Rovan's bloodshot eyes locked on Sarian, and the crowd fell silent. The tension in the air was suffocating, every breath drawn in fear of what might happen next.
"I didn't kill him," Rovan said, his voice low but steady. "Bram is alive, and I'll make sure he stays that way."
Sarian's trembling hand loosened its grip on his tunic, her tear-streaked face twisting between grief and confusion. "Then why… why did they attack him? What have you done to make enemies of the Gifted?"
Rovan clenched his jaw, anger simmering just beneath the surface. He turned his gaze to the sneering figure in the crowd—the familiar face of one of the council's sycophants, a man who had always championed the emperor's every cruel decree.
"What are you doing here, Larien?" Rovan demanded, his voice cutting through the whispers.
Larien stepped forward, his sneer deepening. "Oh, Blessed One, I merely came to witness the consequences of your meddling. You wanted the Gifted to have their freedom, didn't you? But freedom, as you see, comes with a price. Chaos."
Rovan's fists tightened around his hammer. "This isn't chaos. This is sabotage. You're the one behind this, aren't you?"
Larien laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the tense crowd. "You give me too much credit, blacksmith. The Gifted are tools, and when tools are left unchecked, they break. Perhaps Bram was simply… unlucky."
"Enough!" Rovan's voice thundered, and a ripple of power surged from him. The ground beneath Larien cracked, and the crowd backed away in fear.
Larien stumbled but quickly regained his composure. "Careful, Blessed One. You wouldn't want the people to see the monster you're becoming, would you?"
Rovan's eyes darted back to Bram, who lay motionless but breathing on the ground. The weight of Sarian's accusation and Larien's taunts pressed heavily on him.
"Take Bram inside," Rovan said to Sarian, his voice softening. "I'll do everything I can to save him."
Sarian hesitated but eventually nodded. With the help of a few others, she carried Bram into the forge.
As the crowd began to disperse, Larien lingered, his smirk unwavering.
"This isn't over, Rovan," Larien said. "You may have the people's love now, but it won't last. Not when they see the blood on your hands."
Rovan didn't respond. He turned and walked into the forge, the door slamming shut behind him.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and iron. Rovan knelt beside Bram, who was barely clinging to consciousness.
"You're going to be okay," Rovan murmured, though doubt gnawed at him.
A knock at the door broke his concentration. When he opened it, he found one of the emperor's mages standing there, his expression grave.
"The emperor has summoned you," the mage said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"For what?" Rovan asked, his voice sharp.
The mage hesitated. "To explain the unrest among the Gifted… and your role in it."
Rovan's heart sank, but he forced himself to stand tall. "Tell the emperor I'll come. But only after I ensure my friend lives."
The mage's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he nodded and disappeared into the night.
Rovan closed the door, his thoughts a storm of anger, fear, and determination. He glanced at Bram, then at the forge's roaring fire.
The fight wasn't just for the people anymore—it was for everyone he cared about.
Rovan stared at Bram's pale face, his breaths coming shallow and weak. He couldn't let his oldest friend die. His hand trembled as he picked up a blade, slicing it lightly across his palm. Blood welled up, crimson and hot, dripping onto Bram's wounds.
"Forgive me, Bram," Rovan whispered as he pressed his bleeding palm against his friend's chest. A spark of warmth coursed through him, pulling something deep from his core. His body shuddered, and for a moment, the world spun.
Bram gasped suddenly, his eyes fluttering open. His skin regained a hint of color, but Rovan felt a strange emptiness inside himself—a hollowness he couldn't explain.
"Rovan," Bram croaked weakly, his voice barely audible.
"You'll be fine now," Rovan said, forcing a smile. "Rest."
The next morning, Rovan sent word to the families of the Gifted who had returned for their visits. He gathered them in the village square, where worry and curiosity lined their faces.
"What have you noticed about your children since their return?" Rovan asked, his voice steady but urgent.
The families murmured among themselves before one brave woman stepped forward.
"My son," she said, her hands clasped tightly. "He's quiet now. Too quiet. He used to laugh, to argue, but now… he only speaks when spoken to. Always so formal."
Another man spoke up. "It's the same with my daughter. She follows every word I say like it's an order. She's not… herself anymore."
Similar accounts poured in from the crowd. The Gifted were obedient, polite, and distant, as if their spirits had been stripped away.
Rovan's heart sank. "Thank you," he said, his voice heavy. "I'll find out what's happened to them."
The road to the emperor's palace was long and grueling, but Rovan's determination burned hotter than the sun overhead. When he arrived, the grand gates loomed before him, guarded by armored enforcers.
"I need to see the emperor," Rovan demanded.
The guards exchanged glances. "The emperor doesn't take unscheduled visitors," one said flatly.
"Then make it scheduled now," Rovan snapped.
Before tensions could rise, a mage appeared, his robes flowing like shadows. "Let him in," the mage ordered.
The guards stepped aside reluctantly, and Rovan was led into the palace's grand halls.
The emperor's chambers were eerily silent, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. Rovan frowned as he approached the gilded bed where the ruler lay motionless, his face pale and serene.
"Is he… asleep?" Rovan asked, disbelief coloring his tone.
The mage nodded. "He's under sleep inducers. His mind has been restless, plagued by burdens only he understands."
Rovan's fists clenched. "The emperor is yet to regain himself? What can be done to reverse this..."
The mage did not respond immediately, rather he took a while looking at the emperor on the bed, then sighed "The council will need to decide who would seat the throne. He is lost to us, sleep is a luxury we afford him," the mage replied smoothly, his expression unreadable.
Rovan turned away from the bed, disgusted. "I want to see where the Gifted are trained."
The mage hesitated. "That place… it may not be safe for someone like you."
"Take me there," Rovan insisted, his voice firm.
The training grounds were hidden deep within the palace, surrounded by walls carved with ancient runes. As they stepped inside, an oppressive energy washed over Rovan, making his skin crawl.
But then, something unexpected happened. The strange consciousness he had felt since awakening—the presence lurking at the edge of his mind—suddenly went silent.
Rovan froze, his hammer gripped tightly. "What's happening to me?"
The mage observed him carefully, his face grave. "This place is special. It was built centuries ago by the emperor's forefather, a man who took powers beyond mortal understanding. He needed this space to quiet the chaos in his mind, to feel peace, even if only for a while."
Rovan felt a chill. The walls seemed to hum with a faint, otherworldly energy.
"So this is where the emperor's power comes from?" Rovan asked, his voice low.
The mage gave a slight nod. "Power always has a price. For some, it's their sanity. For others…" He let the sentence hang, his eyes flicking to Rovan's blood-stained hand.
Before Rovan could press further, a low rumble echoed through the chamber, and the runes on the walls began to glow faintly.
"What's that?" Rovan asked, his heart pounding.
The mage's face darkened. "Something… is waking up."