In the land between two rivers, where reeds swayed in the wind and the waters fed the people, there lived a chieftain named Sharru. He was not the strongest among men, nor the tallest, but his will was iron, and his people trusted him when the world grew dark.
That year, the floods were poor. Hunger stalked the huts, and worse yet, word came that the Northern Tribe was marching. They were many — too many — and they hungered for the marshes where Sharru's people lived. If the marshes were taken, his tribe would wither and starve.
By night, Sharru prayed. He knelt by the river's edge, his hands sinking into the mud, and he called upon Enki, lord of rivers and craft, keeper of secrets hidden in water and clay.
"Great Enki," Sharru said, "my warriors are few. The Northern Tribe comes like a storm. Tell me how to endure when stone blades shatter bone, when arrows fall like rain. Give me the means to stand, and I will give you my life."
That night, as he slept, Enki came to him in a dream. The god rose from the river, his beard shimmering like fish-scales, his eyes glowing with fire and water.
"You ask to endure, son of the marshes," Enki said. "Then wear a skin not born of flesh. Let bronze be your scales, let copper guard your head. Forge this gift, and you shall stand when all others fall."
Sharru woke with the vision burning in his mind. a second skin, hammered in fire, shining as the sun.
He called his smiths, and together they labored. Bronze was hammered into small plates, bound upon leather. A helm was shaped, round and unyielding, the first of its kind. When Sharru donned it, the firelight danced across him, and his people fell silent in awe. He was no longer only their chieftain — he was something more.
The Battle of the Marshes
At dawn, the Northern Tribe came. Their banners bore wolves, their cries carried across the water. Three times their number stood against Sharru's warriors. Mothers clutched children; the old men sharpened spears with trembling hands.
The enemy loosed arrows first. They fell in black clouds, hissing like rain. Sharru stepped forward alone. Arrows struck his chest and clattered harmlessly into the mud.
A cry rose from his men — not of fear, but of wonder. If their chieftain could walk through death untouched, then they too could face it. They surged after him.
The clash came in the reeds, water rising red with blood. Spears thrust, blades struck, but none pierced Sharru's bronze shell. He moved like a storm, breaking through the enemy's ranks. Where his axe fell, men died. Where his bronze scales gleamed, no weapon found purchase.
Then he came upon the Northern chieftain — a giant draped in wolf pelts. The man's spear lunged straight for Sharru's heart. Bronze rang out like thunder as the point shattered against his chest. In the same breath, Sharru's axe descended, and the wolf-king fell.
The sight broke the Northern Tribe. Their cries faltered, their lines shattered. By dusk, they were fleeing into the marshes, leaving the dead behind.
Sharru stood among his warriors, his bronze armour gleaming, his breath heavy but unbroken. The marshes remained theirs. Hunger would not claim his people that year.
And in the eyes of all who saw him that day, Sharru was no longer just a man. He was the Bronze-Bound.
The Akkadian army came with the dawn.
shields locked, spears bristling, war drums pounding like thunder across the marshes. Sharru's warriors stood trembling, outnumbered five to one.
Sharru raised his axe high. "Do not fear! The gods have given us these marshes, and we shall not yield them!"
His men roared back, but fear still clung to them. Only when they saw him stride forward — clad in his bronze shell, arrows clattering harmlessly from his chest — did their courage return.
The battle crashed like a storm. For a time, Sharru was unstoppable, his axe cleaving through bronze and bone alike. His men followed in his wake, shouting his name.
But the Akkadian shield-wall held. Their spears stabbed in rhythm, relentless. One struck beneath his arm. Another tore into his thigh. Sharru staggered, but did not fall.
An Akkadian captain shoved forward, his face streaked with war paint, his eyes burning with fury. He sneered at the sight of the wounded chieftain.
"So this is the man who thinks himself bronze," the captain spat. "You bleed like any other."
Sharru's breath was ragged, his axe slick with blood. "I am the gift of Enki," he growled. "And I will not fall to dogs."
He lunged, his axe shattering a shield and splitting the soldier behind it. But the captain was fast. His spear thrust into Sharru's ribs, and the Bronze-Bound dropped to his knees.
The Akkadians swarmed him. Hammers smashed against his armour, denting it inward. Blades hacked at the straps until they tore away. The captain himself ripped the helm from Sharru's head.
Sharru spat blood and laughed, even as the captain raised his spear. "Kill me, and you will know Enki's curse."
"Then let his curse be mine," the captain snarled, and drove the spear across Sharru's throat.
The Bronze-Bound fell, and silence rippled through the marsh. His warriors fled, their faith broken. The Akkadians stood triumphant.
The captain bent over the corpse, prying at the ruined armour. Piece by piece, he dragged it away, until at last he lifted the bloodied bronze shell to his chest.
"Even gods' gifts belong to the strong," he muttered, strapping the armour across his shoulders.
But the bronze was not still. The plates shuddered. They shifted like scales alive, crawling across his body, sealing to his flesh. His men cried out as the armour knit itself whole again, wrapping him from neck to heel.
The captain staggered, gasping as the bronze clamped down, not as protection but as possession. From the earth at his feet, the bronze stretched, forming a weapon in his hand — a great curved blade, heavy and gleaming like liquid fire.
He looked down at his new skin, flexing his gauntleted fingers.
"This…" he whispered, half in awe, half in terror. "This is no armour. This is a god's second body."
The Akkadian soldiers knelt before him, too afraid to look upon the living bronze that had claimed their leader.
And in the reeds where Sharru's blood still darkened the water, the river whispered with Enki's voice, unheard
"The gift passes on. But the gift is never free."
The Akkadian captain stood trembling, the bronze alive upon him. His men knelt, afraid to breathe. The armour tightened like a serpent around his ribs, its plates shifting, adjusting, as though weighing him.
Then, just as suddenly as it had bound him, the bronze began to break apart.
"What—what is happening?" he gasped, clawing at it.
The scales cracked with a sound like splitting bone. They folded, twisted, and collapsed inward, their glow sinking into a single shape — a heavy bracelet of bronze and blackened steel clamped tight around his dominant wrist.
The captain staggered to his knees, staring at it. His men whispered in awe and fear.
"Is it cursed?" one muttered.
"Throw it away, my lord!" cried another.
But he could not. The bracelet pulsed faintly, veins of red light running through the metal. He felt it — a current like molten fire coursing through his veins. Strength swelled in his arms, his breath came like thunder, and for a moment he thought his very heart beat in rhythm with the bronze.
He raised his wrist, and the air itself seemed to thrum. The bronze band gleamed, and from its core came the faint outline of the curved blade he had held moments before, a ghost of steel awaiting his call.
The captain laughed — a low, disbelieving laugh. "No curse. No curse at all. The armour has chosen me."
His soldiers looked to him with wide eyes, uncertain whether to bow or to flee.
He clenched his fist, feeling the bronze respond, a surge of power locking into his bones. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that this was no mere trophy of conquest. It was a covenant.
The Bronze-Bound was dead. But his armour lived on, and now it had found a new master.