The wind of the outer wilds howled across the ridge, dry and hot like a forge's breath. Drago Descovinio crouched near the body of the horned chrome-hound, its metallic husk still twitching with aftershocks of death. Blood—black and oily—smeared his boots. He smiled.
"You took too long," a voice called out behind him.
Drago didn't rise immediately. He drove his dagger into the chrome-hound's neck, severing the core line. "I was savoring the kill," he finally replied, wiping the blade on his glove.
Allisandro, his younger brother, descended from the rocks, rifle slung lazily across his shoulder. A respirator concealed most of his face, but Drago could see the irritation in his brother's gait. "Father says the prey is getting thinner. We're being watched from the borders again."
"Let them watch." Drago stood tall, dragging the creature's carcass with one hand. "Let them see what Descovinio blood does to monsters."
He held up the beast's head toward the eastern sky, letting its shadow stretch far into the sands. Around them, the husks of once-great hunting machines lay broken and sun-bleached—testaments to prior rituals. Every kill made here was not for meat or sport, but for dominance.
To kill was to inherit.
---
Later that day, the air changed.
It began with the wail of engines—low, angry, and metallic. From above, a sleek black shuttle descended into the ravine. No insignias. But Descovinio-grade shielding told them everything.
"Uncle's here," Allisandro muttered, stepping aside.
The ship's ramp hissed open. Out strode a man carved from war itself.
Valderan Descovinio. The brother of Ricthard III. Exiled from the public eye, whispered about in government circles. Some called him "The Phantom Executor," others "The Butcher Scholar." No one knew the full truth.
He wore a reinforced cloak etched with old war emblems. His voice rumbled like tempered steel. "Drago. You've grown. Height's nothing if your spine snaps under weight."
Drago didn't blink. "I've carried more than most."
Valderan nodded, expression unreadable. "Then you're ready to carry more."
He turned toward the shuttle. Inside, a case hovered beside a bio-lock panel. With a handprint, Valderan opened it.
Within rested a weapon like no other.
A spear—sleek, dark, elegant. Telescopic and faintly humming with internal energy. Its alloy shimmered like liquid obsidian. At its base, a crimson crystal pulsed in sync with Drago's own heartbeat.
"RS-09," Valderan said. "The Godspear."
---
They stood in silence. The air between them thick with reverence and dread.
"This was wielded by the Kingguard during the Meris Uprising. Lost after the floating city fell. Took me two dead black-market lords and a full satellite vault to recover it."
Drago stepped closer, gaze locked on the relic.
"It flies," Valderan continued. "It channels directional gravity fields through the user's body. You won't leap—you'll soar. But it'll tear you apart if you're not careful."
"What's the price?" Drago asked.
"Bone density degradation. Every use fractures something you won't feel until it's too late."
Drago reached forward and grasped the hilt. A surge ran through his entire body—heat, pull, pressure. The spear bonded to him instantly, its core flaring.
Valderan smiled for the first time. "It accepts you. Let's see if your body will."
---
That night, under artificial moons and floodlights, Drago trained.
He leapt high above the cliffs. With each bound, the Godspear propelled him like a meteor—redirecting his descent midair, stabilizing even impossible angles. He could dive, spin, and land on one foot like a dancer of death.
But it hurt.
Hairline fractures bloomed across his legs. The med-drone flashed warnings. Internal bruising. Minor fissures. Nothing fatal—yet.
Still, Drago didn't stop. He pushed harder, faster, higher.
This was how a legacy was carved—not in marble or memory—but in blood, sweat, and shattered bone.
---
From the shadows, Allisandro watched.
"He's going to break himself," he said quietly.
Valderan folded his arms. "Or he'll become the sharpest edge this family's ever forged."
Back in the barracks, Drago lay the Godspear beside his cot, cradling it like an heirloom.
He'd always known his father favored Clarenzo on paper—for diplomacy, for image. But Drago understood the truth: power isn't given to the one who smiles; it is taken by the one who strikes.
The Godspear wasn't just a relic. It was proof.
Proof that he was meant to rule not as a symbol—but as a weapon.
And if his brothers and sisters stood in the way?
He would make them kneel. Or fall.