Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 69: The Entry into Legend

Chapter 69: The Entry into Legend

— Take this emblem, he continued, symbol of the breadth of your wealth... and the weight of your name.

His voice had grown deeper, weighing each syllable like a blacksmith hammering molten metal.

A maid stepped forward, carrying in her hands an ornate chest, of a beauty almost indecent in its magnificence.

Every step she took seemed to amplify the glitter of the stones, casting fleeting flashes on the walls like glimmers from another world.

It exuded excess, every detail of its surface adorned with rare stones, ancient engravings that seemed to whisper lost secrets, and alchemical locks that glowed with a mysterious, almost supernatural light.

A diffuse tension seeped onto the balcony, a nervous expectation barely lifting the veils of silence.

Even the torches seemed to waver with hesitation, casting nervous shadows that twisted along the ancient walls.

When she opened it, the air around us seemed to pause for a moment, as if time itself hesitated to continue its course.

Inside the chest lay an object of deceptive simplicity, yet of incalculable importance... a ring.

Its metal, cold and dark, captured the ambient light, sending it back in a silent dance of strange reflections.

It seemed so small, so insignificant at first glance, and yet, everything in its shimmer whispered of ancient powers, ready to be unleashed.

It was unlike anything I had ever seen.

It seemed made of all the metals known to this world — Noctifer, Malacite, Abyssium, Brascroc, Shadowiron — but none stayed in place, none fully stabilized.

The material rippled slowly, as if the metal itself hesitated, undecided, in choosing its final form.

At times, it was translucent, like flame frozen in a suspended moment; then, it turned black, as deep and unfathomable as a shard of Void fallen from the sky.

Its surface was constantly changing, alternating between dazzling brilliance and impenetrable dullness, between liquid smoothness and mineral roughness.

It emitted no tangible heat, but a palpable tension, a silent presence that rose within me like an invisible authority.

As I approached, I had the strange sensation that it was watching me, scrutinizing my soul in the deepest silence, perhaps wondering if I was worthy to touch it, worthy to understand its weight.

It resembled Xagros’s crown itself.

Not in form, no, but in the very essence that emanated from it.

Unstable, shifting, like an entity in perpetual evolution, incapable of conforming to a single reality.

Incomprehensible, eluding all attempts at analysis or logic, as if it belonged to a dimension that the human mind could not grasp.

Its mere gleam was enough to disturb my thoughts, as if, by looking at it too long, I risked losing a part of myself.

Irrefutable, its power was a silent truth, imposed without discussion, as indisputable as the force of fate itself.

As I gazed at it, I understood that this ring was not simply an object; it was an incarnation of chaos and order, a perfect duality, a symbol of Xagros’s absolute power.

I extended my hand, a slight shiver running across my skin, hesitating for a moment, as if something deep within me knew that this gesture would mark a turning point.

Then, with no possible return, I took the ring.

At the instant my fingers closed around the shifting material, a discreet pulsation, almost imperceptible, coursed through my palm.

It was neither pain nor rejection — just a strange sensation of connection, a mute recognition, as if the ring accepted me, or at least, was testing me.

The metal, at first elusive, stabilized for a moment, just long enough to take the shape of a perfect circle, a fleeting perfection, before slowly resuming its undulating motion, like a calm sea in movement, hypnotic, elusive.

A dull beat resounded in my temples, a silent question: had I truly understood what I had just bound myself to?

I turned slowly toward the lord.

Xagros watched me in silence, immobile, his hands clasped behind his back with imperious majesty.

His gaze, piercing and unfathomable, seemed to pierce my entire soul, like that of a sovereign patiently contemplating the ardor and power of an eternal forge upon which the destinies of the world are shaped.

— You now bear the ring of flux. An ancient symbol that only a few chosen before you have earned. It symbolizes neither your past... nor even your victories. It symbolizes what you are still becoming.

I bowed slightly, in a posture that mixed respect and humility, without bowing my back.

I made sure to remain upright, standing before him, conscious of my own worth while fully recognizing his authority.

My gesture reflected a subtle balance between deference and dignity.

— I will honor it, Lord of the Forge. By my name. By my deeds. By my promises. By those I will protect.

An imperceptible gleam passed through Xagros’s eyes, fleeting, like a flash in a dark night.

Perhaps it was merely a reflection of the flickering flames dancing around us, or perhaps something more.

A gleam that betrayed neither surprise nor anger, but a form of silent acknowledgment, as if an invisible thread had just been woven between him and me.

He did not need to speak for that subtle alchemy to be felt, that shift in balance in the air.

That gaze, fleeting as it was, seemed charged with a meaning that only the initiated could understand.

— You have been warrior. Wanderer. Savior. Today, you are measure. A marker. A scale. A living Varkh.

He approached slowly, his steps echoing heavily on the stone.

Then, with calculated slowness, he placed a hand on my shoulder.

The pressure of his gesture was heavy, almost paternal, but something in that apparent tenderness bore a silent authority, like a burden to bear or an imperious promise.

His hand, warm and solid, seemed to contain all the power of the man he was, a power that was not expressed through words, but through the implacable certainty of his touch.

— But remember: the hotter the forge, the more the metal can break. Nobility is not a summit. It is a continuous trial. And in Zagnaroth, nothing is eternal.

I nodded slowly, the words resonating in my mind, seared in like red-hot iron, as indelible marks.

Each syllable seemed to etch itself into my consciousness with icy clarity, refusing to be forgotten, imposing their weight as a truth I could not ignore.

There was no room for doubt.

Those words had become a part of me, inscribed deep within my being, ready to influence every action to come.

In that suspended moment, I felt as if I were at the crossroads of worlds, a tenuous fracture between the man I was and the one I was becoming.

— Then I will stand! I replied in a firm voice.

Turning slowly toward the crowd, a shiver of intensity running through my veins, I took Lysara’s hand in mine.

Her gaze met mine, shining with fierce confidence, and in that suspended second, our destinies seemed to merge into a single flame.

With a determined gesture, I raised it high into the air, a sign of defiance, of power, an act of affirmation.

And in a cry that tore through the suspended silence around us, I shouted:

— For those who never could raise their heads! For Xagros! For Zagnaroth! For Thalaris Von Eskarion!

In front of me, the crowd exploded in a unanimous roar, a surge of acclamations that seemed to engulf the air itself.

The cries rose, vibrant, almost deafening, like a raging wave ready to sweep everything away.

The generals, implacable in their discipline, bowed their heads in a sign of respect, their gazes filled with silent admiration.

Among them, some exchanged furtive glances, already aware that this day would mark a point of no return in the kingdom’s annals.

This was no mere tribute; it was the recognition of a new power, of a force they could not ignore.

And Lysara, still at my side, her gaze fixed on the ring she wore — a simple band of raw obsidian, with a rough surface, adorned with the emblem of our house, a symbol that had been entrusted to her.

Yet, in her eyes, it seemed to radiate with a far more intense light, as if that modest piece of metal held within it an infinite strength.

It was more than a simple adornment; it was a bond, a promise, a reflection of all she had accomplished.

In her gaze, the ring was not just an object, but the mirror of her transformation, of her ascension.

The ring became, at that precise moment, the silent seal of a vow greater than us, a raw gleam of our struggle toward the light.

Xagros stepped back a pace, his gaze lifting briefly toward the horizon.

With a fluid motion of his arm, he pointed to the sky, a gesture as simple as it was imposing, as if he were commanding the universe itself to bend to his will.

The magnitude of that gesture, discreet as it was, seemed to sweep the entire air along with it, plunging the scene into a greater dimension, as if the sky itself became the terrain of his intentions.

It seemed as though the stars themselves had frozen, suspended on that mute injunction, ready to inscribe our names in their eternal course.

— Thalaris Von Eskarion. Grand Varkh of the kingdom. Go. Enter history.

And we entered, not simply into a place, but into legend itself.

Every step we took seemed to resonate through the ages, engraving our names into the very fabric of fate.

The moment was suspended, as if the universe held its breath, waiting for us to fulfill what had been written for centuries.

It was not a simple entrance; it was the foundational act of a story that would twist, reshape, and carry us into a new future, a future we would mark forever.

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