Nothing about today was unfolding in any way Jacob might have anticipated. He had not expected to be subjected to a strangely unnecessary trial just to reach the inner section of the blacksmith's store; he had not expected to stand in the presence of people whose strength could, without any exaggeration, crush both him and Belemir in a heartbeat; he had not expected to find himself descending so far underground that the oppressive heat of a minor core became a tangible thing pressing against his skin; and he certainly had not expected the man before him to dismiss a weapon worth hundreds of thousands of gold coins in exchange for a single black coin, a coin whose significance Jacob could not even begin to understand.

It was becoming clearer with each passing encounter that many of his siblings had forged ties with people of considerable influence. Alex had dealings with the second prince, Henry with Evendor, and now Isaac, it seemed, with this blacksmith. Isa would almost certainly follow Isaac's path, and Jessica was still far too young to be entangled in such matters, yet the pattern was obvious, his family's connections ran deep, perhaps deeper than he had realised.

And now, unexpectedly, he was being offered the chance to choose any weapon he desired. He took a breath, speaking carefully as he began to list what he had in mind. "Something relatively light… preferably a sword," he said, watching the man for a reaction. "It should handle well in quick movements, excel at slashing, have a smooth grip, a colour that's not too bright, strong material, and, if possible, runes that enhance sharpness or speed."

The blacksmith raised a brow and, after a moment, cut him off with a sharp wave of the hand. "Alright, I've heard enough. You can stop talking now."

Jacob shut his mouth without protest, standing in silence while the man rubbed the back of his head in thought. "Those conditions… yes, I think I've got something that'll do."

And without any visible preparation, the man was simply gone, vanished so suddenly that Jacob wondered if he had even seen him move at all. A heartbeat later, he reappeared, this time holding a blade in his hand.

"This," he said, extending it towards Jacob, "is called a sabre. I'm told it comes from across the sea, and it's a favourite among pirates. Light in the hand, excellent for slashing with its sharpened edge, and fitted with enhancements I think will suit a mage, though why a mage would decide to pick up a sword, I can't say."

Jacob took the weapon, his fingers closing around the hilt as he brought it up for a closer look, the balance and feel of it already telling him more than words could.

Was it beautiful? Jacob could not quite bring himself to think of it in those terms. It was, after all, a weapon made for killing, and though he had no moral objection to its intended use, he could not convince himself that something designed to take life should be admired for its beauty.

If anything, what struck him was its sense of purpose, the way every part of it seemed to be there for a reason, without excess or ornament, built for efficiency above all else.

He gave it a testing swing, a smooth cut through the air to his left, and immediately noticed the difference. The movement felt cleaner than with any sword he had handled before, the follow-through unforced, as though the blade itself was inclined to go exactly where he wanted it.

The weapon itself was long and slightly curved, its pitch-black blade absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. There was no gleam, no sharp glint along the edge; instead, it seemed as though the air around it simply avoided touching it, leaving the darkness undisturbed.

Only one side of the blade was sharpened, but Jacob found he had no complaint about that. The hilt was of medium length, with a curved guard that settled perfectly into his grip, smooth, balanced, and free of the roughness he often found in other swords. It was forged of a black-and-gold metal, the darker surface drawing the eye to the faint glisten of the gold inlays.

Across both blade and hilt, runes shifted in and out of sight, never staying fixed in one place for long, as though submerged beneath the surface and rising only at intervals to catch the light. Jacob could not read them, but their presence carried a weight that made him certain they were powerful.

It was only then that the thought struck him, could he even make use of these enhancements? If he could not draw upon normal runes himself, would the engravings mean anything to him at all? The possibility that they might be nothing more than decoration for him was an unwelcome one. Yet he found a small, stubborn thread of hope all the same.

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His barrier, after all, had worked for him. Perhaps it was because someone else had drawn the runes and fixed them into the weapon, or perhaps there was another reason entirely that he had yet to understand. But while he could not activate runes he inscribed with his own hand, artifacts seemed to recognise him without resistance, and that was enough to make him think this sword might be no different.

With a quiet sense of anticipation, Jacob closed his eyes and drew on the mana within his chest, pulling it from the steady thrum of his heart and forcing it into the sabre's body. The response was immediate, a faint but distinct connection bloomed between him and the weapon, and along that thread he could feel them: four separate runes, each one carrying its own strange presence, each waiting for him to make a choice. Somehow, without knowing how, he understood that once he chose one, the others would vanish from the blade as if they had never been there.

He had never heard of a weapon that offered choices, not like this, and for a brief moment he felt the urge to stand still and puzzle out what kind of enhancement could even work in such a way. But then again, his life had long since passed the point of being reasonable, absurdity was as familiar to him now as breathing.

At first, he thought he might take his time deciding, but the thought quickly dissolved. He was not a swordsman, and he had no intention of becoming one. He had taken this blade for a single purpose, to defeat Dawson, and once that was done, it would likely end up abandoned in a corner or returned to the blacksmith without a second thought.

The choice of rune hardly mattered; he doubted any of them would give him the power to overcome Dawson, and even if one could, he doubted he had the strength to draw out its full effect.

So he simply directed his mana toward one at random.

The moment his energy touched it, something flared inside his mind, like a small firework bursting too close to his face. There was a sudden, blinding white light that seemed to press in from all sides, a sharp crack like the air itself had split, and under it all, so faint it could almost be imagined, the sound of a distant scream. Then, as quickly as it had begun, everything fell silent.

When he opened his eyes again and looked down at the sabre, his breath caught. The blade was wrapped in a slow, curling haze of grey mist, an ever-shifting aura that clung to it like smoke yet moved with deliberate purpose, flowing over the metal's surface as if alive.

He could feel it, not just any aura, but the Aura of Dominance, unmistakable and deeply familiar, the same force that marked the bloodline of the Skydrid family.

In his shock, he instinctively cut off the flow of mana, and in that instant the aura dissipated as if it had never been there.

It was only then that he understood: the rune he had chosen had granted him the ability to convert his mana into aura.

"How?" he murmured, his voice sharper than he intended, lifting his gaze toward the blacksmith. This was not something that even the greatest smiths in Eterna could have forged, not without extraordinary knowledge or resources. And as he stared at the man across from him, the thought pressed harder in his mind, just who exactly was he dealing with?

The blacksmith studied him for a moment, his eyes flicking briefly to the sabre before he gave a short hum. "So that's the one you chose… interesting. But the function's different from exactly what I made, did it adapt? Strange." His voice was mild, yet there was a weight in it, as if he was cataloguing something important in his mind before brushing it aside.

"How? Well, I made it, that's how. And now that you've claimed it, you can be on your way so I can get back to my work, right?" He turned without waiting for an answer, his attention shifting to Fred. "Escort him up."

Fred glanced at Jacob, but Jacob did not return the look; his eyes were fixed on the blacksmith with a steady, intent focus. "Who are you?" he asked, the words coming out before he could decide how to shape them. "Are you… human? What's your name?" There was an edge of excitement beneath the question, because some part of him was already imagining what could be built if he could forge his own connection to a man with such skill.

If they had someone like this, someone who could make things no one else could, then perhaps Lucas's work might have edged closer to success. Perhaps Lucas himself might still be alive.

The thought rose sharply, but before he could hold onto it, a sudden, sharp pain split through his head. He grunted, bowing his head slightly under the force of it. By the time it passed, just a second later, it was as if the idea had never occurred to him at all.

"Can I come back later?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the brief silence just as Fred's hand clamped on his shoulder to pull him toward the door.

The blacksmith's mouth curved into a faint smirk. "Come back? Certainly. But you'll pay a hefty price next time, and a black coin won't buy you a thing." His voice followed them even as Fred pushed the door closed, cutting it off with a dull thud before leading Jacob back through the narrow passageways, up through the hole in the floor, and finally out into the air above.

Fred left him there without ceremony, but Jacob barely noticed. His gaze was drawn again to the sabre, to the subtle, intricate patterns of runes that seemed to shift and coil in ways he could not fully track. These were no ordinary runes, he was becoming certain of that. He had read of attempts to create something like this, of artificers and rune-smiths who had tried and failed time and again.

No… for a rune to achieve what this one could, it could only be a True Rune.

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