Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

In a decrepit building at the northern edge of the city, five assassins stood in a perfect circle. Their faces were obscured by dark hoods, their hands hovering over the sinister artifact between them—a black crystal embedded in a metal plate, its surface carved with ancient runes. The Macab pulsed faintly, awaiting the catalyst of their combined mana.

"Are all of them in position?" one of the five asked, his voice sharp and hushed.

The others gave curt nods.

"Alright, then. Shall we begin?"

A final moment of hesitation lingered before they each placed a hand forward, fingers stretching toward the artifact.

Activating the Macab was not just a tactical risk—it was a gamble. The artifact was a one-time use, and more than that, using it left the casters utterly exposed. None of them would be able to fight while maintaining the spell, and their forces were already stretched thin. If they were discovered too soon, there would be no escape.

Still, they had no choice.

With a sharp intake of breath, they began.

Mana flowed from their bodies, siphoned into the artifact. The runes flared to life, flickering between deep purple and an unnatural crimson. A shockwave rippled outward, invisible to the eye but felt through the very bones of the city.

The air grew heavy.

The mana carried with it a whisper, like a hundred voices murmuring at once, clawing at the edges of perception.

Then, in an instant, a shockwave pulsed outward.

It was silent.

Then came the screams.

The effect was immediate and devastating.

Throughout the city, a piercing, collective wail erupted from the streets. People clutched their heads, their eyes wide in terror as unseen horrors clawed at their minds. The Macab's influence twisted perception, flooding their senses with hallucinations and paranoia.

A merchant collapsed near the marketplace, his fingers digging into his scalp. "No, no, no! Stay away!" he shrieked, eyes locked onto something no one else could see. His mouth moved in frantic prayer before he grabbed a dagger and drove it into his own thigh, trying to escape whatever nightmare haunted him.

A group of scholars staggered from an inn, their robes disheveled. One of them, a middle-aged man, turned to his friend with a look of absolute terror. "You—you're one of them," he whispered, voice trembling. His fingers twitched toward his belt.

"W-What? It's me, Aldrin!" his friend stammered, stepping back.

But it was too late. Aldrin lunged, blade in hand.

Nearby, a mother screamed as she clutched her child. "You're not my son! Where is my son!?" she howled, shaking the boy violently as he cried. The magic was warping even the strongest bonds, unraveling the very fabric of reality for those caught in its grasp.

Even trained mages weren't spared.

A young apprentice from the academy fell to his knees, gasping for air. The mana in the air was wrong—it crackled and pulsed unnaturally, like a presence pressing against his skull. The whispers were everywhere. Too loud. Too close.

He tried to focus. He tried to cast a spell to dispel the effect.

But his fingers wouldn't move.

Then came the assassins.

The ones who had been waiting in the shadows, the ones who had hidden themselves within the city—they were unraveling too.

Trained killers emerged from the alleys, but there was no precision to their strikes anymore. They were lost in a frenzy, attacking anyone in sight, their careful discipline erased by the madness. One slammed a dagger into a nobleman's throat, laughing hysterically as blood gushed over his hands. Another tore into a guard, her expression blank, as if possessed.

It was a massacre.

And Kalem felt it.

Kalem's Forge:

Kalem jolted upright from his workbench, his hands instinctively tightening around the metal he had been shaping. A deep sense of wrongness crawled up his spine. The walls of the forge seemed to press in on him, a suffocating force pressing against his mind.

Then the shouting began.

He rushed to the entrance and froze at the sight before him. The street outside was in utter chaos. People—civilians, merchants, even some lesser-ranked mages—were clawing at one another, their faces twisted in either horror or blind rage.

Some had fallen to their knees, clutching their heads, their mouths moving as if speaking to unseen phantoms. Others simply fought, their strikes fueled by fear and madness.

Kalem barely had time to process before a man lunged at him—a blacksmith he recognized, his face contorted into something unrecognizable.

Instinct took over. Kalem twisted to the side, his foot sweeping the man's legs out from under him. He collapsed, panting heavily, eyes darting around like a trapped animal.

"What the hell is this!?" Kalem shouted.

Isolde was already moving.

With a sweep of her hand, ice spread across the street, freezing the most aggressive civilians in place. Her frost covered the cobblestones, forcing some to stumble, giving them a moment to breathe.

"They seem to be affected by some sort of mind-magic," she said, her voice sharp with focus.

"Something like that exists!?" Kalem's voice was laced with frustration.

"Magic has both hard restrictions and soft constraints," Isolde said, her tone calm despite the chaos. "But I don't think this is the time for a philosophical discussion."

She snapped her fingers, a cold mist rolling off her fingertips as the last of the immediate threats were restrained in ice.

"Yeah," Kalem muttered.

He moved fast.

His armor was already near the forge's anvil. He strapped it on, adjusting the reinforced plating with swift, practiced hands. Then, he reached for the crate—his personal arsenal. Slinging it onto his back, he felt the familiar weight settle against him.

Behind him, Onyx snorted, shifting uneasily. The bull could sense something unnatural in the air.

Kalem turned to him, placing a steadying hand on his flank. "Stay here, boy. If anything comes close, deal with it."

Onyx gave a low, rumbling huff in response.

With everything in place, Kalem turned to Isolde.

"Let's go."

Without another word, the two launched into motion, heading toward the source of the disturbance.

The city streets blurred past them, filled with the sounds of shouts, the clang of weapons, and the eerie murmur of unseen whispers. The chaos was spreading faster than they could have anticipated.

But even through the confusion, Kalem's mind was racing.

What kind of magic was this? And how the hell were they going to stop it?