Centurion

Dacien looked at the “priceless trove” of artifacts before him. A pile of rusted plates and bands, worn metal ornaments, and assortment of utensils lay at his feet. Almost nothing here could help furnish the Templar academy he had planned for construction.

Vowing to have a moment of reckoning with the artifact merchant—and that cad Brammos, who referred him—Dacien began repacking the items when stopped to note something odd: the wooden handles on the utensils seemed to ring with a metallic character.

It was the ring of strong, true metal.

Impossible,. The disintegrating effects of the Ember Core fallout would have long since decayed all metals from the Old Empire, all but the ancient alloys in the Greater House heirloo—

The hilt of his family sword suddenly shook violently against its scabbard. Dacien gripped to still it, but pulled back almost immediately in pain.

He stared in disbelief as blood streamed down his palm, some of it smeared onto the Ember crystal nested in the pommel.

The ruby flared angrily for many moments, casting a baleful crimsom light over the pile of metal scraps.

Slowly...then feverishly, each piece began vibrating, building into a pounding, delirious hum. The metal peices seemed to writhe along on the ground, twisting and assembling together, as Dacien reeled about in confusion.

Then the tremors ceased.

Gone was the heap of rust on the ground. Dacien looked up to see a burnished suit of battle armor, suspended in the air as if by some incorporeal bearer. Behind the faceless helm, Dacien thought he heard faint echoes of the chaotic hum from before.

Yet now it seemed to resonate within him, seemed to communicate to him...a cry of torment, of loss, and the unending desire for vengeance.