The mist clung to the cobblestones of Grey Mane as Kaden Ironhollow trudged through the town's entrance, his boots squelching against damp stone.
The air reeked of salt and decay, a stench that seeped into his bones—a fitting welcome, he thought, for the place his master had called "home" in his final, ragged breaths.
He was a wanderer, by trade and by circumstance.
A blacksmith with calloused hands and a cloak frayed at the edges, carrying only a worn hammer slung over his shoulder and a small satchel containing the last of his master's tools.
But today, he was no longer a drifter.
Today, he was an heir.
The sign above the forge creaked as he approached, its iron letters half-rusted: Hawk's Anvil.
The building itself sagged, its wooden beams warped, the chimney choked with ash.
Yet above the door, carved into the stone lintel, glowed a rune he'd never seen before—twisted lines that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
"Forged God's blood, shall return," he read aloud, voice rough.
The words sent a shiver down his spine.
Memories flooded in: Master Holt—no, Iron Face Hawk, the man who'd raised him—lying on a cot in some back-alley inn, blood soaking the sheets.
"The forge… in Grey Mane," he'd rasped, clawing at Kaden's sleeve.
"You must… keep it. Never let them take it." Then his eyes had dimmed, and Kaden had buried him under a moonless sky, vowing to honor the last wish of the only father he'd ever known.
He pushed open the forge door.
Dust swirled in the weak sunlight, revealing a workshop frozen in time: a cracked anvil, a bank of rusted tongs, a furnace cold and dead.
But in the corner, beneath a tarpaulin, he spotted it—the Soulfire Crucible, Master Hawk's most prized tool, its surface etched with sigils that hummed faintly when Kaden brushed a finger over them.
"You left this for me," he murmured, throat tight.
The first night passed in a blur of sweeping, patching the roof, and stoking the furnace back to life.
By dawn, the forge smelled of charcoal and hope—a fragile thing, but hope nonetheless.
That's when the woman arrived.
She slipped in like a shadow, her gray cloak trailing on the floor, her face hidden by a hood.
Kaden, bent over a pile of scrap metal, looked up as the door creaked.
His hand tightened around his hammer—old habits, from the nights Master Hawk had taught him to stay alert.
"Good morrow," he said, keeping his voice neutral.
She didn't reply.
Instead, she drew a yellowed parchment from her cloak and laid it on the anvil.
"I need a weapon," she said, her voice like gravel.
"One that carries a soul."
Kaden's brows shot up.
Soul-forging was a myth, whispered about in taverns but never confirmed.
"That's… not possible," he said slowly.
"Souls can't be bound to metal. They're too fragile."
Her hood shifted, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes: pale, almost white, with a hunger that made his skin crawl.
"It is possible. For you." She leaned forward, and he smelled something coppery on her breath—blood, or worse.
"If you refuse, it will come for you. The thing that hunts your kind."
His kind.
Blacksmiths.
Master Hawk had spoken of hunters, once, in a rare moment of fear.
"The ones who silenced the Forged Gods," he'd said.
"They don't forget."
Kaden's jaw set.
He needed the coin—rent on the forge was due, and the town's other smith, old Holt Ironthroat, had made it clear he wasn't welcome.
But more than that, curiosity bit at him.
"What's the price?"
"Gold. Enough to keep this hovel running for a year." She slid a pouch across the anvil; the clink of coins was music.
"Start tonight. The moon will be full by then—best for… binding."
He took the pouch.
The metal resisted.
Kaden's hammer rang against the steel, but the ore—something dark, almost oily—refused to shape.
Each strike left a faint, smoky residue, and the furnace flame flickered, as if afraid.
By midnight, his arms ached, and sweat stung his eyes.
"Master, what would you do?" he muttered, glancing at the Soulfire Crucible.
On a whim, he fed the metal into it, then lit the coals.
A low hum rose from the crucible.
Not the usual crackle of fire, but a voice—a thousand voices, whispering in a tongue he didn't know.
"Awake…" they breathed.
"The blood calls…"
His hand spasmed.
A searing pain lanced through his palm, and he yelped, dropping the tongs.
There, etched into his skin, was a red mark—a crack, like the surface of a broken gem.
"Ding."
The voice was mechanical, cold, as if spoken by a machine with a throat of gears.
"Forged Soul Crucible System activated. Host: Kaden Ironhollow. Current level: Apprentice Blacksmith. Initializing core functions…"
Kaden stared at his hand, then at the crucible, which now glowed with a white-hot light.
The metal inside rippled, as if alive, twisting into the shape of a longsword—his design, the one he'd sketched for the woman.
"What… what are you?" he whispered.
"System objective: Cultivate the Host into a God-Smith by forging soul-bound weapons, expanding the forge, and accumulating Artisan Souls. Current task: Complete the first soul-bound weapon. Reward: 100 Artisan Souls, unlock Basic Forging Manual."
He swallowed.
Master Hawk had never mentioned a system.
But the metal was moving—no, he was moving it, with a thought.
The pain in his palm faded, replaced by a warmth that spread up his arm.
By dawn, the sword lay on the anvil: its blade silver, its hilt wrapped in black leather.
When Kaden held it, he felt a flicker—a presence, faint but there.
The woman returned at sunrise.
Her hood was gone now; her face was gaunt, her skin sallow.
She took the sword, her fingers brushing his, and he flinched at how cold she was.
"Perfect," she breathed.
Then she left, the bell above the door jangling faintly.
That night, the screams woke him.
Kaden sat up in his cot, heart racing.
The forge was dark, save for the embers in the furnace.
The screams came again—a high, keening wail, cutting through the mist.
He grabbed his hammer and ran.
The town square was empty, but at the edge, a crowd had gathered.
He pushed through, and his blood turned to ice.
There, on the ground, lay the woman.
Her eyes were hollow sockets, her mouth frozen in a scream.
In her hands, tight as a vice, was the sword he'd forged.
"Who is she?" he asked a bystander, a burly man with a beard streaked with gray—Holt Ironthroat, the town's other smith.
Holt's face paled.
He stepped back, as if Kaden carried the plague.
"No one," he muttered.
"Stay out of it, boy. Some things… some things ain't meant for smiths to touch."
Then he turned and left, vanishing into the mist.
Kaden stood there, the sword's image burned into his retinas.
When he returned to the forge, he found a footprint in the mud by the door—larger than any human's, clawed, as if something heavy had dragged itself toward the cellar.
And from below, faint but clear, came the sound of whispering.
The next morning, he approached the first townsman he saw, a fishmonger mending his net.
"About the woman—"
The man flinched, dropping his tools.
"Don't know her. Don't want to know her." He gathered his things and hurried away.
Kaden frowned.
He'd thought Grey Mane was just a town.
Now, it felt like a cage.
But cages had doors.
And he had a system, a sword that held a soul, and a master's vow to keep.
He hefted his hammer, the red mark on his palm throbbing.
Whatever was coming, he'd be ready.