Anthesis of Sadness

The woman leading us was one of the four generals we had seen earlier, hidden in the shadow of the throne.

Here, just a few steps from us, her presence took on its full meaning: she exuded a dry, brutal power, but perfectly controlled. Not a superfluous movement, not a hesitation. She didn’t walk: she cut through the air with the confidence of those who are never contradicted.

And I... I knew.

She was stronger than me. By far. It wasn’t a supposition, not even a hunch: it was an obvious fact, engraved in every fiber of my body.

She guided us through the forge of Zagnaroth, that burning labyrinth made of black metal, hanging chains, and searing gusts.

The dull blows of hammers echoed through the bowels of the ground, and the flames reflected off the reddened stained glass.

Bare-chested demon blacksmiths, covered in soot and molten runes, barely lifted their eyes as we passed.

Here, work seemed sacred, almost religious.

The heat wasn’t just physical, it was alive, as if the fire itself was watching us.

Then we reached a calmer wing, almost cold by contrast: black stone corridors, polished, silent. Offices. Where chaos turns to organization, where orders take form before being passed to the armies.

She stopped in front of a door. Without knocking, she opened it, revealing a man in a dark uniform, sitting straight behind an impeccably tidy desk.