Guild Master Rhanes Nordell, a man usually sculpted from weary pragmatism and exhaustion, moved with a frantic, youthful energy toward the deep, forgotten heart of the guildhall. Lovia, his apprentice and shadow, trotted to keep pace, her light footsteps echoing against the stone.

  The basement was not merely a workspace; it was a vault, a subterranean sanctuary safeguarding Rhanes's meager collection of rare materials and arcane refuse. He reached the heavy, iron-bound door and produced a large, rusted key. He jammed it into the mechanism, wrestling with the tumblers. It refused to turn.

  A minute passed. Then, his usual patience evaporated like steam off a hot iron.

  A low growl vibrated in Rhanes's chest. Abandoning the key, he stepped back, planted his pivot foot, and drove his boot into the ancient timber.

  CRACK.

  With a deafening splintering of wood, the locking mechanism tore free from the frame, and the heavy door slammed flat against the inner floor, kicking up a cloud of stagnant dust.

  "Wow. Seriously?" Lovia blinked, peering over his shoulder. "Aren't you a little too eager, Master Rhanes?"

  Rhanes stepped across the broken threshold, his eyes already sweeping the gloom. "Eager? No," he stated, though the tremor of excitement in his voice betrayed him. "I just want to get to work."

  Lovia smiled, a genuine warmth radiating from her. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen the perpetually burdened Guild Master look so completely, undeniably happy.

  The space revealed was a tomb of forgotten craft. The air hung thick, a tapestry woven from time and the faint, metallic tang of cold iron. Cobwebs draped every surface like spectral silk. The central brick hearth was cold, and tools—anvils, tongs, and heavy chains—lay scattered like the bones of a dead giant. The only light struggled in through a single, high, grime-crusted window, casting the room in a sepulchral glow.

  "Oh boy," Lovia sighed, the sound an affectionate caress. "Boss, I think we have a cleaning job to do before that forge even thinks about glowing."

  Rhanes sagged, his face deflating. "Yeahhhh." The word was a profound lament.

  It took hours, but as the night deepened outside, the forge was scrubbed clean enough to function. Rhanes wasted no time lighting the hearth. He tossed in a handful of Ember Eye stones; within moments, the coals didn't just burn—they roared with a blinding, white-hot intensity.

  Rhanes sat at the workbench, the Mosrel horn in his hands. He began with the surface, using rough sharkskin to scour away the grime and imperfections, glassing the spiral ridges until they shone.

  "Time for the handle," he muttered.

  From his private stash, he withdrew a dense, shimmering clunk of metal: Gyre-Silver. A rare dwarven ore, notoriously difficult for human hands to work. Rhanes placed it in a crucible over the Ember Eye fire. As the silver began to weep and melt, he worked with obsessive focus, molding it to fit the base of the horn.

  "Oh, Lovia," he said, not looking up from the glowing metal. "I forgot to check. Do we have any High Beast blood to quench the horn?"

  "No, I believe we sold out," Lovia replied, leaning against a workbench.

  "Dammit," Rhanes grunted, hammer tapping rhythmically. "If only we could use the Ravmor heart."

  "Unfortunately, that’s already pre-sold and ready for delivery," Lovia said, tilting her head. "But... do you really need beast blood for forging? Why?"

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  Rhanes paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "It’s how the most powerful weapons are made. Beasts—especially High Beasts—have mystical linings in their blood. It acts as a conduit. It makes the weapon durable and grants it resistance against magic. That’s why we sell the blood in the first place. I thought I taught you this?"

  "Hehe. I probably didn't pay attention," she teased. "But come on. Kuro isn't going to fight wars or the Resistance. He just needs a weapon to defend himself."

  "You think so? Hmmm..." Rhanes frowned, looking at the spiraling horn. "Fine. At least bring me whatever mid-tier beast blood we have. The horn needs something to drink."

  "Okay, I’ll see what’s available." Lovia turned and headed for the vault.

  Rhanes returned to the handle. Working Gyre-Silver was a race against time; it possessed a "memory." Once it cooled and set, it could never be melted or reshaped again. It would hold this form for eternity.

  After setting the handle in a trough of water to cool, Rhanes began to dredge out the soft, marrow-like layer in the center of the horn, where Kuro had originally struck the wood. He brought his magnifying glass close to inspect the cavity.

  His eyes went wide. He froze, his breath hitching in his throat.

  At that moment, Lovia returned, clutching a jar of viscous red liquid. She saw Rhanes standing like a statue, staring into the horn.

  "Master?" she called out softly. "Is something wrong?"

  Rhanes snapped out of his trance. "Hm? Oh. Lovia. Good, you're back."

  "Yes... is the horn damaged?"

  "No," Rhanes murmured, a strange glint in his eye. "More than wrong... it’s something good. I won’t be needing that blood. Sorry for the trouble." He stood up, turning his back to the table. "Your job here is done. It’s already midnight. Go to your room."

  "Uhm, but Master, are you sure? It doesn't bother me, I can help—"

  "No. It’s okay, dear," he said firmly, ushering her toward the stairs. "From now on, this is a one-man job. You need rest. See you tomorrow."

  He sent her off with a gentle, if distracted, smile. Lovia hesitated, then retreated upstairs, her footsteps fading.

  Rhanes stood alone in the silence of the basement, the broken door hanging crookedly on its hinges. He rushed back to the horn, holding it up to the firelight.

  "Kuro... who the hell are you?" he whispered. "You said you found this lying around while fleeing? Bullshit."

  Under the magnification, it was undeniable. The horn wasn't just splashed with blood; it was saturated with it. The marrow had soaked up the essence like a sponge.

  "This is Ravmor blood," Rhanes realized, his fingers trembling. "The horn has already absorbed enough magical properties to rival a royal artifact. You didn't scavenge this, Kuro. You were there when it died. You’re not who you say you are, are you?"

  A low chuckle escaped him, building into a stream of loud, delighted laughter that echoed off the cold stone walls.

  While the revelation unfolded inside, two shadows loomed in the single, high window that looked out onto the alleyway. Daro and his henchman, Parmad, crouched in the dark, peering through the grime.

  "Are you sure about this?" Parmad hissed, shifting his weight nervously.

  "Yes, I'm bloody sure," Daro spat. "Why? Are you scared?"

  "No, but... it's Rhanes. You know about him. You know what he used to be," Parmad’s voice shook.

  "So what? It’s not about Rhanes. It’s about that bastard Kuro," Daro’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the flicker of the forge fire from within. "He made a laughingstock of me. I will never forgive him. This is my revenge. We’re taking his precious horn."

  Daro smiled, a creepy, thin stretching of lips in the dark. "I'm just sad I won't be able to see his face after we steal it. And don't worry, Parmad. As long as they don't know who did it, we are safe."

  Oblivious to the eyes watching him, Rhanes began the final phase.

  The work became a dance of elements. He attached the Gyre-Silver handle, the metal locking onto the biological material with a perfect, molecular grip. He soaked the weapon in the smoke of acrid herbs, dipped the tip into the molten slag of the Ember stones, and quenched it in ice.

  Then came the final touch.

  Rhanes raised his heavy hammer high above his head, pausing at the apex. The air in the basement seemed to tighten. His lips moved rapidly, slowly and quietly.

  CLANG.

  He struck the base of the horn. The sound wasn't a dull thud against bone; it was the ringing bell-tone of tempered steel.

  CLANG. A second strike.

  CLANG. A third.

  The sound resonated through the stone floor.

  Up in the window, Daro’s eyes widened, the whites visible in the gloom. He pressed his face closer to the window.

  "What the...?" he breathed, his voice barely audible.

  "Is something wrong?" Parmad whispered, glancing nervously at his boss. "Daro?"

  Daro didn't answer. He didn't even blink. Instead, the corners of his mouth stretched slowly upward. His smile, already unsettling, twisted into something truly grotesque—a look of pure, predatory delight.

  The horn hissed, transforming. It was no longer just a biological part; it was a weapon of war.

  By the time Rhanes set the hammer down, the sun was beginning to peek above the castle spires in the distant First City Loz-Edna. The Mosrel horn lay on the anvil, silent, deadly, and waiting with it's scabbard.