Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

The night was colder than usual, a sharp contrast to the heat of brewing tension in the city. The academy's displacement had done little to stop the Blood Nights—if anything, the chaos of scattered students made them easier prey.

Kalem walked through the dimly lit streets, his hood drawn low, carrying a small package wrapped in cloth. He was on his way back from a metalsmith's shop when he noticed a shift in the air. Footsteps—too many for an empty alley. His fingers tightened around the package as he slowed his pace.

A sharp whistle. Shadows moved.

Six figures stepped out from the darkness, their faces obscured by cloth masks. They weren't assassins of high repute—no, these were hired blades, cheap and desperate. A quick glance at their weapons told Kalem they weren't using enchanted steel or noble-forged blades, just standard iron. Mercenaries, not professionals.

"Not the target," one of them muttered.

"Doesn't matter," another said, raising his sword. "Loose ends get cut."

Kalem sighed, shifting his stance, one hand still resting on the package.

"Hold on," he said, voice calm. "I'm not your target, and I don't intend to fight you. But if you draw your blades, I will respond."

The leader scoffed. "And how do you intend to do that, boy?"

Kalem slipped a hand into his coat, pulling free a short blade. Not his new resonance blade—this was just steel, practical and unassuming.

"You seem like reasonable men," he continued, ignoring their hostile stances. "And reasonable men don't waste their lives for a coin pouch that won't be filled if they fail."

The mercenaries hesitated. The leader's grip on his sword faltered for a second.

That was when the real assassins struck.

A silent figure dropped from the rooftop behind them, twin daggers flashing in the moonlight. One mercenary barely had time to scream before his throat was slit.

"Damn it! We've been set up!"

Kalem reacted instantly, ducking low as a dagger nearly clipped his shoulder. He pivoted on his heel, striking the closest mercenary with the hilt of his sword, sending the man stumbling. The ambushers weren't after him—someone else had been the target.

A crossbow bolt zipped past his ear, embedding itself in a wooden crate. Kalem threw himself behind cover, cursing under his breath. He could hear the mercenaries dying one by one, their screams short-lived.

Then, silence.

Kalem stayed still, listening. The assassins moved swiftly, collecting their weapons, ensuring no loose ends were left.

They hadn't come for him. That much was clear.

Kalem exhaled slowly and stepped out. He didn't bother chasing the assassins. Instead, he looked at the bodies left behind.

The city guard would take their time arriving.

He turned on his heel and walked away.

Meanwhile, in a different district of the city, Lyra and Nara found themselves in their own trouble.

The two had been staying at an inn, laying low. Lyra had been studying some alchemical notes when Nara tensed beside her.

"Something's wrong," Nara muttered, standing up.

Before Lyra could ask what, the window shattered. A figure landed in their room, twin daggers gleaming.

Lyra barely had time to react before Nara lunged.

The assassin slashed, but Nara moved like fire itself—fluid, quick, burning with purpose. Her gauntleted fist intercepted the blade, sparks flying as metal met metal. Then she twisted, flames igniting along her arms as she drove her knee into the attacker's ribs.

The assassin gasped, stumbling back.

Another figure appeared at the doorway.

Lyra wasn't a fighter, but she wasn't useless. Thinking fast, she grabbed a glass vial from the table and flung it.

The vial shattered, releasing a noxious purple cloud.

The second assassin hesitated, coughing violently. That was all Nara needed. She moved like a flame through dry grass, delivering a spinning kick that sent the first assassin crashing through the shattered window.

The second tried to escape, but Lyra had already tossed another vial—this one filled with a slippery, sticky substance that clung to his boots, trapping him.

Nara walked over, cracking her knuckles.

"I'd run if I were you," she said.

The assassin cursed but knew he was outmatched. He grabbed a small device from his pocket—something akin to a smoke bomb—and shattered it against the ground. The room filled with thick, blinding mist, and by the time it cleared, the assassin was gone.

Lyra coughed, waving the air.

"Well, that was unpleasant," she muttered.

Nara nodded. "We need to move. They know where we are."

Lyra grabbed her notes, stuffing them into her bag. "Agreed."

Neither said it aloud, but they both knew: the Blood Nights were far from over.