The heavy ironwood doors of the primary armory were open, letting the cool autumn breeze sweep across the racks of flawless celestial steel.
Kael stood by the central anvil, holding a magnificent, perfectly balanced broadsword. The silver metal gleamed, its razor-sharp edge holding the terrifying, lethal potential of the old cosmic war. The Vanguard extended the hilt toward his twelve-year-old son.
"You hold a seated position on the Council, Orion," Kael rumbled, his golden eyes filled with pride. "You require a symbol of your office. This blade was forged in the heart of a dying star. It can cleave through solid ironwood without losing its edge."
Orion stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at the beautiful, deadly weapon, but he did not reach for it.
"It is a butcher's tool, Father," Orion noted quietly, his deep voice carrying a maturity far beyond his twelve years.
