The forge thundered like a fighter in combat, fire licking the thick iron walls, the air heavy with the smell of red-hot metal and perspiration. Davok, Son of Varek, stood at the anvil, hammer in his hand, his old muscles shaking with effort. He was old, his body worn from years of labor, but his mind remained sharp. His house, a small one, had never been noted for political influence. They were not skilled generals, nor commanders of fleets. They were smiths. The Empire’s finest. Their house, based on the planet Morska, was as old as the Empire itself.

And now he had been summoned by the Chancellor himself.

Toral’s envoy had arrived in full regalia, chest thrust forward, voice dripping with the arrogance of youth. The Chancellor desired a Kur’leth, a work of art and destruction, a sword fit for his reign as chancellor. Davok had accepted the challenge without hesitation. Not out of loyalty to Toral. No, that hot-headed pup was leading the Empire to ruin. But Davok had never refused a commission. That was not in him. He had forged Bat’leths, Mek’leths, and other blades for Chancellors, for men of legend, for men who had paid to be remembered. Some used their swords well… honorably. Others, not so.

His son, Morak, had been overjoyed by the request.

“A ceremonial blade for the Chancellor!” Morak had smiled, his broad shoulders shaking with excitement. “Our house will be remembered to eternity, Father! This is our greatest accomplishment.”

Davok had only nodded with a grumble in his aged throat.

Now, alone in the forge, he touched the unfinished Kur’leth. The sword was nearly perfect. Nearly.

He had spent days meditating before he went to work, considering the implications. Toral’s path would be to shame, to undermine the Empire… constant war for nothing. Fighting was to be done against men who were worthy of regard, not fought for the sake of ambition. A warrior’s strength was measured by the honor and skill of his foe. Toral yearned for conquest, not glory. His leadership would bring ruin to the Empire. He had seen such men in power before. By Kahless, how many more dishonorable leaders can the Empire endure?

And so, Davok had made up his mind. A small act of defiance maybe, but one that brought a small grin to his old haggard face.

The Kur’leth glowed in the firelight, its point sharp as a razor, its balance perfect. It was, on the surface of things, a work of beauty. Made for battle, with intricate inlay designs of varying precious metals that reflected light in brilliant patterns. A sword to be sung about in halls across the Empire. But within its very heart, within the thousand layers of folded metal, were faults. Faults so tiny, so subtle, that only the greatest of smiths would ever notice them.

And when it mattered most, that day Toral used this sword in real battle, this sword would let him down.

He had given everything to it. His joints ached, and he wheezed with every breath, but the task was accomplished. He lifted the sword for the final time, the wrinkles on his old palms outlining the shape of the metal.

He indulged himself in a small smile.

The next day, his son discovered him leaning over the anvil, his lifeless hands still grasping the blade. The forge was still, the fire burned low, and the finest Klingon bladesmith of his generation lay dead.

Morak grieved, but he understood his duty.

He carried his father’s final masterpiece to the Chancellor at the Great Hall with honor. Before the assembled nobles, sycophants, and warriors, he knelt and presented the Kur’leth.

Chancellor Toral raised it, its blade flashing like lightning, its beauty unimpeachable. He grinned, drunk on his own legend.

“A sword fit for the Chancellor of the Klingon Empire!” Toral declared.

The warriors roared in applause.

Morak grinned, proud to serve the Empire, proud of his father’s legacy, never to know the vengeance that lay in the steel.

High above them, in Sto’Vo’Kor, Davok, Son of Varek, smiled as he watched and waited.