Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

The city was no longer the assassins' hunting ground—it was their graveyard.

By morning, the bodies of failed killers were discovered in alleyways, some slumped against walls, others sprawled across rooftops where they had been struck down. The assassins were still out there, but the tide was turning.

Yet, the survivors among them were adapting.

They had started targeting isolated students, avoiding direct engagements. The methods became more insidious—poisoned drinks, rigged carriages, and even forged letters luring students into ambushes.

The faculty knew this was going to be a long, difficult fight.

Kalem and his group gathered in the forge, now serving as a temporary hideout for those unwilling to rely on noble families or The Bank. The air was thick with tension, the flickering forge fire casting long shadows across the walls. Isolde sat on a crate, absently running a cloth along the edge of her greatsword. Jhaeros leaned against the wall, his keen eyes scanning the room as if expecting an attack at any moment. Nara flexed her fingers, adjusting the straps on her gauntlets, the scent of faint smoke clinging to her skin. Lyra, ever composed, was hunched over a small table, sorting through a collection of vials and alchemical compounds.

"There's still movement in the city," Jhaeros said, breaking the silence. "The assassins aren't giving up. They're just changing their approach."

Kalem stood near the forge, turning a dagger between his fingers. "They'll stop going for direct fights. They'll start using deception."

Lyra frowned, adjusting her glasses. "So what? We just keep playing defense?"

Kalem tossed the dagger onto the table, its blade coated with a thin, oily substance. "No. We start making examples."

Isolde raised an eyebrow. "I assume that doesn't mean more ambushes?"

Kalem smirked. "It means sending a message. If they think they can kill us from the shadows, we show them that shadows don't protect them either."

Jhaeros chuckled darkly. "I like the sound of that."

Nara cracked her knuckles. "Good. I'm getting tired of dodging knives."

While Kalem and his group planned their next move, the academy's leadership was already making theirs.

Professor Gregor and Master Rourke had devised a series of tactical traps—false safe houses, fake escape routes, and deliberately exposed "targets." They lured the would-be assassins into dead-end alleys, abandoned buildings, or even secured sections of the academy, where waiting faculty members quickly overwhelmed them.

One such trap had already been sprung.

A trio of assassins had crept into what was supposed to be an easy kill—an isolated noble student hiding in an abandoned estate. The moment they entered, the doors slammed shut, and a surge of arcane energy sealed the exits. The student was a mere illusion—crafted by Gregor's precise spellwork.

The assassins barely had time to react before Rourke's hammer crushed the first one's ribcage. The second collapsed under a barrage of glyphs that detonated upon contact, leaving behind only scorched remains. The last tried to run, but found himself facing Gregor, who calmly adjusted his spectacles before incinerating the assassin with a single word.

They would continue this strategy until no more assassins remained.

Meanwhile, Sylvia was refining a new alchemical deterrent—an airborne counteragent that would neutralize poisons, disrupt smoke screens, and even interfere with the cloaking techniques that many assassins relied upon.

And Valdris…

Valdris was taking a more direct approach.

A single assassin, bound in reinforced chains, knelt before Valdris in a hidden chamber within the academy.

The room was silent save for the occasional drip of water from a pipe overhead.

Valdris studied the trembling figure before him, his eyes cold. "Who sent you?"

The assassin clenched his jaw, refusing to speak.

Valdris sighed. "Very well."

He raised a single hand, and the space around the assassin warped. The man let out a muffled gasp as his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, veins bulging as unseen pressure crushed against his body.

Valdris watched without emotion. "You have one last chance."

A sickening crack echoed through the chamber.

Moments later, the assassin screamed.

Within minutes, Valdris had his answer.

The next phase of the retaliation would begin soon.

Despite their growing involvement, The Bank had not openly declared war. Instead, they operated quietly, sending cryptic warnings to certain high-ranking figures suspected of supporting the assassins.

A single letter was sent to one of the wealthier noble families rumored to be backing a faction involved in the Blood Nights.

It contained no threats.

Just a list of names.

All crossed out in red ink.

The message was clear: The Bank knew who was behind the chaos, and if it continued, those names would become real deaths.

As night fell, another message appeared—this time for Kalem.

A small dagger was embedded in the door of his forge, a note tied to the hilt.

It read:

You should have taken protection when you had the chance. The next blade will find your heart.

Kalem read it twice before calmly pulling the dagger free.

Jhaeros, watching from the shadows, chuckled. "Guess they don't learn."

Kalem twirled the dagger between his fingers. "Guess not."

The Blood Nights weren't over yet.