused. "Soon, I'm assigning you a private instructor—someone who specializes in shadow strikes and wind style."
She raised an eyebrow. "Another Ziglar relic?"
He smirked. "No. A retired assassin from the Empire. He owed my mother a favor."
Wendy laughed, for the first time in months. The wind danced around her again.
"I like where this is going."
So did he.
The storm was just beginning.