"Hey, boy! Looking to earn some coin? I might have something for you," called a burly old man from a window.


    The shop the voice came from barely stood out among the other buildings on the street. It was plain and unassuming, with a massive, wide chimney that gave the roof a distinctive character. Above the entrance hung a sign reading "The Iron Anvil," swaying gently in the morning breeze.


    The old man peering out of the window had gray, singed hair sticking out in wild directions. His face was etched with deep lines that spoke of a lifetime of hard labor. Despite his age, he exuded an undeniable vigor and energy. His arms were so thick with muscle they rivaled the size of Azrael’s thighs.


    Azrael''s heart quickened with excitement. "A blacksmith," he thought as he stepped into the shop. The air inside was heavy and smoky, laced with the metallic tang of iron and molten ore.


    The blacksmith greeted him with a coarse laugh, his voice rough as sandpaper. His long, gray beard quivered with every movement, marked with numerous scorch marks that testified to years of intense labor at the forge. Azrael immediately recognized that this man was no ordinary smith—he was a master craftsman, one who had endured countless years of grueling work.


    ?Greetings, my name is Azrael and I’m here to…“ Azrael began, but the blacksmith casually interrupted him.


    "Blah, blah, blah, enough with the noble blabber. Talk like a normal person, will you? I already know why you’re here. Those two lunatics have been shouting your trauma from the rooftops, so I caught wind of it. Heard you train a lot too. Just man the bellows until you drop, and I’ll make sure you’re well paid."


    "If he wants me to speak plainly, why not push my luck a little?" Azrael thought.


    "I need a weapon. I’ll work the bellows as long as it takes to cover the cost. Is that acceptable?"


    The blacksmith raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips.


    "Interesting. Yeah, that’s possible. But tell me one thing." His gaze turned sharp and piercing. "Why do you need a weapon?"


    Azrael hesitated, considering his response. His first instinct was to lie, maybe mention training or self-defense. But something inside urged him to speak the truth.


    "To hunt."


    The smith’s brow furrowed. "What are you hunting?"


    "A madman. No, more like a monster."


    Silence settled over the room. The blacksmith studied Azrael with a keen, scrutinizing gaze.


    "You’re planning to kill a person?"


    "Yes." Azrael’s voice was steady and resolute as he met the smith’s eyes.


    "I understand." The smith nodded slowly and gestured toward a sturdy wooden table in the corner of the workshop. "Sit down."


    Azrael obeyed, taking a seat at the well-worn table, its surface scarred and stained from years of use. The smith pulled out a chair across from him and leaned back, as though preparing for a conversation of weighty importance.


    "Tell me exactly what happened," the smith demanded.


    Azrael drew a deep breath before recounting his experiences in plain terms. He described the encounter with the deranged woman, the eerie dreams, and the growing sense of dread that hung over him. As he spoke, his gaze never left the smith, studying his reactions for any sign of disbelief or judgment.


    "Luckily," Azrael thought, "he seems normal." It wasn’t just about honesty—Azrael wanted to gauge how the smith would respond to the grim details of his story.


    "Strange," the smith muttered, his tone pensive. "I’ve suspected for a while that something’s wrong around here. But this... it’s serious. Normally, I’d tell you to steer clear of all this, but I can see you’ve made up your mind. You’re determined to go through with this hunt."


    He sighed, as though admitting something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. "I’ll help you. Truth be told, I’m no great fighter myself—maybe I’m too old for that. But someone like you, with resolve and the will to wield these weapons, is worth supporting."


    Azrael felt a flicker of unexpected hope. "What exactly have you noticed?"


    The smith paused for a moment, weighing his words before responding. “People are growing more and more fanatical, especially in their faith. At first, belief in Solaren was more subdued, something that stayed in the background. But now? Nearly everyone has turned into a zealot.“


    ?Those who don’t believe in him are despised. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone were attacked for merely insulting Solaren. On top of that, the townsfolk have become increasingly violent. There are far more fights and altercations than there used to be.”


    “Damn,” Azrael muttered, a frown darkening his face. “It seems like this isn’t just about a few isolated individuals.”


    A faint sense of helplessness crept over him. He might have been able to deal with a single person, but an entire town? That felt impossible.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    After a brief silence, Azrael told Bartho about the break-in the previous night.


    “If you want, you can stay here,” the smith offered gruffly, his voice tinged with weariness. “By the way, my name’s Bartholomeus, but just call me Bartho.”


    “That’s not a bad offer,” Azrael thought. Of course, there was always the chance that something was off about the smith, but his instincts told him otherwise. “Alright, I’ll take you up on your offer. I’ll stay here.”


    “Good, good. So be it. I’ll even give you the weapon in advance. In return, you’ll work the bellows every day. But don’t worry,” Bartho said with a confident grin, “you’ll get something good for your effort.”


    After sealing their agreement with a handshake, Azrael felt the smith’s grip—a vise-like strength that spoke of decades at the forge. Azrael held his own, refusing to back down.


    “Impressive,” Bartho praised, a glint of approval in his eyes. “You must’ve trained hard. Now, to the bellows!”


    Azrael followed Bartho through a doorway into another room. The space was expansive, exuding the aura of an old workshop steeped in labor and fire. The heat radiating from the sunken forge in the center seemed almost tangible, clinging to the air and skin.


    Weapons, armor, and shields lay scattered across workbenches and the floor, a testament to years of relentless craftsmanship. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of molten metal, smoke, and sweat, as if the very room was alive with the spirit of the forge.


    The floor was darkened with soot and littered with fragments of metal and ash. Shelves and hooks lined the walls, holding tools and half-finished pieces, each glinting faintly in the dim, fiery glow.


    Bartho opened a metal door with a drawn-out creak, and a searing wave of heat rushed into the room, forcing Azrael to squint. The walls beyond were sturdy stone, blackened in places by years of smoke and sparks. At the center stood a massive anvil, and atop it glowed a molten piece of metal, waiting to be shaped by force and precision. In the corner, a large trough of water stood ready, its surface eerily still except for the occasional hiss of steam as heated iron was plunged into its depths.


    “This is where you’ll work,” Bartho said, handing Azrael a pair of thick leather gloves and a heavy apron. “These will help you handle the heat and protect you from sparks.”


    Azrael donned the gloves and apron, their weight a grounding presence. His gaze wandered to the bellows, positioned near the forge, its leather worn but sturdy. Bartho shifted the coal box toward the center of the room, clearing enough space for Azrael to move freely.


    The heat pressed down like a physical force, and the rhythmic crackling of the fire filled every corner of the room, demanding focus and resilience. This was no ordinary task—this was the domain of flame and steel, and Azrael would have to prove himself worthy within its relentless grasp.


    "Get to work," Bartho commanded before leaving Azrael alone with the bellows. Azrael immediately set to work, pumping the heavy contraption and feeding the fiery forge with air. The heat in the room was stifling, every breath a struggle, but he was determined to honor his end of the bargain.


    Sweat poured down his face, and his arms burned with relentless strain as he pushed and pulled the bellows with all his might. Two hours had passed, each minute an ordeal that tested his endurance. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles trembling from the effort, yet his resolve held firm despite his body nearing its limits.


    Bartho, observing from the doorway with a knowing smirk, finally decided to step in. "Time for a break," he announced in a calm but firm tone.


    "I can keep going," Azrael protested instantly, his voice strained and defiant.


    "If you collapse here, you''ll be of no use to anyone. Trust the eye of an old man, boy." Bartho crossed his arms and waited patiently. Reluctantly, Azrael stopped, his exhaustion evident, though frustration flickered in his eyes at being forced to pause.


    Amused yet intrigued, Bartho studied the boy closely. “How did you lose your eye?” he asked bluntly, his gaze lingering on Azrael’s exhausted figure.


    Azrael responded without looking up from his blistered hands, which were red and raw even beneath the gloves. “Bard gouged it out,” he said coolly, his tone devoid of emotion.


    Bartho stared at him in disbelief, his voice rising in sheer outrage. “What?! They’re your relatives! They went through the trouble of taking you in!”


    Azrael scoffed bitterly. “Yeah, yeah, blah blah. Eccentric bastards, only ever out for themselves.” Yet as he spoke, he faltered, his head snapping up as though a realization had struck him. Something in Bartho’s words rang odd, pulling his attention away from his anger.


    He fixed Bartho with a piercing stare, the smith’s face still etched with astonishment as he processed the revelation. But Azrael’s thoughts had already veered elsewhere. “You said they took me in. Do you know more about that? Like when exactly it happened?”


    For the first time, he realized how hazy the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Lindell truly were. Unease crept into his mind, a nagging sense of something crucial yet elusive.


    Bartho furrowed his brow, his face tightening in concentration. “Let me think. The day they set out… something unusual did happen here. It was the first public execution in over ten years. But I can’t remember the exact date.”


    Azrael stared off into the distance, lost in thought, as an unsettling feeling churned within him. It was as if pieces of a puzzle refused to align. “Something doesn’t add up… but what?” he murmured quietly, more to himself than to Bartho.


    “You’re certain you can’t recall the exact date?” he asked again, struggling to mask his disappointment.


    Bartho shook his head with a slow sigh. “No, I’m sorry.”


    Azrael’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the uncertainty. He couldn’t explain why this matter gnawed at him so persistently, but it was as if a silent voice urged him to dig deeper, to uncover something vital that eluded him.


    Then, Bartho’s expression shifted, and his voice cut through the moment’s heaviness. “Wait! If you’re looking for the exact date, go to the town square. There’s a gallows there, and next to it stands a stone plaque. It’s engraved with the names of the executed and their dates of death.”


    The heaviness lifted instantly, replaced by a spark of determination and a faint flicker of hope. “Thank you, Bartho. I’ll check it out tonight,” Azrael replied, a faint sense of relief washing over him.


    “Feel free to,” Bartho said casually. “If you want, I can accompany you. It’s not safe for you to walk through the city alone. If it were just the forest where you usually train, there would be fewer issues.”


    Azrael’s eye twitched, a reflex of his growing tension, but he didn’t let it show. “How does he know so much about me?” A sense of unease stirred within him as he considered the possibility that he had become the talk of the town. “Is gossip really that fast around here?” The thought unsettled him—his every move seemingly on display for the people of the city.