I forge with hands stained red—not with blood, but with the memory of blood.
Every strike of the hammer echoes in my veins, hammering out old debts and newer sins.
Name's Thorn. Last of the Bloodsmiths. Or so they say. A curse and a blessing wrapped in rusted steel.
I don't believe in curses. I believe in survival. And the world's teeth are sharp enough to chew us all up.
---
Bloodsmithing is not a craft for the fainthearted. You don't just shape metal; you shape the soul trapped inside it. A shard of heart, a drop of bone marrow, something pure and foul mixed into molten iron.
I learned young, under my mother's watchful eyes. She died with a hammer in one hand and a secret in the other.
I keep both.
---
The city is bleeding. Not the Gate, but the veins beneath it—the forgotten tunnels, the warrens where the desperate crawl and die.
A plague festers down there. Not sickness but something worse: despair made flesh.
They call it the Black Veil.
I've seen it up close. It steals voices, hopes, even shadows.
---
Last night, a girl came to me. Eyes wild, clothes torn. She had the mark of the Gate burned into her palm.
She begged for a blade. One that could cut through darkness.
I told her: blades don't cut darkness. They cut light.
She didn't understand. Or maybe she did, and that scared her more.
---
I keep my forge hidden beneath the city's ruins. I work while the world sleeps, the hammer and fire singing a dirge.
Because in a world where gods bleed and time breaks, sometimes the only thing left to trust is the cold, hard bite of steel.
---
The girl waited outside as I worked. Silent. Patient. Like a shadow stretched thin.
I don't know her name.
But I know the blood she carries.
The blood that wakes the Gate.
(To be continued)
Here's Chapter 4 with a fresh character:
---
Chapter 4: Thorn, The Last Bloodsmith
I forge with hands stained red—not with blood, but with the memory of blood.
Every strike of the hammer echoes in my veins, hammering out old debts and newer sins.
Name's Thorn. Last of the Bloodsmiths. Or so they say. A curse and a blessing wrapped in rusted steel.
I don't believe in curses. I believe in survival. And the world's teeth are sharp enough to chew us all up.
---
Bloodsmithing is not a craft for the fainthearted. You don't just shape metal; you shape the soul trapped inside it. A shard of heart, a drop of bone marrow, something pure and foul mixed into molten iron.
I learned young, under my mother's watchful eyes. She died with a hammer in one hand and a secret in the other.
I keep both.
---
The city is bleeding. Not the Gate, but the veins beneath it—the forgotten tunnels, the warrens where the desperate crawl and die.
A plague festers down there. Not sickness but something worse: despair made flesh.
They call it the Black Veil.
I've seen it up close. It steals voices, hopes, even shadows.
---
Last night, a girl came to me. Eyes wild, clothes torn. She had the mark of the Gate burned into her palm.
She begged for a blade. One that could cut through darkness.
I told her: blades don't cut darkness. They cut light.
She didn't understand. Or maybe she did, and that scared her more.
---
I keep my forge hidden beneath the city's ruins. I work while the world sleeps, the hammer and fire singing a dirge.
Because in a world where gods bleed and time breaks, sometimes the only thing left to trust is the cold, hard bite of steel.
---
The girl waited outside as I worked. Silent. Patient. Like a shadow stretched thin.
I don't know her name.
But I know the blood she carries.
The blood that wakes the Gate.