Leopold’s breath came harsh and ragged, but before he could storm away, he caught movement at the edge of his vision. He turned sharply and noted that Prince Reneal stood at the far end of the hall, stiff and uncertain, clearly having witnessed the tail end of their conversation.
Leopold let out a snarl and closed the distance in heavy, purposeful strides. His armor rattled like a storm rolling in, and Reneal instinctively flinched, stumbling back a step.
“You were listening,” Leopold stated, gripping the boy’s shoulders. His fingers were firm, desperate, as he stared into the prince’s wide, nervous eyes. “When you ascend the throne, seek justice for Lord Alaric and his family. Swear it.”
Reneal opened his mouth, but no words came—just a hesitant stammer, his confidence crumbling under the man’s intense gaze. He swallowed hard, looking away, shame and doubt warring in his expression.
Leopold’s heart sank. His grip loosened, and he exhaled sharply. “Damn it all…” he muttered, stepping away, his frustration palpable. Without another word, he turned and strode off, his fists clenched at his sides.
As he moved to exit the corridor, he passed a silver-haired woman dressed in a fine yet unassuming gown. She was walking with a slow and poised elegance, but something about her presence nagged at him. He slowed, glanced over his shoulder and called out, “My Lady… have we met before?”
The woman—Sophia—paused, tilting her head in apparent confusion. “I don’t believe so, sir.”
Leopold studied her a moment longer, then shook his head, dismissing the thought before continuing down the hall.
Daisuke, still in disguise, watched him go before turning his attention to the prince.
Reneal stood there, shoulders hunched, his gaze downcast, the weight of his own inadequacy pressing upon him. When he finally noticed Sophia, his expression flickered between admiration and chagrin. He cleared his throat and straightened, forcing a nervous smile.
“Lady Sophia,” he greeted awkwardly.
Daisuke arched a brow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “You look like a man who’s just had his spine removed, Your Highness.”
Reneal winced. “…It’s been a difficult morning.”
Daisuke chuckled. “I imagine so,” he said, his butterscotch eyes narrowing.
He watched as the boy wrestled with his thoughts. The prince had a long way to go before he could ever be the king his people needed. But perhaps, with time… he might grow into it. For now, though, perhaps it was best to give him a little nudge in the right direction.
“Reneal,” Daisuke began.
“Yes? What is—”
The moment he lifted his head, Daisuke flicked his finger against his forehead, the sharp motion sending his head snapping back.
“Ow, that hurt! S-Sophia!” Reneal stammered, clutching the steaming bump. “What are you—”
Daisuke took a step forward, closing the distance between them. And whatever protest had been forming in his throat died as his breath caught, his face flushing.
“While you indulge in fleeting pleasures and seek the warmth of a family you were mostly denied,” Daisuke said, his tone stern but kind. “Lumielle remains grounded in reality, facing the burdens you refuse to acknowledge.
She, too, is alone. She, too, is afraid. Yet she endures—not just for herself, but for the sake of her people, for the future, for you and those you have come to cherish. And still, you run.”
Reneal’s throat tightened, guilt flickering in his expression, but Daisuke pressed on unwaveringly.
“Fear exists within us all. It is neither weakness nor shame, but if you allow it to rule you, it will define you. If you despise the way things are, then change them. This land is your home, your sanctuary—a place that should belong to you and those you love. Do not let anyone take that from you.”
With that, Daisuke turned and walked away, leaving Reneal standing in the quiet, the words lingering in the air like the last gust of a passing storm.
The prince’s gaze followed her retreating form, and as she disappeared from sight, a quiet, determined gleam entered his eyes.
***
Daisuke stepped into the workshop and the heat hit him like a solid wall. The air shimmered with waves of warmth, carrying the scent of molten metal, scorched leather, and a faint trace of something sharper—perhaps the lingering essence of magic entwined with the forge’s breath.
The bellows groaned, feeding the hungry fire that blazed in the stone hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced along the soot-stained walls.
At the heart of it all stood Tiphanna.
She was a vision—skin kissed by firelight, slick with sweat that traced shimmering trails down the elegant curve of her neck, her collarbones, the taut muscles of her arms.
Stray strands of pistachio green hair clung to her flushed cheeks, but she paid them no mind. Her world, in that moment, was the forge—so much so that she didn’t even acknowledge Daisuke’s presence.
He understood instinctively—she was beyond him now, lost to a realm where metal sang and fire whispered its secrets. The rhythmic clang of her hammer against the anvil was a heartbeat, steady and unwavering. It was not a craft she practiced; it was a communion.
Daisuke leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching in silent reverence.
On the worktable before her lay the twin fangs of Volturax, their blackened edges still crackling with residual lightning, and the Molten Heart Core harvested from the homunculus, pulsing faintly with inner fire.
Tiphanna lifted the rare materials with practiced hands, placing them into the crucible. The forge roared as the core and fangs slowly liquefied, the once-impervious keratin giving way to liquid fire.
Tiphanna moved with an effortless grace, her fingers tracing a small sigil in the air. The runes flared for an instant before the molten substance obeyed, pouring into twin dagger molds with a controlled flow.
Resting one of the blades onto her anvil, Tiphanna seized her hammer and, with a forceful strike, began shaping the glowing substance. Sparks burst forth as she forged the metal, folding and reforging it again and again, ensuring the fusion of elements remained intact.
With each hammer strike, she muttered an incantation, ancient words interwoven with intent. The metal responded, its composition shifting, solidifying into something stronger than either of its progenitors.
The dagger began to take shape—a weapon born through fire and force. Then she seized a pair of tongs, lifting the red-hot blade and plunging it into an oil bath. A violent hiss filled the workshop, steam curling around her like a serpent as the metal was rapidly cooled, hardening under the sudden quench.
She wasn’t done.
Retrieving the blade, she placed it into the hearth once more, reheating it just enough before setting it aside to cool naturally. The tempering process ensured it wouldn’t be brittle—hardened yet flexible, the perfect balance of resilience and sharpness.
After servicing the other dagger, next came the hilts.
The chimera scales shimmered in her hands, shifting between hues of deep green and midnight blue. With a murmured incantation, the scales wove together, forming grips that were neither metal nor leather but something entirely unique, seamlessly merging with the tangs of the daggers.
Then, the venom infusion.
The Crystalized Poison Sac from the Fossorial Ekimmu gleamed like fractured emerald, its venomous essence trapped within. Beside it, the Armored Arachnid’s Venomcore Gland pulsed faintly, an eerie reminder that even in death, the creature’s lethal potency endured.
Tiphanna lifted the sac first, crushing it between her fingers. A fine, shimmering powder cascaded into a waiting basin. The Venomcore Gland followed, its liquid toxin dripping into the mixture, swirling into a dangerous concoction.
She took a dagger, dipped the blade into the venomous blend, and pressed the flat of the weapon against a specially engraved anvil. Murmuring a blacksmith-tailored incantation, she activated the sigil beneath it.
The magic surged upward, fusing the toxins into the very core of the metal—not merely coating it, but making it a fundamental part of the blade’s structure.
The second dagger underwent the same ritual.
Then came the enchantments.
Tiphanna stepped back, raising her hands over the twin weapons. The runic circle carved into the floor beneath the anvil ignited. Symbols flared to life, arcs of energy weaving through the air as the enchantments embedded themselves into the steel in fiery sparks.
Strength, lethality, precision, and more—it was all inscribed into the daggers, a whispered promise of death to those who stood against their wielder.
Finally, the culminating flourish. She called upon a blacksmith’s artistry, carefully embedding streaks of molten orange and bright green into the metal, the colors bleeding like veins of fire and lightning running along the length of the blades. They pulsed with life, as if the weapons themselves now breathed.
With the last stroke complete, Tiphanna moved on to sharpening and polishing the newly forged weapons. Then she took a steadying breath. The workshop fell silent save for the faint crackling of dying embers.
She lifted the daggers, their weight balanced to perfection, and turned toward Daisuke for the first time.
He stepped forward like a man about to be knighted, eyes locked on the weapons. The moment he grasped the hilts, a shock of sensation coursed through him.
Not pain, not magic—something deeper. Recognition. The weapons responded, resonating with him as though they had always been meant to be his.
Daisuke inhaled, running his thumb along the blade’s edge, feeling the promise of power woven into the steel.
Tiphanna wiped her brow, her breath still steady despite the intensity of her work. “They’re yours now,” she said simply.
Daisuke didn’t reply immediately. His fingers curled around the hilts, the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips.
“They always were,” he murmured.