A familiar setting to Jericho. A rather nonchalant office within the core of the Metalworks. The familiar slate and wood motif he knew as a child. And behind the rather elaborate, metalwrought desk of this office was his father, the Senator, Viktor. The room was brightly illuminated by a roaring fire in the brass fireplace, casting a reflecting off the burgundy bottle and two poured glasses of aged rolanberry. Jericho’s fingers were wrapped around the drinking vessel and was half empty; his father’s had been rarely touched.

“I can’t fund it. I won’t. It’s done something to you – this unnatural obsession that you keep secret from me but ask to help.” The elder hume shakes his head, lowering his wise slate eyes to the non-descript dagger in the middle of the desk. “I’ve supported you for many of your ventures…and my boy…you’ve made me very proud. And I know your mother would be very proud of you as well…but this something out of your control. I can’t stop you from your pursuits; but I will not fund it either.” The news was…not pleasing to the hume with his blond hair tucked beneath his bonnet, but it was not all that shocking to him either. His glass was elevated to his lips, and another quarter of the warm vintage was downed.

“I understand…” is his only, simple answer. The tone, the look on his drained face – it was very worrisome to a father to see his son in such a state. “Jericho…won’t you come home? You’ve worked so hard outside of our city’s limits for so many years…I still would dream of you to take my position when the time comes. Won’t you reconsider it?” It was a constant conversation between the two – a tradition of sorts, in which father would ask son, and son would reject, only to have it again brought up their next meeting. But this response was not the same – not taken with a light heart and a laugh and a smile – but just a simple stare and a shake of the head before finishing his drink and standing from his chair, silent. The Senator would also shake his head, uncertain of how to assist what really plagues his son’s heart. Jericho placed the dagger once more at his side, and offered a nod in farewell.

“Son…I’ll still support you and your ventures any way I can outside of that one. But…someday you have to realize you can’t do everything you dream of. Your ambition is high; but don’t get too close to the Sun…” A fall to an old proverb, and they seem finished. As Jericho departs, Senator Viktor adds one last comment. “You mentioned…you were seeing a pretty girl a few weeks ago when we last talked. When will you bring her by?”
It was a knife to the chest. Jericho’s eyes shut sharply, his back to his father at that point as the frustrating emotion was hidden. Without an answer, he departed, shutting the door behind him.

===

In the hall, a messenger, Elvaan, decked in San d’Oria’s standard garb awaited the hume’s leave. “This came for you sir; I was told to bring it to you quickly, though I didn’t wish to disturb your meeting.” The red wax sealed envelope is passed, and she departs silently. Without a flicker in his eyes, Jericho peels the wax back and reads



And even with no one around, all Jericho could do was nod, fold the letter back up, and place it inside a pocket in the inner lining of his vest, departing from the capital for what would be a very long time.

===

Somewhere, in a place forever close, and yet forever distant away, a fire burned most brilliantly. A chamber…the heated glow, the darkened stone, the unbearable temperature – this place looked similar to the heart of Ifrit’s Caldron, yet so such place existed within the mountain there, or any other. A prominent forge of a diligent craftsman was set; not far at all from a flow of choking magma. There was only one anvil in the large chamber, and upon it, a slight piece of metal, unshaped, unplanned. The blacksmith was just a simple figure – a blond hume in an apron, hair tied behind his shoulders to avoid blocking his vision. The forge was lit, but there was no progress on any metal being made – the smith just simply stood at the wait by the scrap.

“You hesitate. If you do not do it, I will. And people know what destruction occurs when I take on such a task. If you do not fulfill your duties, then a wake of destruction will happen instead. Is that what you want?” A sudden voice, but bold, and familiar speaks to the blacksmith. Another hume, from where he came from was unseen, stood behind him. A man in black, armor and cloak about him, stood behind himself in a daring, taunting nature.

“If I do it…there will be no turning back. There will be no stopping. There will be no salvation. If this is made, the price for its construction will be well beyond the materials and effort put into it.” The blacksmith explained his concerns, but then went silent.

“You do not have a choice…”