Things seemed to be going smoothly for Kallen, and somehow, the fact that he had killed Nestor had turned out to be the perfect catalyst for everything that followed.
Nestor’s death loosened the grip Menelaus had over the underground—or more specifically, over their minds. It allowed the shadows in their hearts to fester, giving Kallen room to slide into their thoughts unnoticed.
Menelaus’s presence became fleeting—as he managed the showroom of sorts on the surface, he now returned only at dusk, leaving Kallen the rest of the day to do whatever he pleased.
It shortened his training time, yes, but it accelerated the speed of his plans.
Kallen raised an eyebrow, then stood and opened the door.
A girl, maybe fifteen, stood there with a tray, and an assortment of scraps that could only be described as leftovers. She had pale green skin and a nervous posture, eyes darting like she was both here willingly and desperately trying to flee.
"Thanks," Kallen said, smiling faintly, taking the tray. He was about to close the door when he noticed she hadn’t moved.
She just stood there, hesitant and uncertain, as if caught between her feet and her thoughts.
He raised a brow again.
Of course, this wasn’t their first interaction. Since that first day, Kallen had been slowly planting thoughts into her head—gentle nudges, small suggestions—and watching her reactions. Studying and shaping her.
"You want to come in?" he asked, lips curling slightly.
Her pale green cheeks flushed deep crimson, spreading down her neck like spilled wine.
"Let’s stay out then," he offered, stepping outside and plopping down to the ground with all the elegance of someone who simply didn’t care.
She followed, sitting beside him in silence, her tray forgotten between them.
Kallen began to eat, slowly, calmly. After two bites, he glanced up and arched a brow, clearly asking without words: Are you going to talk or not?
Then, suddenly, stood. "I’ll go get you food," she blurted and darted away like a startled animal.
Kallen watched her go, shrugged, and returned to eating. This wasn’t new. In fact, they’d had more half-aborted visits. She had a habit of acting like she wanted something, then running off like she remembered something urgent.
Which is why he was surprised when she returned barely a minute later—with a tray of what Kallen could only describe as luxury compared to the slop he’d been fed since arriving here.
He eyed the food, then her.
She looked almost proud. Nervous still, but standing straighter.
Kallen accepted the tray without question and began eating with more enthusiasm this time. She beamed and sat down beside him again, more confidently.
A quiet comfort settled between them, interrupted only by the occasional sound of cutlery clinking against the dish.
When he finished, he looked at her.
"Thank you," he said. He felt better already—stronger. The food was rich in nutrients, and his body, ever-efficient due to his regeneration trait, was already processing it rapidly, pushing energy where it was most needed. His thinning frame felt warmer, more alive.
She nodded, still glowing with satisfaction.
"Yula!" Aeneas’s voice rang out from a nearby room, startling her.
She sprang up like a frightened kitten.
"Sorry," she mumbled to Kallen, barely audible, before scurrying off.
"You’re not really the girl you are," Kallen said with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.
For the briefest second—just a split second—she froze.
Then continued ahead, as though nothing had been said.
Kallen’s eyes followed her, the amusement in them deepening into something else.
The forge echoed with the rhythmic pounding of a hammer striking metal— oddly meditative for this late into the night.
Kallen stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the glow of the furnace. A lone silhouette worked near the anvil, framed by flickering embers. The fire cast moving shadows across the walls, as if the forge itself were alive, breathing and pulsing with heat.
The silhouette turned slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Democles raised his head, eyes narrowing when they met Kallen’s figure stepping casually into the light. The boy made no attempt to conceal himself—there was little darkness to hide in anyway. The furnace lit almost every inch of the forge, bathing it in a dance of gold and deep orange.
Democles’s expression soured, but he said nothing. A moment passed, then he exhaled sharply and returned to his work.
Kallen leaned silently against the wall, saying nothing either. His gaze, however, was fixed squarely on the orc’s every movement.
Minutes dragged on, filled only with the sharp clang of hammer on steel.
The silence between them grew dense, until at last Democles muttered, "What do you want?"
Kallen raised a brow, and answered innocently. "Nothing."
Democles scowled but said no more.
He went back to pounding the glowing metal, while Kallen kept watching, eyes intense.
His pupils followed every motion, every twist of muscle, every shift in grip, every strike of the hammer. The way the metal bent and yielded beneath the precise force, how it compacted, folded, strengthened.
With a final strike, Democles put down his hammer, and let out a turbid breath.
He lifted the glowing metal and plunged it into an oil bath. The reaction was instant—viscous bubbles erupted, the steel hissed violently, and smoke curled into the air like wraiths escaping the blade.
The forge’s temperature rose noticeably, the heat pressing against skin like a living presence—but neither Kallen nor Democles reacted to it.
After it cooled Democles began the tempering.
He heated the metal back up, and plunged it back to the oil again. Repeating the process; heat—cool, heat—cool, over and over, until the blade had been toughened to his satisfaction.
Each pass refined it further, like a ritual of patience and precision.
After the tempering, he moved to a dynamis infused, precise belt sander, where he grinded the metal into shape, and sharpened it till it’s edges gleamed.
Then, without ceremony, he wiped the metal down, revealing the obsidian sheen of a polished black greatsword, glimmering faintly beneath the forge’s glow.