THEY THREW ME INTO THE ABYSS, SO I DEVOURED EVERYTHING

THE OUTCAST FORGE

The icy rain fell in thick, heavy sheets, washing grease and rotten gutter water down the cobblestones of the lower district. Felix kept his head down, the deep woolen hood pulled low over his forehead. He hugged the shadow of the stone walls, his boots making no sound against the wet rock.

Even in the dead of night, the slums were alive with low, desperate energy. Drunks stumbled out of crooked taverns, and ragged refugees huddled under wooden awnings for warmth. Every few minutes, a squad of city watchmen marched through the main street, their silver chestplates shining in the dim light of tallow lamps. They carried long pikes and peered suspiciously into every dark doorway, clearly on high alert.

"Look at them strutting," the Void Sovereign whispered in Felix’s mind, its tone sharp and mocking. "Fat, soft pigs in shiny suits. A quick pulse of black fire would melt their armor into their skin."

"Not yet," Felix muttered into his collar, keeping his face hidden as a pair of guards walked past. "We need steel. Raw steel and cold iron. My right hand is a weapon, but the rest of my ribs are still bare."

He turned off the main thoroughfare, cutting through a narrow, stench-filled alley that sloped steeply down toward the old canal. At the end of the dead-end lane sat a low, lopsided stone building with a chimney puffing thick, black coal smoke into the gray rain. A battered iron sign hung over the doorway, swinging on a rusted hinge: Kaelen’s Works.

Felix pushed the heavy oak door open. The bell above the frame gave a dull, cracked chime.

The air inside was thick and hot, smelling strongly of hot sulfur, coal dust, and scorched grease. A single hanging lantern illuminated racks of dull iron shovels, dented breastplates, and blunt hunting knives. At the back of the shop, standing over a glowing orange anvil, was a broad, barrel-chested man with a thick gray beard and a faded leather apron strapped across his scarred shoulders.

The man didn't look up from his work. He raised a heavy iron hammer and brought it down hard on a red-hot iron horseshoe.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

"We are closed for the night," the blacksmith grunted, his voice sounding like two dry grindstones rubbing together. "Come back at sunrise if you need a pot patched or a donkey shod."

"I am not here for pots, Kaelen," Felix said, his voice flat as he stepped further into the room and let the heavy door swing shut behind him.

The blacksmith stopped his hammer mid-air. He slowly turned his head, his small, dark eyes narrowing as he looked Felix up and down. The moment the door closed, the ambient heat of the forge seemed to drop dramatically. The orange glow of the charcoal fire flickered, sputtered, and turned a dim, sickly yellow.

Kaelen set the hammer down on the anvil with a slow, deliberate thud. He wiped his soot-stained hands on his apron, his gaze locking onto the black wool cloak draped over Felix’s right arm.

"You bring a foul draft into my shop, stranger," Kaelen said softly, his posture shifting as his weight balanced onto the balls of his feet. "The rain outside is cold, but the air around your boots smells like dry ash and cold iron. Who sent you?"

"No one sent me," Felix said, taking another step forward. "I need armguards. Heavy void-iron or thick leather plates. Something that can cover a full arm up to the shoulder without restricting the joint."

Kaelen’s eyes flared with sudden, sharp suspicion. He reached under his workbench, his calloused fingers wrapping around the hilt of a broad, flat-bladed shortsword hidden behind the bellows. With a smooth, practiced motion, he pulled the weapon free. A faint blue rune carved into the crossguard flared to life, casting a cold light over the blacksmith's scarred face.

With his left hand, Kaelen reached out and kicked a heavy iron bolt into place on the shop door, locking them both inside the tight, hot room.

"You speak of void-iron like it is common scrap," Kaelen growled, raising the glowing rune-blade between them. "That metal has been banned in the lower city for twenty years. Only dark cults and dead men ask for it. State your real name, or I will put three inches of steel into your throat."

"You used to work for the grand armory, didn't you?" Felix asked quietly, ignoring the glowing blade pointed at his chest. "Before the Vane family bought out your workshop and had the council strip your master's seal. You hate them as much as I do."

Kaelen’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "The Vane family are greedy dogs, but that does not answer my question. Who are you, and what is that unnatural stench clinging to your clothes?"

Felix stared at the blacksmith for a long, heavy second. He could hear the rain lashing against the small glass window above the anvil. The Void Sovereign stirred in his chest, purring like a large, dangerous cat.

Show him, the entity urged. Let the old smith see the edge of the knife.

Felix raised his left hand and slowly grasped the edge of his heavy wool hood. He pulled it back, letting the damp fabric fall onto his shoulders.

The faint yellow lantern light fell across Felix's pale, sharp face. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain, but his eyes were completely unnatural, glowing with a cold, lightless purple that seemed to drink in the ambient shadow of the room.

Kaelen gasped, taking an involuntary half-step back, his boots grinding into the coal dust on the floor. His grip on the rune-blade loosened slightly.

"By the ancestors," Kaelen whispered, his voice shaking. "Your eyes..."

Felix didn't answer. He raised his right hand and unbuckled the heavy leather strap holding his cloak in place. He let the dark fabric slide off his arm and hit the floor with a wet thud.

His entire right arm was exposed. From his wrist to his shoulder, his skin was completely gone, replaced by overlapping, jet-black chitinous scales that gleamed like polished obsidian in the dim forge light. Thin, thread-like black tendrils writhed beneath the surface of the scales, pulsing with a faint, dark violet energy.

Kaelen dropped his shortsword. The blade hit the stone floor with a loud, metallic clatter, its blue rune flickering out instantly. The broad-shouldered blacksmith backed up until his spine hit his own anvil, his face draining of all color as he stared at the dark scales covering Felix’s arm.

"The defect," Kaelen breathed, his eyes wide with absolute horror and awe. "The broken core from the ritual hall.

You carry the Void Sovereign."