Smoke curled in black tongues from shattered bellows, the choking stench of molten metal clawing at my lungs. Embers swirled like malevolent fireflies, clinging to my exposed, blistered flesh. I gasped for breath, every inhale laced with ash and fury. My muscles screamed as I clawed free from the rubble—a grave of soot and ruin the gods themselves had condemned me to.
The Ruined Forge of Ashenfall stretched before me like a barren wasteland, a graveyard. Brass spires, once proud and gleaming, now jutted from the earth like the ribs of some ancient beast long since devoured. Gears the size of city gates lay half-buried in slag, their intricate teeth warped and useless. The air shimmered with the residual heat of a forge that had died screaming.
Something felt off—I could sense unseen eyes fixed on me from behind the shadows, their silent gaze pricking my skin. But my mind was too slow to make sense of it all.
I rose, naked and scarred, every hair on my body scorched—save for the unruly pubes that grew wild around my pelvis. My flesh bore the brand of the forge's fires, remnants of a past life etched into my skin. Each burn, each twisted scar, was a testament to defiance. The gods had tried to strip me bare, to unmake me. But here I stood, raw and unyielding. I was aware of another presence in the room, yet my mind was enveloped in an impenetrable fog.
My breath came in ragged bursts. Memories stirred, vivid and relentless, pulling me into a world that no longer existed. This had once been a city of brilliance—a crucible where magic, science, and steel intertwined, where the air hummed with invention and the streets pulsed with life. Now, only echoes remained. The clang of hammers, the hiss of quenched steel, the divine betrayal that had turned this place to ruin.
And her face—her beautiful face—was carved into the amber glow of lost memories, more vivid than the firelight that licked at the ruin around me. High cheekbones, once kissed by the soft light of our forge, now lingered in my mind like a phantom. Lips that had spoken dreams into existence, now silent. Eyes—sharp, knowing, and filled with a fire that had once burned as fiercely as the city itself—stared back at me from the depths of memory. She was not just a memory; she was the heart of everything I had built, the steady hand that had guided mine, the mind that had dreamed alongside me. The city had fallen, but it was her absence that made the ruin complete. I saw her in every flicker of flame, in every shifting shadow, as if the world itself conspired to remind me of what I had lost. A silent testament to all that had crumbled, she haunted me—not as a ghost, but as the echo of a future we were meant to share.
A glint caught my eye through the swirling ash. There, half-buried beneath a collapsed anvil, lay a jagged piece of metal—its surface scorched and rough, the sharp edges promising a deadly bite. But it was not just the shimmer that drew me. The growing sense that I was being watched drove me, a weight in the air that prickled against my raw skin. In another time, another state, I would have understood it in an instant, as easily as breathing. But my mind swam through fog, sluggish and unsteady, the world tilting with every breath. I staggered toward the shard, each step a battle against the weight of my new body.
My hand closed around the metal, its heat burning my palm. I felt something wrong immediately—this shard, light as it should be, felt heavy in my grip. My new body betrayed me; it trembled and shook as if every muscle had lost its strength. I stood there, shocked, realizing that I was too weak to hold something that should not have weighed me down at all.
A sick joke from the gods—a final trick meant to break me. They thought they had finished me.
But they were wrong.
I scanned the room, trying to pinpoint what was troubling my sluggish mind. Before I could even catch my breath, a voice cleaved through the heavy silence. "At last."
I whipped around, the jagged shard of metal raised despite the tremor in my arm. A figure emerged—tall, lean, wrapped in a cloak the color of storm clouds. Soot clung to his skin, and his eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.
"Who the fuck are you?" I demanded, my voice raw but steady.
The figure stood motionless for a moment, as though weighing the distance between us. Then, with a swift motion, he pulled back the hood of his cloak. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Easy, friend. I'm not your enemy." The fabric of his cloak shifted with a soft rustle, revealing a face that was more rugged than handsome, but striking nonetheless. His eyes, pale and clear, met mine as he spoke.
"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," I said, shifting my stance. The longer I held the shard, the more it seemed to pull me down, its weight compounding with my exhaustion.
The man's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Marlik Zephandrel," he said, as though the name should mean something to me. "A former secretary to the Imperial Council."
"And?"
"And," he continued, "I'm the man who overheard the gods themselves conspiring to sabotage your reincarnation. Direct orders from the Imperial Majesty—though we both know he's just a puppet for Vorthan the Conqueror."
The name hit me like a hammer blow. Vorthan. The tyrant god. The one who had orchestrated the destruction of Ashenfall. The one who had taken everything from me.
"Why should I care?" I asked, though the rage coiling in my gut betrayed me.
Marlik's smile faded. "Because they're coming for you, Stephen Veyrath. Right now."
The distant clatter of armored boots echoed through the forge, growing louder with each passing second.
"Damn it," I muttered. "How many?"
"Too many," Marlik said grimly. "We need to move. Now."
I didn't trust him, but my distrust for the imperial soldiers was greater, and for the gods, boundless.
"Fine," I said, raising the shard to his neck, willing my unsteady grip to remain strong... "But if you're lying to me—" I let the blade's tip graze his skin, just enough to draw a single bead of blood.
"You'll kill me. Understood." He gestured toward a narrow passageway obscured by fallen beams. "This way."
"Killing doesn't even come close; there are far worse things I could do."
"Put something on first," Marlik said tersely, his gaze flicking briefly to my exposed state before tossing a bundle salvaged from the rubble. "I thought this would be fitting."
A black leather jacket, scuffed but intact, tumbled to my feet along with a thick blacksmith's apron marked by soot stains and deep gouges.
I arched an eyebrow, my voice cool despite the madness around us. "Practical," I remarked, slipping into the jacket with measured ease. "Almost stylish, considering the circumstances."
Marlik grunted in response, his focus already shifting back to the rumbling forge. "If we're going to survive this, you'll need more than charm."
I fastened the apron calmly, the weight of the leather grounding me. The world around me was in disarray—clanking gears, whirring mechanisms, boots pounding metal-plated streets. The air reeked of oil and scorched metal, the sharp tang of etheric energy slicing through the smog. There was no outrunning them.
There was only war.
The heavy thud of mechanized footsteps echoed through the ruined hall. The enemy was not far behind. From the swirling haze of steam and smoke emerged the soldiers of Vayron—a regiment of divine enforcers with a terrifying blend of ancient might and modern menace. Their brass-plated armor was interlaced with intricate clockwork designs, and in their hands, they wielded weapons that were a hybrid of swords and steam-powered firearms.
My mind sharpened, instincts kicking in. Chaos wasn't just randomness—it was a web of unseen possibilities, waiting to be pulled. I had no way out, not yet, but if I could find the right thread to tug, I could shift the odds.
I scanned the forge, my eyes darting across the room, mapping potential triggers. The embers of the great furnace still burned hot. A rack of unfinished weapons sat within reach, their polished edges reflecting the dim firelight. Overhead, a pulley system groaned under the weight of a suspended slab of ore, its frayed ropes one sharp pull away from snapping. Near the entrance, barrels of alchemical oil stood like silent explosives, waiting for a single spark.
Too many variables. Too many ways this could spiral out of control. But I didn't need control—I just needed the right push.
I flexed my fingers, forcing myself to wait. One move too soon, and I'd be crushed under my own gambit. I had to let them believe they had already won.
A soldier's voice thundered through a clockwork megaphone from outside, each word striking with the force of a cannon blast. "By order of His Majestic, the All-Powerful Divine Imperial Steward of Vayron, this sanctified forge is declared sacrilege. Surrender blacksmith filth, or be incinerated by divine fire!"