Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

The streets of Eyrendyl had never been this quiet. Even in the dead of night, there was always something—laughter from taverns, the murmur of merchants preparing for early trade, the distant hum of spells being cast by late-night scholars. But now, silence clung to the city like a fog, broken only by the occasional hurried footsteps of those who no longer dared to linger outside.

Death was in the air.

Kalem walked through the near-empty streets, his coat pulled tight against the cold, a dagger hidden in his sleeve. The city's usual order was unraveling.

The Blood Nights were working.

He passed by a once-thriving market, now filled with closed stalls and nervous shopkeepers who kept one hand under the counter, ready for trouble. Fear gripped the city. Another body had been found that morning—an elven student, strangled with an enchanted wire that had burned deep into his throat. A warning.

Then another, found slumped over a desk at a scholar's inn—poisoned, their lips black, their fingers curled in agony.

Two deaths, just hours apart.

And now, Kalem could feel it. He was being watched.

As he turned a corner into a narrow alley, the sensation intensified. The shadows clung too tightly to the buildings, the usual background noises of the city seeming distant, as if the world had grown still.

He adjusted his steps, slowing slightly, listening. His heart remained steady, his mind calculating. He had learned long ago that being paranoid kept you alive.

Then—movement.

Not a sound, just a flicker of motion in the corner of his vision.

Kalem moved instantly.

He spun, blade flashing, catching the edge of a black-cloaked figure's weapon before it could reach him. Sparks flew as steel met steel. The figure reacted fast, pulling back, but Kalem was faster. He kicked out, knocking them back.

Another figure dropped from above.

Kalem barely dodged the strike aimed at his back, twisting his body to avoid the incoming blade.

Two of them.

Their movements were precise, not reckless thugs but trained killers. Their silence was unnerving.

The second attacker lunged. Kalem sidestepped, slashing at their wrist. The blade barely cut before they twisted away.

Then—just as quickly as they had appeared—they vanished.

Kalem stood still, his breath controlled.

They had tested him.

And he hadn't liked what that meant.

Elsewhere in the city, another scream cut through the night.

Jhaeros and Garrick arrived too late.

The victim was a young woman, a mage student from the western territories. Blood pooled beneath her, a clean slit across her throat. Her bag was still clutched in her fingers, its contents spilled—a book, a vial of ink, a half-eaten apple.

She hadn't even fought back.

Jhaeros clenched his fists, his tail lashing behind him. "This is getting worse."

Garrick looked at the rooftops. "They aren't being sloppy. They want us to find the bodies."

Jhaeros knelt, his keen eyes studying the wound. "A quick kill. No struggle. She never saw it coming."

Velka growled lowly, hackles raised.

Garrick glanced at the shadows. "They're still here."

A chill ran through Jhaeros' spine.

They weren't done.

The Blood Nights had only just begun.