Chapter one

 Naked we are born, naked we are reborn.

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 was wrong—I could feel it but my thoughts were too sluggish to unravel it.

I rose, naked and scarred, every hair on my body scorched—save for the unruly pubes that grew wild around my pelvis. My flesh branded by 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 searing my palm as if it were alive with the forge's pulse.

The gods thought they had finished me.

They were wrong.

Before I could take another breath, a voice cut through the thick air. "At last."

I whipped around, the jagged shard of metal raised despite the tremor in my arm. A figure emerged from the shadows—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 shard's weight was a familiar comfort despite my weakened state.

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 soldier was greater, and for the gods, boundless.

"Fine," I said, lowering the shard slightly. "But if you're lying to me—"

"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 a 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. I glanced at the complex gears and machinery, grinding, sparking, a cacophony of motion teetering on collapse. The forge pulsed like a beast caught between life and death, its rhythm erratic, chaotic. My fingers twitched as though muscle memory alone could find the solution. But my thoughts moved like sludge, thick and resistant. I clenched my jaw, the certainty that chaos could be tamed beating against my mind like a hammer on brittle iron. The exact point where cause met effect was veiled in shadows—each piece begging to be reforged, yet slipping through my grasp before I could place the first shard.

Chaos could be shaped — just like iron in the heat of a forge.

The pursuit closed in. Steam hissed, valves releasing sharp bursts as the Veyron soldiers advanced. Their mechanized boots pounded the metal-plated streets, pistons exhaling with each step—a relentless drumbeat of doom. Gears whirred, runes pulsing along their exoskeletal plating, binding flesh to machine in a twisted fusion.

The air reeked of oil, scorched metal, and alchemical fumes, laced with the sharp tang of etheric energy. Gas lamps flickered against the smog-choked skyline, their light warping through drifting magic, casting clawed shadows that seemed to reach for me

There was no outrunning them—only delaying the inevitable.

A metallic shriek tore through the alley as a soldier lunged from the darkness, blade-arm snapping forward in a blur of steel and steam. Too fast. My sluggish mind barely processed the attack before instinct wrenched me sideways. The blade kissed my ribs, slicing through skin but failing to dig deep. A shallow wound—more fire than pain—sharp and immediate, leaving behind a thin trail of blood.

I staggered, breath ragged. My grip tightened around the shard—useless against the soldier's armor. A crude weapon—jagged, uneven—but all I had. He moved with ruthless precision, gears whirring, steam venting from his joints as he closed the gap in a heartbeat.

I lashed out. The shard met metal, sparks exploding on impact. It wasn't enough to break through his armor—but it was enough to throw him off, to make him adjust.

The soldier recovered instantly, gears whirring, red visor slits flaring like hellfire. He moved without hesitation, his next strike already coming. No time to think. No time to plan.

I tried to block. Too slow. The blade-arm shot forward, aiming for my throat—

And stopped.

A sickening crunch split the air. The soldier jerked, red visor slits flickering. A blackened hand, fingers like iron, had burst through his chest from behind. Metal groaned, arcs of etheric energy sputtering uselessly as the soldier convulsed.

Marlik.

With a single, brutal yank, he ripped his hand free, dragging with it a mess of sparking wires and pulped flesh. The soldier collapsed, twitching, steam hissing from his ruined form.

Marlik didn't even look at him. He turned to me, eyes glinting in the dim light. 'You're slow,' he said flatly. 'And bleeding.

More soldiers followed, their formation tight and disciplined. Marlik moved like a shadow, his knives flashing as he weaved through their ranks. Blood slicked the floor as bodies fell.

 "They just keep coming," Marlik snarled.

"We must get to a higher ground," I said urgently.

We fought with everything we had, but fatigue was a relentless enemy. My muscles trembled, my vision blurring. A soldier seized the opening, his blade slicing toward my neck.

Marlik was there in an instant, knocking the weapon aside. He drove his knife into the soldier's throat, then turned to me, breathing hard.

The last soldier fell with a gurgling cry, his blood pooling around our feet. Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of distant flames.

Marlik wiped his blades clean on a fallen cloak.

The rush of blood, the sharp clash of steel, and the acrid stench of a soldier soiling himself in death — it was all too familiar. Memories sharpened by countless battles swept through me, vivid as scars etched into flesh. My mind cleared.

It started to come back: an ancient and forbidden form of mathematics — probability really, the delicate art of cause and effect. In my mind, the paths of consequence aligned like cogs in an intricate mechanism. One precise strike could unravel everything or set it in motion.

Slowly everything was coming into perspective.

"We need to talk."

"Talk fast," I said, my voice ragged. "Who are you really?" if I had been in the right state of mind I would not have needed to ask this question.

"Really, now!" He met my gaze without flinching. "The soldiers will send reinforcements. This was just a scouting party."

Yes now,"

"I told you. Marlik Zephandrel. Just a man who thinks it's time the gods reaped what they've sown."

My grip on the sword tightened. "Why?"

"I was just a child when the devine soldiers of his imperial majesty came to house and killed everyone. I did not know it then but I am the last of the Olyzari. The gods saw to that."

"My people were descendants of the Ashenfall and they harbored a secret—one the gods feared. The gods tell you they are eternal. Untouchable. But we know the truth. Nimua, the Forge Master, struck a god with his hammer, and the god bled. So they searched us out, all of us from every corner of the universe and wiped us out of existence. Not in war, not in battle, but in silence. They erased our names from the records. Snake and cowards that they are and they called it divine will. I hid, for days long after they had gone, long after the bloated flesh of my mother started to stink. I lived. And I have spent every breath since waiting for the moment to make them pay."

The weight of his words hung between us. There was a certain kinship to his story, if it was true for all I knew he could have been my great ancient grandson.

I sheathed the shard, the metal slick with blood. Satisfied for now

I stared at the interlocking gears and dormant machinery scattered across the ruined forge. Soot-coated pistons, rusted valves, fractured conduits. Broken to the untrained eye, perhaps, but I saw what remained hidden — potential waiting to ignite.

I knew exactly where to hit and what would follow when I did.

The shard of darkened iron in my hand gleamed faintly as I lifted it, calculating angles and pressure points. With a measured breath, I drove the metal into a recessed groove on a shattered column.

The result was immediate.

A deep, guttural clank echoed through the chamber, ancient gears groaning as they shuddered back to life. Molten energy pulsed like veins through cracks in the floor, igniting long-dormant conduits with crackling sparks. This wasn't a mere accident of rebellion; it was strategy incarnate. With one measured blow, I had awakened a sleeping giant.

"Let's go," Marlik said clearly confused.

The forge's ancient gears rumbled to life, its mechanical heart beating faster. Molten veins of energy surged beneath my feet as the remnants of a once-glorious forge responded to my command. I could feel the power of creation and destruction intertwined

Before Marlik could reply, 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.

One soldier advanced, his voice resonating like a cannon blast. "By order of His Majestic, the All-Powerful Divine Imperial Steward of Vayron, this sanctified forge is declared sacrilege. Surrender the blacksmith dog, or be incinerated by divine fire!"