The Isle of the Sacre shone beneath the moon like a jewel of white marble set upon a sea of ink. The six surviving warriors arrived at dusk, haunted by the loss of Thordrim. They had no time to mourn. The king was dying. And Rastacan was waiting.

At the heart of the dwarven city of Grundarr, in the Sacred Forge, stood a crystal anvil surrounded by a hundred Slayers of Nerecleiss in ceremonial armor. Grundar laid the three fragments of the sword upon the anvil: the crystal pommel, the guard of black metal, the corrupted blade.

For three days and three nights, the Sacred Forge blazed. The dwarves struck the anvil in rhythm. Grundar led the ritual. Elyndra channeled her runes to purify the corruption. Draven sacrificed his blood to bind the fragments.

On the third day, a divine presence filled the hall. Nerecleiss herself appeared — a goddess of translucent crystal, her voice ringing like the song of a thousand bells.

— I AM NOT DEAD. I WITHDREW INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE EARTH TO PROTECT MY SWORD. BUT THE TIME HAS COME TO RETURN IT TO THE WORLD.

She touched the blade. The corruption dissipated. The cracks closed. The black metal became shining crystal steel. Then she gave her warning.

— THE SWORD SHALL BE FORGED, BUT ITS PRICE SHALL BE THE HEART. THE ONE WHO WIELDS IT MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN SAVING A KING OR SAVING A KINGDOM. THE CRYSTAL BREAKS, BUT THE TRUTH REMAINS.

Nerecleiss vanished. Grundar seized the reforged sword — light, balanced, golden. But a terrible weight lay upon his soul.

— This sword demands a sacrifice, he murmured.

Then Layseriuss fell from the sky with his assassins and his corrupted hippogriffs, sowing chaos through Grundarr. The master of the Red Force strode toward Silas and, before anyone could react, cut his forehead — the seal of Héréclès, carved into his flesh.

— We are all marked now, Silas said in a dark voice. The god of blood is watching us. And when we die, he will claim our souls.