At the break of dawn, Kallen and the other orcs trotted into the forge—clean, refreshed, and ready for another day of sweat and steel.
Kallen moved straight to his station by the furnace, where he began the steady rhythm of receiving ores, melting them down, and purifying their essence for the forge.
None of them knew—not yet—that he had already succeeded in forging something. It wasn’t that he was trying to keep it a secret; he simply hadn’t had another chance to replicate the process. And truthfully, a part of him preferred it this way.
No praise. No noise. No eyes watching too closely.
He wasn’t eager to share that he had crafted an actual piece of equipment—his first true success. It wasn’t that it meant nothing... no, it did.
If they found out, their belief in him would soar. They’d start calling him talented, perhaps even gifted. But to Kallen, that wouldn’t change a thing.
He wasn’t here to earn praise or rise through the ranks... Not entirely, that was only a means to an end.
Everything was temporary.
This phase, this forge, this life—it would all be over soon. Wrapped up neatly. Closed. Finished.
And when that happened, he would walk away... freely.
In fact, revealing that he had successfully forged something would only stir the embers of jealousy and resentment already smoldering beneath the surface.
Most definitely, there would be some, that still resented or looked down on him for his specie. He had also just appeared, like a spark from nowhere, and somehow risen to a place of quiet authority. A symbol. A figure they looked to—some with admiration, others with veiled hostility.
Not everyone appreciated him.
And success, especially quiet and personal success, would only widen that divide.
But worse still, it would reignite the suspicions in the minds of those who still doubted him. Even the ones who had started to let their guard down—who had begun to believe in him—might begin to question again. Recalculate.
Let them believe he was average. Let them think he was still struggling.
That illusion was his shield.
And until the right moment came, he would wear it well.
The door to the forge burst open with a deafening bang, jarring everyone out of their tasks. Sparks of molten metal clattered as tools slipped from startled hands. All heads turned.
Menelaus stood in the doorway, emerging from the cellar that led to the surface. His broad frame loomed in the light, dragging a heavy cart of ores behind him.
He didn’t spare a single glance at anyone. Silent, focused, and grim, he trudged forward, the screech of metal wheels echoing through the still forge. Only when he reached the rack beside the furnace did he halt, unloading the cart with deliberate movements.
Only then did he acknowledge the others.
A heavy silence settled as every child stared, breath held, watching the man as if he were a walking storm. His eyes swept across the room, with wild, untamed madness.
It wasn’t fury or anger in any way, but unfiltered lunacy.
And when those eyes landed on Kallen, they seemed to ignite with a fiercer gleam.
"Follow me," he growled.
Without waiting, he grabbed Kallen by the hair and yanked him forward, dragging him out of the forge like a sack of meat, uncaring of the stunned expressions that followed them.
Pain exploded in Kallen’s skull as Menelaus dragged him by the hair. He growled and clawed at the orc’s thick forearm in a futile struggle.
Even with all his strength, he managed only to peel off a thin layer of skin—drawing mere droplets of blood and leaving shallow scratches.
Menelaus didn’t even flinch.
The towering orc pulled Kallen through the cellar like he was nothing more than a sack of feathers and ascended toward the surface.
The other kids could only watch, silent and stunned. A cold, heavy feeling settled over them. Once again, they were reminded of Kallen’s place here. Not one of honor. Not one of envy.
For some, it only made them see him in better light, while others could only shake their heads in disappointment, and a few, even gloat in disdain.
From their positions in the forge, Castor and Democles both stared after them, faces blank but eyes sharp. Their thoughts raced.
"Was Menelaus finally going to kill him? But why now?"
Above ground, the door slammed open, and Menelaus threw Kallen into the room without a word, a low grunt the only sound from his throat.
Kallen’s cold eyes darted about, taking in the strange room—shrouded in shadows despite the time of day. The doors and windows were shut tight. The showroom of some sorts, had been transformed into something darker, something... sinister. A place fit for torment punishment and torture.
The kind of place you’d chain a cursed relic.
His expression darkened, and his eyes turned even colder.
A sudden, mind-splitting pain crashed into his skull like molten metal against cold steel, interrupting his thoughts.
He let out a sharp hiss, trying to stand up, only to crumple face-first to the floor.
Looking down at himself, his legs—both—were crushed.
Menelaus lifted him, walked across the room, and slammed him back against the wall. Shackles on the wall clicked into place, chaining his arms. Picking up chains from the floor, Menelaus clicked them against his legs, each one just slightly below his kneecap, and above the mangled mess his legs had now become.
Kallen breathed heavily, eyes blazing with cold fury and silent pain.
Menelaus reached into his sleeve, and pulled out a knife... at this point, it night as well, be a guillotine.
It wasn’t ordinary forge steel that they made in the underground. It was rather ornate, cruel, and beautiful. A glimmer of runes pulsed faintly along its edge.
Menelaus twirled the knife between his fingers with unsettling ease, its rune-marked edge catching what little light filtered through the sealed room. His heavy boots thudded against the stone floor as he walked over to what had once been a receptionist’s table.
He reached for a drawer and yanked it open with a creak, digging through its contents with one hand. A moment later, he pulled something out—a small, dust-covered book.
The drawer slammed shut.
The book’s cover was black, dull and veined with age, coated in a film of dust. Its pages, brown and weathered, curled at the edges like parchment scorched by time. Somehow, despite their brittle appearance, they had not torn... at least, not yet.
Menelaus turned the book over in his hands reverently, his mad eyes gleaming even more feverishly.
A textbook representation of a grimoire.