Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 68: The Rank of the Thousand Krags

Chapter 68: The Rank of the Thousand Krags

Then, he stepped forward.

With a slow, measured, almost ritual pace, he descended from his stone pedestal, each movement imbued with a gravity that compelled silence.

His cape slid behind him like a liquid shadow, and the air seemed to tighten around his silhouette, suspended on each of his gestures.

He did not need to speak, nor even raise his hand; his mere advance was enough to make the weight of his authority press down upon us.

His voice resounded, deep, vibrant, heavy with an almost supernatural gravity.

It seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth, as if it emerged from an ancient chasm, carved in molten rock and charged with the forgotten echoes of vanished worlds.

Each word vibrated in the air, embedding itself in the stone, in our flesh, imposing silence and attention without any violence being necessary.

It was a voice shaped to command, to be heard without ever being contested.

— O Lukaris. O Lysara. I, Xagros Thar’Zan-Kor Vel Drakenn, Lord of the Living Forge, Proprietor of the Unfinished Crowns, Voice of the Primordial Blaze, High Blacksmith of the Thousand Ashes, Obsidian Phoenix of Zagnaroth...

My throat tightened under the effect of raw emotion.

Each title he pronounced seemed to carry the weight of bygone centuries, of stories carved into blood and stone.

He was not merely a lord; he was an era unto himself, a living incarnation of the forces that had shaped this world.

His name and exploits were not merely recited: they resonated like ancient foundations upon which kingdoms and legends had been built.

In front of him, we were nothing more than fleeting passengers in the immense flow of his legacy.

— ... command you to raise your heads.

Then, slowly, I lifted my head.

And my eyes met his — two black, unfathomable wells, where glowing sparks danced, like ancient embers locked within a still-living forge.

It was not the gaze of an ordinary man, but of a being shaped by forces few could even imagine.

At my side, Lysara also raised her eyes, with the same apparent mastery.

Her face remained calm, almost impassive, but I perceived, faintly, the slight quickening of her breath.

A tenuous sign, almost imperceptible, but one that spoke volumes of the burning tension beneath her stone-like surface.

Time seemed suspended, frozen in an imperceptible breath.

Everything that was not this moment faded away, as if swept off by an invisible wind.

The people below were nothing more than a distant echo, a whisper lost in the immensity of the instant.

All that remained was that gaze, those dark and incandescent eyes, and the sharp sensation of this instant, engraved in the cold obsidian of fate, as indelible as a scar on the soul of the world.

A sacred silence settled, deep and heavy, like a leaden cloak falling over the scene.

Every sound, every breath seemed to dissolve in the thick air, swept away by the gravity of the moment.

It was not ordinary silence, but a void laden with meaning, where even the wind seemed hesitant to stir.

It was the silence of a shared truth, of a moment suspended between decision and destiny.

Then, Xagros spoke again.

His voice rose, a slow and ceremonial fire, each word he pronounced seeming to forge itself in the air, engraved with relentless slowness into the metal of fate.

Each syllable vibrated like a hammer blow on an anvil, each intonation weighing heavily in the sacred silence that surrounded us, as if the entire universe were listening, suspended on what would follow:

— Your feat — discovering and securing a forgotten mining cave containing two hundred and fifty-three tons of raw Malacite, makes you not only a conqueror but a pillar for this kingdom.

He paused, and the crowd below fell even quieter, as if silence itself bowed before the power of the moment.

Every gaze was fixed on him, every breath suspended, as if even the air, in a final act of submission, had stopped to listen.

It was a silence that no longer belonged to the crowd, but to the scene itself, a living, almost sacred silence, ready to swallow every word that was to follow.

— Through your magnanimity, you have offered eighty-five percent of the revenues to the royal treasury of Zagnaroth. A generosity without equal, an act that will mark history. The region owes you a debt... immense.

I felt my throat tighten further, not out of fear, but from a complex mix of humility and pride, a whirlwind of emotions that strangled me without making me back down.

It was a new sensation, unsettling but strangely invigorating.

I cast a quick glance at Lysara.

She did not look away from the lord, but a faint tremor in her lips, barely perceptible, confirmed to me that we shared the same thing.

This warmth, growing, that burned softly in our chest, a fire that neither the metal of our armor nor the steel of our discipline could smother.

Then, the Phoenix Lord slowly laid his hand on my shoulder.

The contact was heavy, charged with immutable authority, and his gesture seemed to resonate in the air like a warning, a promise.

His voice rose, deeper, more solemn still, each syllable seeming to sink into the ground like a hammer striking stone, engraving his words into the very foundations of the kingdom.

There was no room for hesitation, no space for forgetfulness.

His words were stones, destined to last far beyond this moment, to root themselves in the very fabric of fate.

— By my voice, by my blood, and by my forge, I grant you the name of Thalaris Von Eskarion. A noble name, ancient, forgotten by demons... but never by the flames.

He paused, his gaze becoming sharper, as if weighing the gravity of each word to come.

Then, with a voice charged with an almost sacred intensity, he pronounced the rest.

Each syllable seemed suspended in the air, floating like an ancient incantation, engraved in the depths of time.

It was as if his words were not only meant to be heard but to imprint their indelible mark on the soul of those who listened.

— And with this name, I raise the rank of Lukaris Thalaris Von Eskarion to that of Grand Varkh.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, subtle but powerful, like an invisible shockwave.

The title resonated, not merely in the air, but in the hearts and minds of those who heard it.

It carried a meaning far deeper than the words themselves, a weight that transcended mere syllables.

It was an imprint in history, a mark engraved in the soul of the kingdom.

Every person, every face seemed absorbed by the silent weight of these words, as if the title did not just designate a man, but an entire destiny.

— For in our kingdom, the Varkh is not just a currency. It is the unit of measure for what is rare, powerful, essential. One Varkh is worth a thousand Krags. But a Grand Varkh... is worth more than a thousand men.

— You are henceforth recognized as one of those whose value is not counted in coins, but in pillars. Your very existence enriches the capital. Your name will influence trade, treaties, decisions. You are a measure. A standard.

A vertigo seized me, brutal and sudden, as if the earth itself wavered beneath my feet.

This was not a mere title being offered to me.

It was far more than that.

It was an elevation, a transformation, an ascension to the rank of a living symbol.

My name was now becoming a reference, an echo in history, comparable to the Varkh itself.

I was no longer a man among others, but an entity measured on the scale of the most powerful currency of the continent, a weight in the balance of forces, a factor in the calculus of powers.

And this realization struck me like a hammer blow, relentless and irreversible.

The lord then resumed, his voice ringing out again in the air, filled with indisputable authority.

Each word seemed to weigh more than the last, engraved in the silence around him.

He spoke with calm assurance, as if his words had the power to shape destiny by their sole force.

And in that suspended moment, one could feel the weight of the universe itself concentrating on what was about to be said.

— A manor will be given to you in the capital of Zagnaroth. Not as a mere dwelling... But as a living counter of prestige, a place where the forge of power never sleeps.

I felt my heart beat harder, each pulse resonating in my chest like a heavy and inescapable drum.

It was not pride, not that naïve pride that accompanies ascension.

No, it was a new weight, silent, settling on my shoulders.

An invisible crown, but whose presence was as palpable as the heat of metal.

It did not shine, but it weighed, heavily, at every moment, as if fate itself had chosen me to bear it.

Lysara was staring at me, straight as an arrow, motionless in her black kimono-armor, a silhouette of iron in the darkness of her garment.

Her eyes met mine, and in that gaze — usually unfathomable, of an almost mechanical coldness — something rare shone.

It was neither pride nor admiration, but a deep recognition.

Not toward the lord, nor toward the nobility surrounding us.

No, it was toward the path she had walked, the one she had forged with her own hands.

She, who had been no more than a slave barely seven months ago.

A body without a name, without rights, without a voice.

Today, she stood here, on an imperial balcony, dressed in a kimono forged in the flames of Zagnaroth, made up like a noble, looked upon not as an inferior, but as an equal.

Her silence was not empty — it was full of meaning, heavy with the weight of her own accomplishment.

She now had a name, a family name, her own.

Thalaris Von Eskarion.

And perhaps, for her, that was worth more than all the titles, more than all the Krags in the world.

Because that name, that identity, was her freedom, her legacy, her true victory.

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