Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

The streets of Gron were drenched in madness. The Macab's influence had turned the city into a living nightmare, twisting reality into a maze of horror and confusion. The air was filled with the sounds of suffering—agonized wails, the metallic clash of weapons, and the guttural screams of those who could no longer distinguish friend from foe. Shadows stretched unnaturally, buildings seemed to sway, and the scent of burning fear clung to the wind.

Amidst the turmoil, Kalem and Isolde pressed forward, their minds strained under the relentless assault of the dark magic. The further they moved, the more intense the pressure became, like unseen fingers clawing into their thoughts.

Kalem's sharp mind, usually a fortress of logic, was beginning to waver. Doubt whispered in his ears. Visions flickered at the edge of his consciousness—scenes of failure, of Onyx collapsing, of himself drowning in a sea of faceless corpses. His body felt heavier with every step, as though unseen chains were dragging him down.

Isolde fared no better. The Frost Reaper, a warrior of unmatched discipline, found her instincts betraying her. Her blade hand trembled, and the world around her twisted into a landscape of swirling frost and blood. The images in her mind blurred reality—enemies shifting into figures from her past, voices she had long buried surfacing with cruel clarity. Her heart pounded in her chest, rage bubbling up like a storm barely contained.

It was happening.

The Macab was sinking its claws into them.

And the assassins were waiting.

A group of cloaked figures emerged from the surrounding chaos. Unlike the panicked and frenzied killers that roamed the city, these assassins moved with precision, their forms shrouded in magic-nullifying amulets. They had been prepared for this moment, the ones chosen to capture the two strongest students before reinforcements arrived.

"Suppress them," one assassin whispered through the linkstone embedded in his collar. "They're starting to resist."

The figures moved in, their presence like specters in the night.

But Kalem and Isolde were not broken yet.

A sudden thrum of energy pulsed through Kalem's body. His focus core—a refined construct within him—flared to life, forming a concentrated mana coating around his body. It was rough, imperfect under the influence of the Minds-Parley, but it was enough. The chaotic whispers dulled, the suffocating pressure around his mind weakened.

Isolde clenched her jaw, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her willpower alone was holding back the full effects of the Macab, but the aggression it left in its wake was harder to contain. Her grip on her greatsword tightened as her aura flared with icy mist, the temperature plummeting around her.

"Good for now," Kalem muttered, flexing his fingers as he regained some sense of control.

"Yes," Isolde replied, though her voice was tight, her body still tense as the anger surged within her.

The assassins did not wait.

The first lunged toward Kalem, daggers coated in a dull, black sheen—poison.

Kalem's crate snapped open, its mechanisms whirring with sharp efficiency. In a blur, two swords flung into his waiting hands, his fingers curling around the hilts as though they had always belonged there. He twisted, his curved blade singing through the air in a controlled arc. The assassin barely had time to react before the tip of Kalem's sword slashed across his chest, sending him staggering back.

Another struck from behind, silent as death.

Kalem ducked just in time. He rolled forward, planting his feet as he adjusted his grip. His curved sword hummed with latent energy, the resonance crystal embedded in its hilt pulsing faintly.

Isolde, meanwhile, was no longer standing still.

Her glacial greatsword lifted, its massive weight an extension of her will. With a single, forceful swing, she carved through the air, releasing a burst of frost. The ground beneath them hardened into ice, freezing the feet of two assassins mid-step. They barely had a chance to register their mistake before Isolde moved.

The first assassin shattered.

A clean, brutal slice separated head from body, frost claiming the remains. The second tried to wrench himself free, only for Isolde's boot to slam into his chest, sending him sprawling into the frozen ground.

They had survived the first strike. But the assassins were relentless.

Kalem and Isolde braced themselves, their breathing steadying despite the lingering effects of the Macab. The battle was not over.

And elsewhere in the city, help was coming.

—

Far from the center of chaos, two figures moved with purpose.

Xel'thar's reptilian eyes gleamed in the dark, his movements swift despite his size. The Draconican mage could feel the disturbance in the city like a pulse against his very soul. This was not mere mind magic—it was something far worse.

"Do you sense it?" Gregor asked, his voice low. His veteran instincts screamed that they were walking into something unnatural.

"Yes," Xel'thar growled, his claws flexing as his arcane senses reached outward. "The distortion is concentrated. It's not random. There is a focal point."

Gregor nodded. "Then let's shut it down."

The two disappeared into the night, shadows moving toward the source of the storm.

The assassins had underestimated the academy once.

They would not make that mistake again.