A blood moon hangs over me. I look upon it with an unfathomable sadness. Will it ever shine silver again? Must I see my Cecily’s face reflected for all eternity? Will I be subject to this fate until every iota of consciousness is scrubbed from me?

  Still, I wait.

  Still, I miss her.

  Hauthe 13th, 758

  The gods promise salvation, but it oft ends fatal.

  Legends described heroes who carved pacts in blood during their most desperate moments. Warriors on battlefields, the ill, and even the deprived alike stood at the edge of existence, searching for a way out. Sometimes, the gods entertained these bargains, breathing life and power into the souls bold enough to strike a deal. They don't grant every wish, but the possibility lingered for those daring enough to approach the boundary between mortal and immortal.

  My father has shared countless tales of these heroes throughout my life. His words, carried by the soft flickering glow of the oil lamps were filled with color and shape, bringing them to life in my imagination. I sat for hours, absorbing every story with boundless energy. Now, as I reflect, I marvel at how he matched my stamina, minute for minute.

  "His name was Abraxas," my father began one somber night, his voice colder than usual. I could remember the pattering of rain against the balcony outside. Each drop striking the wood and stone with a rhythm like footsteps on a battlefield.

  "When you picture a hero, flowing golden hair, monstrous strength, commanding presence—you described Abraxas. His voice soothed like a lullaby but cracked like a whip. He radiated power. In his early days, he wielded his sword for the Empire. That blade, the Firebrand, carried its own legends. They say dragonfire forged its steel, and its pommel came from the scales of the dragon that birthed it."

  "Did it look like fire?" I asked.

  "It did," my father nodded. "Its edges, sharpened to perfection, cut through anything. Enchantments on it summoned the flames of its creation. Abraxas fought for the Empire, climbing the chain of command. Aureleth swarms with soldiers, their numbers vast enough to ensure no shortage of hands for any cause. But he craved more than duty; he yearned to stand out and become a hero."

  "Did he kill a lot of men?" I asked, envisioning him cutting through armies, his sword swinging as blood filled the air.

  "He did," my father replied, drawing a deep breath. "He terrified the battlefield, earning the title of the Crimson Fury. Given more time, he might have risen as a warlord, perhaps even challenged the Emperor himself. But no matter how strong he became, Abraxas remained a man, bound by mortal limitations."

  "Why does the Empire need a man like him?" I asked.

  My puzzled look amused my father, and he laughed softly before answering. "That’s a question I wish I could answer better," he said. "The world began with ownership. People defined their connections through possession before they developed complex speech. They gathered armies and fought simply to protect what they owned. This was mine. This was yours. That belief formed the foundation of everything we knew."

  "How do you know something was yours?" I asked.

  My father smiled knowingly. "Simple," he said. "You knew it was yours if you could kill anyone who disagreed. Ownership was easy to assert. But no one kept what they owned for long. Someone stronger, angrier, or more deserving always came to take it. That is the way of the world." He paused, his gaze lifted to the ceiling. "And yet, it isn’t as long ago as I’d like to think. Some of the olden kind, alive in those times, still walk among us. Abraxas held onto what he loved for longer than most. But even he lost what he held dearest. This led him to beg Orios for the power to bring what he loved back."

  “That is the god of truth, right?” I asked.

  My father shook his head. “No, Orios is the god of light. You’re thinking of Nervos, his opposite. She is the overseer of truth. She and Orios are like two bitter lost loves, they rarely agree on anything. Orios, proud as ever, ignores Abraxas’ request. Theory was that Nervos believed Orios should intervene, and since Nervos thought so, Orios decided he wouldn’t. That’s the enigma of the gods, after all. Orios lets Abraxas’ plea hang in the air, unfulfilled. The gods don't deal with what they consider trivial matters. Their bargains demanded something significant, something that commanded their attention."

  "Why didn't Nervos help him?”

  “Because Abraxas asked Orios, not Nervos. Yes, the gods could be that petty. She would offer her opinion, but because she wasn’t asked, she wouldn’t lift a finger.”

  “What happened next?" I asked.

  "He went mad," my father said. "Though outsiders might have called him mad long before. Families of those he killed probably saw him as a monster. Before his madness, he only used his strength to protect what he loved. Afterward, though, he became nearly unstoppable. He raged relentlessly, striking anyone in his path. Be it friend or foe. It didn't matter. They all fell to the same Crimson Fury."

  This story felt different compared to the others he’s told me. It felt more personal, more intimate.

  "Did you know Abraxas, Father?" I asked.

  My father’s face shifted through a patchwork of emotions, his eyes brimmed with memories and unspoken regrets. "It’s not an easy thing, existing. You know that?" You’re existing now, sure, but continuing to exist? That’s the hard part," he continued, looking directly into my eyes.

  “Existing?”

  "You’ll face difficult decisions, the kind you’ll carry for the rest of your life. That’s what these people do to get to now, where those decisions are no longer necessary. Abraxas made many difficult decisions for a long time. But eventually, the people around him made their own. They...they had no choice if they wanted to survive. They say that Abraxas’ end was so horrible they couldn’t gather enough of him to form a proper grave, so instead they laid his sword to rest at his home and transformed it into a memorial site in the imperial capital. Both a warning to people like him, but also an honoring of the man he used to be.”

  "Did you have to make decisions like that? Those kinds of awful decisions?" I asked.

  He paused, understanding my question immediately. Up to that point, he had answered indirectly. "I helped bring Abraxas’ rampage to an end," he admitted. "It caused a lot of misery afterward, but it had to be done." My father adjusted me on his leg, sitting me upright. "That’s enough for tonight, Malachi. We’ve stayed up far too late past your bedtime."

  With a gentle touch, he lifted me off his lap and set me down. I wanted to know more. I wanted to understand if this story had anything to do with what happened to Mom. He met her when he was a soldier in the Empire. I never met her, though. She felt more like an idea than a memory–someone who was as foreign to me as the Emperor himself.

  I had no solid recollection of her. I could say I wanted her here, but I didn't know what I was missing. All my understanding of the world and the continent of Aetharia came from my father’s stories. He had served in the Empire of Aureleth, a continental superpower in Aetharia’s north. Yet, that wasn’t where we lived.

  The Empire felt like a land of legends to me.

  Most of the stories he told me were of other soldiers of the Empire, or legendary heroes who had their place in imperial history. It was clear that the Empire was important to my father for a long time. But certain events I wasn’t privy to have led him and my mother leaving and settling in the continent’s south.

  Our village, Khadein, stood alone, held aloft by magic south of the Empire’s border. The landmass floated, sustained by magic I barely understood. It was large enough to have its own local government but couldn’t compare to the Empire or even the Ester Coalition, another one of the border states.

  Khadeinites thrived on their independence, valuing freedom and community over wealth, and my father embraced that simplicity. We were technically independent, but when push came to shove, even I knew that the Empire had sovereignty–even if implied–to do with us whatever they pleased.

  Over time, bedtime stories grew less frequent. My moments with him centered more around chores I helped him with after he finished his work. I felt a sense of obligation to assist, knowing how much time he devoted to answering my endless questions, many of which I’m certain I repeated ad infinitum.

  My father, older than many other Khadeinite parents, carried years of untold stories from his time in the Empire. After leaving, he and my mother had settled in the south, seeking a slower pace to focus on their family. He quickly became Khadein’s most skilled blacksmith, a role that earned him both respect and a place within the community. I’ve heard talk that the locals are so glad to finally have a good smith in the village, although I haven't the foggiest of what the history surrounding that is. I was happy he was able to acclimate so quickly.

  My mother, however, had passed during those early years. My father never shared many details about her, despite my persistent questions. I heard about how they met and their shared dream of reaching Khadein, but after their arrival, the story grew silent, a void in time where I could only speculate.

  The speculation was maddening.

  The villagers remained quiet on the subject too, no doubt honoring my father’s request to protect me from painful truths. I felt torn between gratitude for their concern and frustration at the lack of answers. Among the secrets my father guarded, the details about my mother weighed most heavily on me.

  I didn't even know her name.

  Now, with the Empire stirring once more and the ceasefire with the Ester Coalition threatening to break, my fears began to gestate. I worried about conscription pulling us into its grasp, the Empire reclaiming what it saw as its property.

  One never truly leaves the Empire.

  “Mal.”

  I despised the Empire for its unending wars and its disregard for life. Why did it keep sending people to their deaths for conflicts that never mattered? Why must our fathers fuel its blood-soaked machine?

  “Malachi.”

  My father’s voice breaks through my thoughts. I blink and find myself in our kitchen, staring at black smoke billowing toward the ceiling. "Ah...shoot."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The smell of charred musker ribs stings my nose and brings tears to my eyes as I rush to open a window.

  “Nearly starting a fire and all you can manage is ‘shoot’? I’d hate to hear what you’d say if someone guts you like a fish,” my father quips.

  “Sorry,” I say, my voice sheepish. “I got caught up in my thoughts. My mind’s been racing lately without anywhere to let it out.” I push the window wider, letting fresh air spill into the kitchen and bathe the room in a golden morning glow.

  My father rubs his temples. “I know things haven’t been easy lately,” he says, his voice softening. “But you need to focus when you’re cooking. We can’t afford another meal going up in smoke. Things have been a bit tight lately as we near the end of our slow period.” He crosses the kitchen with a few quick strides.

  “I won’t let it happen again,” I say, grabbing a spike to lift the charred meat from the pan and dump it into the waste bin. “I’ll head out and catch something fresh.”

  My father shakes his head. “No need. There’s another rack in the back. I’ll grab it, provided you don’t burn this one.”

  Before I can respond, a sharp knock at the door draws both of our attention.

  “Tell them we’re not open for another hour,” he calls as he moves toward the refrigeration unit. “I’m not opening until nine at the earliest.”

  Sighing, I set the spike down and turn the handle. Standing there is a short man, his face lined with age, his expression unreadable.

  "Hello, is this the residence of Logrith End?” His dirty blond hair is cut in an arc around his head, and if I didn’t recognize the imperial regalia on the chest of his coat, I might have let out a small laugh at how unfitting his proportions were to his hair. The moment my eyes cross the crimson lion with the orb meant to represent the sun within its jaws, my heart sinks.

  What is an ambassador from the Empire doing here?

  "Are you mute, boy? Am I in the right place to find Logrith End?”

  "…He’s…”

  "Right here,” my father's voice saves me from finishing my thought, and instantly I regret how I couldn’t save him. He appears behind me, resting his hand on the door frame as he looks out over my head to the man below. The tension is palpable when his gaze sets on the imperial. "To what do I owe the displeasure of a house call?”

  The man’s steely gaze never wavers as he extends a sealed letter bearing the imperial emblem. "My apologies if I've interrupted your morning. I bear a message from Emperor Areth Eugolius himself. He wishes to see you, Logrith End, at your earliest convenience. The contents of this letter may shed some light on the urgency of the matter.”

  My father takes the letter, the edges of his mouth barely curling upward as he recognizes the seal. "I see...I will read it immediately.” With a nod, my father breaks the seal and starts to read the letter. His eyes move quickly across the page, and it's clear that he’s processing the words with great concentration. After a few moments, he lowers the letter, his expression unreadable.

  My father glances at me.

  The imperial cocks his head, looking at my father with an unusual look. "I would most certainly love to discuss the details of this outside of this musty environment you cling to…” the imperial rubs his fingers in distaste.

  We rarely get visitors from the Empire because they don’t tend to like the change in elevation. If you spend enough time on the surface, entering Khadein can mess with your insides. At least, according to my father.

  He hesitates a moment and sighs deeply, bowing into the kitchen, and clicks his tongue once—a signal I take to follow and let the imperial inside. My father throws the musker legs he’d been holding onto the countertop, and the meat sizzles softly as it lands on the surface of the pan.

  "Tend to this, Malachi,” he says, his voice strained. I sense a creeping sense of unease crawling up my back, holding my shoulders tight as I focus on the meat. I know that if I'm caught snooping, it will only make things worse, so I concentrate on the task at hand, trying to drown out the conversation but unable to stop my curiosity from getting the better of me.

  Both my father and the imperial move to the family room—we don’t have any doors to separate it from the kitchen, but they are past a wall, so I have to strain to listen. The low murmur of their voices drifts toward me, but I can't make out the words.

  "I told you and all of them back there I was done. There’s no more left to give. I’m out of that business,” my father's voice is kept to a hush.

  "I understand your desire to retire, but a soldier is not what we need, and you should consider yourself lucky that we’re not here for that kind of call.”

  "Lucky? You want me to thank you...after everything…?” My father's voice quivers.

  "Lucky is not something many people are these days, Logrith. I think you’ll find that you should want to hear what we need because I’m trying hard to keep your luck going. I hope you understand my drift.”

  I lose the next line as I begin to turn over the meat, seasoning it and checking its temperature.

  "Quite a little thing you’ve managed to raise, all things considered,” the imperial remarks, and my thoughts shift from concern to confusion. What kind of person has the audacity to enter another man’s home and talk so flagrantly over things he knows nothing about? However, I'm uncomfortable considering that maybe I was incorrect in that assertion—my father and this imperial know each other well.

  "Speak of nothing but your duty,” my father spits out. "What is it you’re here for? Hurry, before I rake out that tongue of yours.”

  "Threats are only such if the threatened considers them serious. I know you’re not capable of following up on those words, because that would surely cause much disturbance for your space here, no?”

  I hate to imagine what my father’s face looks like to a retort like that.

  The imperial waits a moment longer. "Emperor Eugolius is requesting a sword from the finest swordsman he knows, and you should be so lucky to be that person.”

  "Surely there are better smiths in the Empire? And what do you need from me that he can’t get there?”

  In the background, a pan crackles and hisses with charred meat, its aroma mingling with the growing uncertainty in the room.

  "Ah, but you contain the special quality of knowing what kind of metals makes for an effective weapon—much more than any two-bit smith looking to work a rags to riches job, no?”

  "There’s none left.”

  The imperial's stern laugh breaks the silence, reverberating in the confined space. His crimson eyes remain fixed on my father. "You should know better than to lie,” the imperial says. "Of course, if that is true, surely there’d be charges of theft to be brought up—an investigation would have to be performed. All matters of prodding work I can bet won’t end well.”

  A question hangs heavy in the air, like a sword poising to strike. My father finally asks, "...What sword is our dear emperor looking to have made?”

  "The emperor desires a sword that would rend the heavens asunder. I’m sure you’ve felt the change in the air, Logrith. We’re on the precipice of a grand change–an upheaval, of sorts. The type of blade that fits his highness’ true power. And imagine—the smith that could forge such a blade would surely be praised.”

  "I yearn not for Areth’s praise.”

  "So be it,” the imperial responds, breaking the silence, and his tone hints at a veiled agreement. "Then the avoidance of his wrath should benefit you greatly.”

  "Will one of your men be sent to pick up the sword once it’s complete? He trusts that it will not be absconded in the interim?”

  The imperial laughs. "Of course not, you will be delivering it. I can’t have all my men exposed to these conditions and this rubble. I’m not too fond of it for the short time I am here.”

  "No, he can’t!” I’m stepping into the room before I can stop myself—and immediately I find both pairs of eyes setting solid on me.

  "Malachi, what are you doing? Return to your station.”

  "Well, the pup has decided to join us after all. Logrith, he’s what, nineteen now? Surely he has a voice in the matter now.” The imperial's attention shifts to me, and I feel the weight of the room's focus.

  "He is not to be involved in this situation.” My father's voice is firm, and he directs a deep stare at the imperial.

  The imperial ambassador ignores my father's protests and keeps questioning me. "I hail from Emperor Eugolius himself," he declares. "Why do you think this job shouldn't be done?"

  I swallow hard, gathering my courage. "Because my father can't make the journey. He has a limp and won't survive the trip off Khadein. There's no way he can deliver this sword!" My voice shakes, but I hold my ground.

  Silence falls over the room. The imperial studies me with a sharp, calculating gaze while my father shifts uncomfortably. His cane leans against the wall. It sparks understanding in the imperial.

  "I see. Well then, pup," he says, his tone taunting. "What will you do about that?"

  "He will do noth—" my father begins, but the imperial cuts him off.

  "Logrith, let him speak for himself."

  The room grows oppressive. Sweat beads on my forehead as I search for the words. "I'll go in his stead."

  "Malachi, no," my father snaps. "You're doing no such thing.” He turns to the imperial, “Vego, you've had your fun. I'll deliver the sword myself, and that's final."

  The tension thickens as Vego taps his fingers together, his smirk dripping with malice. "You see, here's the problem," he says with mock concern. "The emperor gave this task a one-month deadline, and half that time has already passed. The sword must be delivered by the thirty-third of Hauthe."

  My father's frustration boils over. "You left us with barely three weeks to meet your ridiculous demands?!"

  Vego shrugs, his hands resting on his hips. "Your poor choice to live so close to the gods' domain isn't my problem. You still have twenty days—plenty of time if you hurry. We made it here in twenty-two. You should thank us for not wasting more of your precious hours. Though I must say, this location is dreadful." He coughs without covering his mouth, then chuckles.

  "You only have yourself to blame for your tight timeline," he adds, sauntering into the kitchen. His eyes land on the storm-damaged ceiling, and he sneers. "Really, what a miserable place."

  My father's patience snaps. "You can't seriously expect—"

  Vego interrupts with a mocking grin. "Oh, we do." He reaches for the musker leg sizzling in the pan, his gloved hand stretching toward it.

  Anger surges in me, and I lunge, but my father blocks me with an outstretched arm. He doesn't turn to face me; his eyes remain locked on Vego. Though he doesn't speak, his silent warning stops me cold.

  "Don't push your luck," my father says, his voice low and firm.

  Vego smirks like a satisfied predator and strides out, slamming the door behind him. Less than a month to craft and deliver a sword across Aurelethian borders? The thought churns my stomach.

  My father stands frozen, staring at the door. His arm drops limply to his side, and he becomes a statue of contemplation.

  Finally, he breaks the silence. "That is a foolish thing to do, Mal."

  "I couldn't let you take the job," I retort, my voice trembling but defiant. "You would have died on the way down."

  "It isn't your place to speak for me," he says sharply.

  "I can't lose you."

  The rawness of my words makes his eyebrows twitch. His gaze flicks briefly to my mother's portrait on the windowsill. The sight twists my heart. "I want to save you," I continue. "I want to hear the stories you haven’t told me. If you go, they die with you. Mom dies with you."

  My father sighs, his resolve softening. "Grab my junk sword from the back," he orders. "You need to go and secure more food. Gather some Kasser shells while you're at it. We’ll need them for the hilt."

  "Father..." I whisper, the word weighed with emotion.

  "Do as I say," he commands, his voice trembling enough to betray his worry.

  My father enters his room and closes the door behind him. It’s been years since I’ve entered his bedroom. The stories have long since ended, but that doesn't end my fascination with them. Memories of sitting on his lap in his grand chair, listening to his tales of adventure, flash in my mind.

  Does that old chair still exist, or was it scrapped to make ends meet?

  The junk sword is a relic of long-forgotten battles. It rests in its corner. Its blade, once gleaming with the valor of its past, now appears tarnished and neglected. The pommel, heavy and unyielding, serves as an anchor.

  With each step I take while carrying the sword, it feels like a burden. The blade's weight digs into my shoulder. I ensure that the clasp securing the sword sheath is tightly fastened. The clinking of the junk sword against my back creates a dull rhythm that insists on its weight. I adjust the sword on my back.

  Time to hunt.

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