The capital's spires loomed like jagged teeth against the inked sky as Kaden and Serena slipped through back alleys, their cloaks blending with the shadows.
The air smelled of damp stone and distant smoke—suspicion clung to it, thick as fog.
Kaden's fingers brushed the hammer at his belt, its weight a silent promise.
Tonight, we hunt, he thought, though his jaw tightened at the thought of what lay ahead.
Serena nudged his arm, her charcoal sketchbook already open.
"Basement entrance. Three guards. Drunk," the words slanted across the page.
Her eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, flicked to a rusted iron door half-hidden by a crumbling wall.
Kaden nodded, his own gaze scanning the guards: two slumped against a barrel, one fumbling with a wineskin.
Amateur.
The door creaked open, and they descended into the underground auction—a cavernous chamber lit by flickering soul-lamps, their light casting grotesque shadows on the walls.
Whispers swirled like vipers: "Blacksmiths… gone silent… the Council's hand…" Kaden's spine stiffened.
They're closer than I thought.
A stage rose at the far end, draped in velvet the color of dried blood.
A woman stepped forward—Marta, as described.
Her purple gown clung to her like a second skin, her smile sharp enough to cut.
In her hand, a staff glowed with a pulsating crystal; Kaden's skin prickled.
Soul magic.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and those who prefer not to be either," she purred, her voice a velvet whip, "tonight's crown jewel arrives. Forged in the fires of the Shattered Anvil, etched with the very runes of the God of Smiths himself—" She paused, letting the silence stretch, "—a soul-blooded blade fragment."
The crowd leaned forward as a servant lifted a glass case.
Inside lay a shard of steel, its surface marred by cracks but still radiating a faint, golden hum.
Kaden's breath hitched.
That's it.
The same resonance he'd felt in the ruins of his master's old forge.
The system pinged in his mind: "High-concentration memory residue detected. Acquisition recommended."
Bidding began.
A portly merchant with a ruby ring opened at 500 gold.
A hooded figure countered at 700.
Kaden waited, his pulse steady.
When the bid reached 1,200, he raised a hand.
"1,500."
Murmurs erupted.
The hooded figure glared; Kaden met their gaze, unflinching.
Serena, lingering near a pillar, subtly tapped her wrist—a signal.
A faint, high-pitched whine pierced the air, inaudible to most but enough to make the hooded figure wince.
Resonance rune.
Their bid faltered at 1,600.
"1,800!" Kaden called, his voice carrying.
The crowd stilled.
Marta's smile widened.
"Going once… going twice… sold to the gentleman in the gray cloak!"
As the crowd dispersed, Marta glided toward Kaden, the staff's light casting her face in eerie relief.
She pressed a wrapped bundle into his hands, her fingers cold as a corpse's.
"Someone's been waiting," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear, "patiently." Then she was gone, melting into the shadows, her laughter trailing like smoke.
Serena materialized at his side, her sketchbook open: "Follow? No. Too risky." Kaden nodded, already turning toward the exit.
The fragment burned through the cloth in his hands—alive.
Their hideout was a garret above a tavern, its walls stained with years of ale and secrets.
Kaden laid the fragment on the forge's anvil, his master's hammer gleaming beside it.
"Here goes," he muttered, pricking his thumb with a nail.
Blood dripped onto the shard, and the air thickened.
The forge flared—blue, not orange.
The fragment shuddered, runes igniting like stars.
A vision swirled: a young man with Kaden's jawline stood at an ancient forge, sweat glistening on his brow.
"You swore," he snarled, his voice raw, "the Hammer would never be used to kill gods. To control them."
Beside him stood figures in silver robes, their faces veiled in mist.
One spoke, their voice a distorted echo: "The old ways are dead, Hawke. Power demands sacrifice."
The vision flickered.
"You'll regret this," young Hawke spat, "all of you." Then it vanished, leaving the fragment dull and cold.
The system's voice boomed in Kaden's mind: "Memory fragment parsed. Bloodline seal—cracked."
A burning sensation erupted on his forehead.
He staggered, grabbing the anvil for support.
In the dirty mirror across the room, he saw it: a faint, golden rune etched into his skin, like a brand.
His eyes—glowed, a dim, molten gold.
Serena's gasp made him turn.
She'd dropped her sketchbook; her hands flew to her mouth.
Then she scrambled to retrieve it, scribbling furiously: "Hide it. Now. They'll see." She pointed out the window.
Below, in the street, shadows moved—too purposeful, too silent.
Figures in cloaks, their faces hidden, loitered near the tavern door.
Watching.
Waiting.
A knock echoed through the garret—sharp, deliberate.
Three raps.
Serena snatched the fragment, tucking it into her sleeve.
Kaden grabbed his hammer, his grip steady.
He nodded at her, then opened the door.
A man stood there, his armor polished, a badge of office glinting on his chest: a raven clutching a quill.
"Kaden Ironhollow?" he said, his tone neutral.
"Samuel the Inquisitor requests your presence. Regarding… the Blackflame Valley incident."
Kaden's throat tightened.
They know.
He forced a shrug.
"Lead the way."
The inquisitor's man turned, his boots clacking on the stairs.
Serena pressed a note into Kaden's hand as he passed: "Not alone. I'll follow." Her eyes blazed with resolve.
As Kaden stepped into the night, the capital's bells tolled.
The shadows thickened.
Somewhere, a blade hummed—awake, hungry.
The storm, it seemed, had already arrived.