The sub-basements of Aethelgard were not built for the living. They were the roots of the floating city, a labyrinth of structural magic and cold stone that hissed with the pressure of holding a mountain in the sky.
Elian led the way, a sphere of solar light floating above his palm. The light cast long, dancing shadows against the damp walls. Vane walked a step behind him, hand on his obsidian dagger, his eyes scanning the darkness for traps. Lysander trailed in the rear, limping slightly, his face pale and beaded with sweat.
"How much further?" Elian asked, his voice echoing in the narrow corridor. "We've passed three containment seals already."
"The Trophy Vault is at the keel," Lysander whispered, hugging his chest. "My mother... Valeriana... she liked to keep her prizes close to the void. She said the cold preserved them better."
"Charming," Vane muttered. "She was a hoarder of death."
They reached the end of the corridor. It terminated in a circular door made of solid moon-silver, engraved with thousands of tiny, screaming faces. There was no handle. Only a basin carved into the floor in front of it, stained dark brown with layers of dried blood.
"Here," Lysander said, stopping a safe distance away. "The Vault of Silhouettes."
Elian stepped closer, the hum of his magic rising in warning. "It feels... hungry."
"It is," Lysander confirmed. "It's a Blood-Ward. Valeriana keyed it to her own lineage. She told me once that only those who shared her blood could enter without being flayed alive by the shadows."
Elian frowned. He looked at his own hand—the hand of the True Heir. "So I should be able to open it. She's my biological mother."
"Yes," Lysander said quietly. "But she raised me. She keyed the secondary wards to my signature as a backup. Just in case she needed me to fetch something."
Lysander stepped forward, pulling a small pen-knife from his pocket. He looked at the basin.
"Lysander," Elian said gently. "You don't have to do this. I can burn the door down."
"If you burn it, the fail-safes trigger," Lysander said, shaking his head. "The vault will collapse, and the Void-Steel will be lost in the Starless Sea. It has to be blood."
He took a breath, sliced his palm, and held his hand over the basin.
Fresh red blood dripped onto the stained stone.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the screaming faces on the door opened their silver mouths. A low, harmonious moan filled the hallway. The blood in the basin sizzled and vanished, absorbed by the stone.
The silver door groaned. The locking mechanism—a series of concentric rings—spun rapidly, clicking into place. With a heavy thud, the door swung inward.
A blast of freezing air rushed out, carrying the scent of ozone and formaldehyde.
"After you," Lysander exhaled, wrapping his bleeding hand in a handkerchief.
Elian stepped inside, expanding his light sphere to illuminate the room.
It was a museum of horrors.
Glass cases lined the walls, each one containing a magical artifact or a body part. There were wands snapped in half, skulls etched with runes, and jars containing glowing essences. In the center of the room, piled haphazardly like firewood, were stacks of black metal bars.
"Void-Steel," Vane breathed, walking past a jar containing a preserved eye that tracked his movement. He reached the pile and picked up one of the ingots.
It was heavy, absorbing the light from Elian's sphere so that it looked like Vane was holding a hole in reality.
"This is it," Vane confirmed. "Raw, unrefined Void-Steel. There's enough here to equip a squad, let alone forge a single sword."
"Great," Elian said, walking over to the pile. "So we take it, we go to the Royal Forge, and we make the Eclipse Blade."
Vane's expression didn't lighten. He turned the ingot over in his hand, his brow furrowed. He tapped it with his fingernail. It made no sound.
"Elian," Vane said slowly. "Do you know why Void-Steel is so rare?"
"Because it comes from the Isles?"
"Because it cannot be heated," Vane corrected. "If you put this in a normal fire—even your solar fire—it will dissipate. It sublimates into shadow. It doesn't melt."
Elian stared at him. "Then how do you forge it?"
"Cold forging," Vane said grimly. "You have to beat the shape into it using kinetic force and shadow-pressure. But raw Void-Steel is harder than diamond. A normal hammer would shatter on impact."
Vane looked around the room, his eyes scanning the shelves.
"We need a catalyst. Something dense enough to strike the Void without breaking."
"A hammer?" Lysander asked from the doorway. He pointed to a pedestal in the far corner, covered by a black velvet cloth. "She kept a weapon there. She said it was too heavy for her to lift."
Vane walked over to the pedestal. He pulled the cloth away.
Resting on the stand was a war-hammer. But it wasn't made of steel. It looked like it was carved from a single piece of iridescent, fossilized bone. The head of the hammer was massive, inscribed with runes that hurt Elian's eyes just to look at.
"By the Void," Vane whispered. "That's the Soul-Hammer."
"The what?" Elian asked.
"The Malleus Anima," Vane explained, hovering his hand over the weapon but not touching it. "It belonged to the First King of the Obsidian Isles. Legend says it was used to pound the tectonic plates of the Isles into place. It hits with the weight of a mountain."
"Perfect," Elian said, reaching for it. "We take it."
"Elian, wait!" Vane warned.
Too late. Elian grabbed the handle.
He expected it to be heavy. He didn't expect it to scream.
As soon as his skin touched the bone handle, a shockwave of psychic force blasted through the room. Elian cried out, falling to his knees, but his hand was stuck to the hammer.
WHO DARES WAKE THE WEIGHT?
The voice wasn't in the room; it was in his skull. It was deep, ancient, and angry.
"I am Elian Sol!" Elian shouted back in his mind, gritting his teeth against the pressure. "King of Aethelgard!"
A SUN CHILD? The voice laughed, a sound like grinding tectonic plates. THE SUN HAS NO AUTHORITY HERE. ONLY THE SHADOW CAN WIELD THE WEIGHT.
The hammer pulsed. A wave of gravity hit Elian, pinning him to the floor. The bones in his arm creaked.
"Let go!" Vane shouted. He lunged forward, grabbing Elian's wrist to pull him free.
But the gravity caught Vane too. He fell to his knees beside Elian, gasping as the air was crushed out of his lungs.
"It... it rejects the Light," Vane choked out. "Elian... you have to let go... it will crush your arm."
"I can't!" Elian yelled. "It's stuck!"
Lysander watched from the doorway, his eyes wide. He saw his brother—his King—and the Commander being crushed by the invisible force of the artifact.
"Only the Shadow can wield it," Vane wheezed. "It needs... a Shadow-Caster."
Vane managed to shift his grip. He moved his hand from Elian's wrist to the handle of the hammer, placing his fingers over Elian's.
"Together," Vane gritted out. "I will channel the Shadow. You feed the stamina."
Vane closed his eyes. The shadows in the corners of the vault leaped toward him. He poured his own magic into the hammer, recognizing the ancient signature of his homeland.
A WOLF, the voice in the hammer mused. A CHILD OF THE ISLES. AND A SUN KING.
The gravity intensified for a second—a test—and then vanished.
The hammer released Elian's hand.
Vane slumped forward, bracing himself on the pedestal, the hammer now resting quietly in his grip. It felt light as a feather to him.
"It accepts us," Vane breathed, sweat dripping from his nose. He lifted the Soul-Hammer. It hummed with a dark, resonant power.
"Great," Elian panted, rubbing his bruised arm. "We have the metal. We have the hammer. Now all we need is an anvil that won't break."
Vane looked at the Void-Steel ingots.
"There is only one place in the Palace that can withstand the force of this hammer," Vane said. "The crash site. The keel of the Nightshade."
Elian blinked. "My ship?"
"The mag-drive core is made of star-glass," Vane said, a wild grin returning to his face. "It's the hardest substance in the sky. We're going to turn the wreckage of your ship into a forge."