I was just a blacksmith. A regular man. No fame, no glory. I had a plain life—only the forge, the ring of hammer on metal, and the plain satisfaction in creating something useful. The rest of the world? It felt distant, as if it didn't matter. I was content with the thud of the anvil, the bellows, the iron. And honestly? That was enough.
But that night… everything shifted.
At first, it was subtle. A tremor beneath my feet—barely there. I thought it was just fatigue playing tricks on me. But then it grew stronger. Something deep underground groaned, as if waking after centuries of silence. The air thickened, heavy like before a thunderstorm. But this wasn't a storm.
This was something else.
I left the forge, hammer in my hand, racing heart. Dark had fallen outside, clouds above boiling like water through grime.
My blood ran cold.
One scream became two. Then three. A chorus of madness.
Panic flooded the streets. People ran, their faces twisted with fear, as if chased by death itself. Smoke wrapped its way up into the air—thick, black, and billowing high. Then came the flames—roaring and ravenous, burning everything that they touched. I saw mothers grabbing at their children, frantically attempting to flee from the blaze, their eyes wide with terror-filled despair.
But the fire was not the worst.
No—what came after was.
Raiders. The figures shrouded in darkness rode swift down the streets on horseback, their faces void, their swords merciless. They glided like phantoms, taking down anyone who stood in their path, pillaging and butchering with frightening ease.
I stood still.
I was no warrior. I was not trained for combat. My hammer, battered by years of toil, was no battle hammer. But as I stood there, watching the horror, something broke inside me. I could not escape. Not while others died. Not while children wept.
So I escaped.
Not away—but into the chaos.
I ran through the burning streets, searching for someone—anyone—I could save. That's where I found her.
A small girl. At most, two. Standing all by herself down the middle of the village, trembling, wide eyes with horror. She hadn't screamed—only stared, as if she couldn't process what was happening.
A raider charged, sword raised, aiming for the girl. I shouted and ran toward them. The sword descended—too fast. I raised my hammer. It wasn't enough.
Pain spread through my side as metal sank deep. But I did not care. I pushed past it, pushing the girl out of my way with what was left of me.
Blood trickled through my tunic. The world spun round. But the child lived. That was all.
Then—darkness.
It wasn't quiet. It wasn't still. It was savage. Like being ripped out of the world. My head screamed as I was dragged into nothing, into a void.
But then—light.
Warm. Breath.
I gasped in air, lungs filling for the first time. Calloused hands cradled me, awkward but gentle. My lids opened.
A woman's face, streaked with sweat, tears still in her eyes—but she was smiling. A tired, relieved smile, like she'd been waiting for this moment forever.
Beside her, a man stood—shaking, staring at me in awe.
"What do you think, honey?" he whispered softly.
I blinked. The room was dim and old-fashioned.
"Damien," the woman breathed. Her voice was low.
"Damien Frost," the man echoed, a grin of pride on his lips. "It fits."
Damien Frost.
The name echoed in my mind.
And as I remained there, staring up at them, one thing became absolute deep within my heart.
This was just the beginning.