Dawn bled into Graymaw's perpetual mist, painting the cobblestones a sickly gray.
Kaden stood at the threshold of his forge, the scent of smoldering charcoal clinging to his apron, when the first clink of armor cut through the silence.
The knight from last night sat astride a black warhorse, its breath fogging the air.
His silver-gray plate mail bore no crests, but the visor of his helm was raised, revealing a face carved from stone—high cheekbones, a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow, eyes the color of storm clouds.
He dismounted with a fluidity that belied the armor's weight, the metal groaning as he moved.
"Kaden Ironhollow," he said, voice low, as though testing the name.
He reached into his cloak, producing a sealed letter.
The wax bore a sigil Kaden recognized—two crossed hammers, one broken, intertwined with a coiled serpent.
Dark Iron Council.
His scar throbbed.
"Forgive the hour," the knight continued, "but urgency outpaces courtesy. I am Sir Isaac Ravenspear. My brother, Gareth, fell three nights past. A rogue mage's fire consumed him to ash. I want you to forge a blade from his remains."
Kaden's fingers tightened around the doorframe.
Soul weapons.
Forbidden in most kingdoms, whispered about in taverns—tools that bound a spirit to steel, rendering the weapon both extension of the dead and prison.
"I don't craft such things," he said, tone flat.
"The ethics are… unclear."
Isaac's smile was a flicker, cold as a blade's edge.
"Ethics don't concern the Council, Blacksmith. They command." He drew a badge from his neck—a medallion of black iron, the same serpent-hammer sigil etched into its surface.
As he held it up, the metal glowed faintly red, and Kaden's palm burned.
His own birthmark, a half-hidden brand on his wrist, pulsed in time with the badge's light.
The system pinged in his mind: Warning.
Host bloodline resonance detected.
Threat level: Elevated.
Isaac's gaze sharpened, as though he'd heard the ping himself.
"You feel it, don't you? The call. The Council's reach is long, Ironhollow. Refuse, and they'll send someone less… patient." He dropped the badge back beneath his armor.
"The ash is in the box. Seal the blade with Gareth's soul, and you'll earn their favor. Fail…" He mounted his horse, the armor creaking.
"Let's just say the dead don't take rejection well."
He tossed a small, lead-lined box onto the forge's threshold.
It landed with a thud, the sound echoing like a death knell.
Without another word, Isaac wheeled his horse and rode off, the clatter of hooves fading into the mist.
Kaden stared at the box, his throat dry.
Serena materialized beside him, her bare feet silent on the stone.
She'd been tending the morning fire, her hands still smudged with soot, but her eyes—normally soft, perpetually downcast—were locked on the box, her jaw set.
"Seal," she signed, her fingers quick, anxious.
"Dark magic."
"I know." Kaden crouched, his fingers brushing the box's surface.
Runes spiraled across its lid, glowing a faint, malevolent purple.
He tried to pry it open; the metal resisted, humming under his touch.
"It's warded. Strongly."
Serena knelt, her palm flattening against the runes.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, her eyes flickered—golden light flaring beneath her irises, the forge god's coat of arms (he refused to name it aloud) rippling across her pupils.
The runes dimmed, then vanished entirely.
The system shrieked: DANGER.
Material contains anomalous soul residue.
Recommend immediate disposal.
Kaden ignored it.
He lifted the lid.
Inside lay a single scoop of ash—black, fine, as though it had been sifted through a mage's filter.
But as he stared, the ash shifted, coalescing into a vague, shadowy shape.
A voice, hollow and wet, whispered in his ear: "Don't… don't let him chain me…"
Serena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
Her eyes were wide now, no trace of the forge god's light—only terror.
She signed, "It's alive. The ash is alive."
Kaden's pulse quickened.
He'd forged weapons with dragon scales, demon bones, even a sliver of a fallen angel's wing.
But this… this was different.
It felt aware.
He carried the box to the soul forge, the ancient stone contraption in the back of the shop.
Its flames burned blue, fed by his own magic, by the system's power.
As he poured the ash into the crucible, the fire sputtered.
Then, it roared—black smoke billowing up, thick and cloying, reeking of burnt hair and despair.
A face formed in the smoke: a man, young, with Isaac's sharp features, his eyes hollow sockets, his mouth a rictus of agony.
"Let me go!" it screamed, the voice tearing through Kaden's skull.
"He lied—he didn't save me, he's using me!"
Serena stumbled back, her hands over her ears.
Kaden grit his teeth, sweat beading on his brow.
He reached for his hammer, intending to drive the spirit back into the metal, but Serena moved faster.
She grabbed a scrap of mithril from the workbench and hurled it into the fire.
The smoke vanished.
The fire dimmed to em