The Sanctum of Solaris had two faces.
The upper tiers were built of white marble, gold, and holy light. The lower tiers were built of mud, rot, and desperation.
The slums sat in the deep shadows of the high walls. The air here did not smell of expensive incense. It smelled of open sewers, cheap ale, and unwashed bodies.
Lucifer rode his Nightmare Steed through the narrow, winding alleys.
Lucifer ignored the crowds. He navigated the labyrinth of the slums with perfect memory. In his past life, he had hidden in these alleys. He knew exactly where he was going.
He pulled back on the reins. The Nightmare Steed halted in front of a crumbling, soot-stained building.
A faded wooden sign hung above the door by a single rusty nail. It read: The Broken Anvil. It was half-tavern, half-smithy.
The glow of a dying forge fire spilled out of the open doorway, competing with the smell of cheap liquor.
Lucifer dismounted. He dismissed the Nightmare Steed. The massive beast dissolved into a cloud of dark mist and vanished.
He stepped up to the door and walked inside.
The tavern was dark and filthy. A dozen rough-looking men sat at splintered wooden tables, drinking from dirty wooden mug. In the back corner, sat a dwarf.
The dwarf was hunched over a table. His thick red beard was tangled and stained with spilled ale.
His thick, muscular arms rested on the table, clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor. He was completely passed out, snoring loudly.
This was Thrain.
He was not just a blacksmith. He was the exiled Prince of the Ashen Peaks.
Three large, scarred thugs stood over the sleeping dwarf. They wore battered leather armor. They were low-level enforcers for a local slum gang.
"Wake up, you stunted rat!" the lead thug barked. He kicked the leg of the dwarf's table. "You owe the boss twenty silvers for protection this week. And my sword still isn't sharpened!"
Thrain grunted. He cracked one bloodshot eye open. "Piss off. Your sword is cheap pig-iron. It won't hold an edge. And I don't have your silver."
The thug sneered. He drew a rusted iron dagger from his belt. "Then we'll take it out of your hide, dwarf. Hold his hand down!"
The two other thugs grabbed Thrain's thick arms. They pinned his right hand flat against the sticky wood of the table.
Thrain struggled, cursing loudly, but he was too drunk to fight them off. The lead thug raised the rusted dagger, aiming straight for the back of the dwarf's hand.
Lucifer did not shout. He did not draw his sword.
He simply raised his right hand.
"Gravity Crush," Lucifer whispered.
The space directly above the lead thug's head warped. An invisible, crushing weight slammed down onto the man.
CRUNCH.
The lead thug hit the floor face-first. The wooden floorboards splintered under the sudden, immense gravity.
He lay completely pinned to the ground as if a massive invisible boulder was resting on his spine. He gasped, unable to draw air into his crushed lungs. The rusted dagger skittered across the floor.
The other two thugs froze. They let go of Thrain. They looked at their boss, then slowly turned around.
They saw Lucifer standing in the doorway.
The Warlord let his Sovereign's Weight bleed into the tavern. The air pressure dropped. The dying fire in the forge flickered and went completely out.
The remaining patrons in the tavern took one look at Lucifer's dark armor, and the heavy gold Sunburst Sigil on his chest.
They did not hesitate. They scrambled out of their chairs, abandoned their drinks, and sprinted out the back door into the alley.
The two thugs backed away from Thrain's table. Their hands shook nervously.
"Out," Lucifer commanded softly.
The two thugs did not need to be told twice. They grabbed their paralyzed boss by the arms, dragged his heavy, gravity-crushed body across the floor, and fled out the front door.
The tavern was completely empty. Only Lucifer and the dwarf remained.
Thrain rubbed his bruised wrist. He picked up his bottle of liquor, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and took a long, deep swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He did not look grateful. He looked annoyed.
"I didn't ask for your help, tall-man," Thrain grumbled. He did not look up at Lucifer. He stared at his empty mug. "If you're here to get your fancy armor polished, find another smith. I only do cheap repairs. Now leave me alone."
Lucifer walked slowly across the empty tavern. His heavy boots thumped against the wooden floorboards. He stopped in front of Thrain's table.
"You are Thrain," Lucifer said. His voice was a low rumble. "Son of Thror. Rightful heir to the Ashen Peaks."
Thrain's hand froze halfway to his mouth. The bottle of liquor hovered in the air.
Slowly, the dwarf lowered the bottle. He finally looked up.
Thrain scowled. He slammed the bottle down on the table.
"Thror is dead," Thrain growled, his voice thick with sudden, raw bitterness. "The Ashen Peaks belong to the Abyssal crawlers now. My clan is slaughtered. My crown is ash. I am just Thrain the Drunk. You have the wrong dwarf."
"I have exactly the right dwarf," Lucifer replied.
He opened his Dimensional Vault. The spatial rift tore open in the air between them.
Lucifer reached into the dark void. He reached for a specific item he had traded for during his encounter with the Void Merchant back at the Citadel.
He pulled his hand out.
He held a jagged chunk of metal the size of a brick. It was not iron. It was not steel. It was deep, pitch-black, and pulsed with faint, glowing silver veins. It seemed to absorb the dim light of the tavern. It was impossibly dense.
Lucifer tossed the chunk of metal onto the wooden table.
CRACK.
The sheer density and weight of the metal shattered the thick oak table instantly.
The wood splintered, and the chunk of metal hit the stone floor beneath it with a dull, incredibly heavy thud that shook the entire building.
Thrain jumped back from his stool. He stared at the metal on the cracked stone.
The smell of cheap liquor completely vanished from his mind. His eyes widened. His jaw went slack. The heavy, calloused hands of the blacksmith began to tremble uncontrollably.
He fell to his knees on the dirty floor.
He reached out. His thick fingers hovered over the glowing silver veins. He was terrified to touch it, as if he were approaching a holy relic. Slowly, reverently, he placed his bare hands on the cold, black surface.
"By the ancestors..." Thrain whispered. His voice broke. A single, thick tear rolled down his soot-stained cheek and lost itself in his red beard. "Star-Metal."
It was the rarest material in the known world. It was forged in the heart of dying stars. It was the only metal capable of channeling pure, unfiltered cosmic and void magic without shattering.
A weapon forged of Star-Metal could cut through a dragon's scales like warm butter.
In the entire human kingdom, there was not a single ounce of it. Lucifer had bought a hundred pounds of it from the Void Merchant.
"It is pure," Thrain sobbed. He dragged the impossibly heavy chunk of metal into his lap, holding it against his chest like a newborn child.
He wept openly, the grief of his lost kingdom and the beauty of the metal breaking his hardened shell. "I have only heard the songs... I have never seen it. It sings. The metal sings."
Lucifer looked down at the weeping dwarf prince.
"I have an Aether-Forge," Lucifer said. His voice was cold, calm, and absolute. "I have thousands of Arcane Sentinel Titans waiting in the Umbral Plane. They are massive. They are made of black steel. But they do not have weapons."
Thrain looked up. His eyes were red, but the drunken fog was completely gone. The fire of the forge burned in his gaze.
"Titans?" Thrain gasped. "You have Precursor machines?"
"I do," Lucifer confirmed. He pointed down at the Star-Metal. "I have the metal. I have the machines. I have the army.
But I do not have a master smith who knows how to forge Titan weapons. Human blacksmiths are useless. I need a Dwarf King."
Thrain tightened his grip on the heavy black metal. He looked at Lucifer's dark armor.
"Why me?" Thrain asked, his voice shaking. "I am a failure. I lost my home."
"Because you know the old ways," Lucifer said. "And because I offer you a transaction."
"You will come to my Citadel," Lucifer commanded. "You will take command of my Aether-Forge. You will strike the anvil. You will forge the massive blades my army need to march."
Thrain swallowed hard. "And in return?"
"In return," Lucifer said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, "when the Lich Lords are dead... I will turn my army toward the Ashen Peaks.
My Titans will march on your mountain. We will slaughter every Abyssal crawler that infests your halls. I will give you your throne back."
Thrain stopped breathing.
The promise of revenge. The promise of redemption. The chance to strike Star-Metal upon a true forge. It was everything he had lost, handed back to him by a Warlord with eyes like black holes.
Thrain did not hesitate.
He placed the chunk of Star-Metal carefully on the stone floor. He shifted his weight, pressing his heavy, calloused forehead against the dirty stone right at the tips of Lucifer's armored boots.
"I swear it," Thrain roared. His voice was no longer the slur of a drunk. It was the deep, resonant bellow of a mountain king. "By the blood of Thror! By the heat of the First Anvil! My hammer is yours, Warlord! My life is yours! Lead me to the forge, and I will craft you weapons that will split the sky!"
A brilliant, deep orange light erupted from Thrain's body. It was not holy magic. It was the pure, ancient magic of the dwarven bloodline.
A blue system interface flashed rapidly across Lucifer's vision.
[System: Blood Oath Accepted.]
[Target: Thrain, Prince of the Ashen Peaks.]
[Loyalty Level: Absolute.]
[System Override: New Faction Asset Acquired.]
[Asset: Master Forge King.]
[Crafting Tier Unlocked: Titan-Class Weaponry.]
[Crafting Material Unlocked: Star-Metal Forging.]
Lucifer read the prompts. The final piece of his war machine fell perfectly into place. He had the troops, the healers, the legal authority, and now, the heavy artillery weapons.
"Rise, King Thrain," Lucifer commanded.
Thrain stood up. He grabbed the heavy chunk of Star-Metal, hefting it onto his broad shoulder. He looked completely different. The slump in his posture was gone. The pathetic drunk was dead.
"Where is this forge, my Lord?" Thrain asked, his eyes burning with intense eagerness. "I need my hammers. I need a fire hot enough to melt this."
"It is waiting for you at the Citadel of Obsidian," Lucifer replied. He turned toward the door of the tavern. "Pack your tools. We march immediately."
Lucifer walked out of the dark tavern and back into the muddy alley. He tapped his comms rune, connecting to Elara.
"The smith is secured," Lucifer ordered through the magical link. "Form up the legions. Bring the mercenaries to the main gate. We are leaving the capital."
"Understood, Lucifer," Elara's voice replied crisply. "The army is ready to march."
Lucifer closed the link. He looked up at the towering white walls of the Sanctum of Solaris. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, dark shadows over the pristine marble.
The city was completely unaware of the doom approaching from the north, completely consumed by its own political games.
Lucifer did not care. He had stripped the city of its wealth, its holy relics, its Saintess, and its authority.
He walked down the alley, heading for the main gates. The Warlord was ready to march to hell.