Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 59: Xagros, the Mythical Forger

Chapter 59: Xagros, the Mythical Forger

A blast of invisible magma struck me head-on.

My knees hit the ground, heavily.

To my right, Lysara also fell, harder. She didn’t move, her shoulders tense, her face contorted. Her body was trembling.

I felt her breathing shorten.

I looked up. The most dangerous moment was here.

The hard moment... I thought.

I forced my breath, kept my head down.

— Could you please have everyone leave this room... everyone you don’t trust completely.

His gaze changed. Unyielding. Curious.

He scrutinized me. At length.

Then, in an authoritative, almost lazy murmur:

— Everyone out.

The four powerful figures, the guards, even the mages at the back of the hall... They all obeyed without question.

A single word, and the room was empty.

Silence became total. And the lava above us resumed its soft song.

He looked at me again.

— I’m listening, little vampire.

I forced my muscles. Slowly, I lifted my head. My breathing was still short, but my will held firm.

— You’re coming back from a meeting with the other Lords, aren’t you?

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

— That’s right. And?

— It’s probably related to the twelve chosen of the gods... and the mini-worlds.

The change was immediate.

His aura cut off completely, like someone had just switched off the sun with a wave of the hand.

He looked at me, for the first time, with surprise.

— You’re not supposed to know that... unless...

— That’s right, I said.

My voice was lower, firmer. My gaze locked onto his, unflinching.

— I am the Thirteenth.

Silence.

He, the Lord of the Furnace, was staring at me. And I felt that, for the first time, he no longer saw me as a madman, an extravagant buyer, or a slightly tough insect.

He saw me.

I didn’t smile. My tone remained calm. But every word I spoke was an oath.

— Give me a few years... and I will make you the Sovereign of the demonic continent.

A beat.

Then he burst out.

A laugh. A brutal, enormous, volcanic laugh.

He leaned forward, his hand gripping the armrest of his throne.

An uncontrollable, fierce outburst, echoing off the walls of the forge.

— Ahahahahah!

— You’ve got guts, vampire. I like you. Really.

He straightened up, his gaze even more intense than before, but this time, filled with amusement, curiosity... and a hint of respect.

— What’s your name?

I stared straight into his eyes.

— Anthony, my Lord. But here... I go by Lukaris.

— Then, Lukaris... he said, slowly sitting back on his throne, it’s a deal.

I watched him, attentive, ready for the next move.

— I’ll offer you ten percent.

I didn’t answer right away.

My gaze stayed on his, a bit harder, more anchored.

— Thirty, I said calmly.

He growled.

A guttural, ancient, almost animal rumble.

— Fifteen... and I’ll forge you an artifact myself.

I paused for a moment, seemingly reflecting.

But deep down, my decision was already made.

I knew nothing of the subtleties of haggling among the powerful, but the guild had sent me a rough estimate: twenty percent commission was a good deal in a "normal" world.

But this wasn’t a normal world. And this wasn’t a normal man.

Xagros’s knowledge, his forges, his access to materials, his creative power... were well worth the five percent loss.

— It’s a deal, I said, inclining my head slightly.

I straightened up. Stepped forward. My gaze steady, dignified, anchored in the reality of the moment.

Then I held out my hand.

He took it.

His palm was enormous, rough, burning like a forge, and his strength was such that my hand cracked softly in his.

Without even forcing.

Just his nature.

But I didn’t flinch.

Because it was settled.

Because that handshake, in the silence of the dome, was more than an agreement.

It was a promise.

And in his red eyes, he knew it.

I stepped back, my hand still warm from his.

— I promise to do my best.

He burst into a brief, resonant laugh, almost sincere.

— I hope so, vampire. I like you.

His tone changed. Deeper. Slower.

— Do your best... I won’t tell anyone your secret. But if, in a few years, I judge that you’re not worth it...

He leaned forward, his incandescent eyes locked onto mine.

— Then I will come kill you myself.

His voice didn’t waver. He wasn’t bluffing.

I held his gaze.

— I understand, my Lord.

He nodded.

Then his voice thundered in the Dome.

— YAKTOR!

A burning breath passed over my neck.

I turned around.

The one who had unleashed his aura on me earlier was already there, in front of the throne.

Yaktor.

Always upright. Always heavy with power. But this time, he remained silent.

— Redeem your offense, Xagros said without even looking at him. Go with an elite group. Find the cave. And bring me back what’s left.

Yaktor bowed slowly, fist to chest.

I took a breath and launched into it.

I described in detail the path taken from the mountains: the twisted forests, the volcanic cliffs, the rocky ridges, the breath of ashen wind, the markers I had left...

Then I spoke of the creature. Its flight. Its size. Its nest, perched on a forgotten peak, carved into a molten mountain. And the cavern, filled with Malacite.

And the egg, too.

I left nothing out.

Not to impress them. But because every detail mattered.

Xagros didn’t interrupt me.

He listened.

Like a blacksmith engraving a blueprint in his mind.

And I knew that now, the hunt would begin. Not against me. Not yet. But against what I had left behind.

Xagros didn’t even turn his head toward him. His voice snapped, deep, commanding:

— You heard. Go. Now. And since it’s probably a Sky-Burner, take Gareth with you, in addition to the elite group.

Yaktor didn’t answer. He listened.

— I authorize you to draw from the Reserve, take the necessary magical containers for transport. You have two months. Not one more.

— Yes, my Lord.

Without waiting, Yaktor stepped back, bowed briefly, then disappeared.

No more words. No glance for me.

Just a heavy presence fading like a blade into the shadows.

But I knew he had heard every word. And that out there, in the secondary forges, preparations were already beginning.

— Back to you, vampire. Follow me.

His voice was calm, almost weary. But no doubt was allowed in his tone. It was an order, not an invitation.

I followed him, Lysara right behind me, still silent.

With every corridor crossed, every platform passed, the guards prostrated themselves. No words. No requests. As soon as they saw his silhouette, they knelt as if their spine gave way on its own. Some bowed their heads to the ground. Others froze mid-movement, as if frozen in time.

He didn’t need to speak. His mere presence was enough.

We descended slowly, crossing an older section of the complex. The walls became rougher, darker. Forgotten runes appeared, carved into the stones themselves, still breathing ancient heat. The stairs grew narrower, the doors thicker. A heavy metallic smell floated in the air, mixed with volcanic dust and weapon oil.

Finally, he stopped in front of a hand-carved obsidian door, without a handle, marked with the seal: an inverted phoenix.

He placed his hand on it. The stone opened with a sigh.

We entered.

Xagros’s Personal Forge.

A sanctuary. A vast, round room, as if carved from the heart of a volcano.

The ceiling was so high it disappeared into a haze of heat and ash.

The floor was a single slab of black rock, streaked with channeled lava streams, slowly snaking like incandescent veins.

Around, dozens of metal workbenches. Some were cold, still. Others... still warm, as if they had been used an hour earlier. Each workbench had a precise function, I could feel it.

At the back, Xagros’s personal anvil sat enthroned, made of a block of reinforced star-stone, set at the center of a rune circle that pulsed gently, alive. Next to it, a massive hammer, pure black, rested suspended in the air by magic, without stand or chain.

The walls were covered with racks of unfinished weapons, heavy chests sealed by unstable seals, sketches engraved directly into the metal, and fragments of broken artifacts whose aura had never dissipated.

In the center of the room, a pit of pure lava glowed slowly, contained by a pulsating magical field, circular, slightly unstable. The smell there was strange—not just fire, but dried blood, the world, memory.

I said nothing. Even Lysara, usually so stoic, looked around with palpable attention.

This place... it wasn’t a forge. It was a temple of creation.

Xagros stepped up to the anvil, placed both hands on the edge, and glanced at me over his shoulder.

— This is where I shape what others don’t even dare to dream of. And this is where... I will forge for you.

Xagros had turned to me, arms crossed in front of his forge, his fiery eyes fixed on me like two molten steel cores.

— So, what do you want, vampire?

I took a brief breath.

— I would like armor... please.

A silence followed.

— Not for me. For her.

At my side, Lysara turned her head toward me, startled. Her eyes widened slightly. She didn’t understand.

I didn’t look at her right away.

— She’s like my daughter now. And she will follow me, in what I’m preparing. In what I’m going to unleash. I need solid allies, living ones. Beings I can trust completely.

I finally turned my head toward her. She stared at me, silent. Shaken. Not by the request, but by its meaning.

Xagros observed for a moment.

Then, placing his hands on the anvil:

— I understand. You, he said, looking at Lysara, show me your Shapeshifter skills.

As I suspected, he could see through the disguise somehow, just like the guild master.

She hesitated. She looked at me, almost as if asking for permission.

I nodded slowly.

— Go ahead. You can show him everything.

She nodded. Stepped back slightly. And, in the warm glow of the forge, transformed.

Her skin became denser, then translucent. Limbs extended, folded back. She hardened areas, thickened them, contracted them. Extensions of her body were born, moved, acting under her direct will. Her arms briefly covered in carapaces, supple spikes, before returning to their normal state. Her face never changed. But her entire body expressed adaptability, tactics, mutation.

Xagros watched without a word.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

— A vampire... and a shapeshifter, huh?

A brief smile crossed his fire-cracked lips.

— Very well. I will craft the best armor you could hope for this young girl.

I bowed slightly, sincerely.

— Thank you, my Lord.

He turned around, grabbed a tool from a shelf at the workbench, and said without turning back:

— Come back tomorrow night. It will be ready.

— May the heat warm your heart, I said with a small head nod.

Xagros froze for half a second.

— What are you talking about? he said, raising a glowing eyebrow.

I shrugged.

— I don’t know. I was trying a cool phrase. Like... fitting the moment.

He stared at me for a moment, then a deep chuckle escaped his throat.

I laughed too. A real laugh. No tension. No restraint.

For a moment, we were not a Lord of Fire and a vampire enemy of the gods themselves. Just two survivors, two builders, who had met at the crossroads of a world ready to burn.

Then, in a suddenly more formal tone, he straightened up and shouted:

— NORDA!

A red light pulsed in one of the wall runes, and a female figure appeared, stepping quickly through the threshold.

She was a demoness with dark skin streaked with glowing lines, her hair tied in a high ponytail, dressed in a flexible armor robe adorned with the Furnace’s seal.

She immediately knelt, fist to the ground.

— My Lord?

— Escort them. You will take them to Olfred. Tell him to serve them during their stay in Zagnaroth. Full access.

— I understand, Lord.

She raised her head, her gaze sliding to me, then to Lysara.

No judgment. No fear.

Just precision.