Whispers in the Veins
The storm had subsided, leaving behind a city drenched in cold mist. Gas lamps flickered along the labyrinthine streets, their dim light barely holding back the darkness that lurked in the corners of the sprawling metropolis. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, burning tallow, and the lingering traces of something acrid—alchemy at work in unseen corners.
He moved through the alleyways like a specter, footsteps light, every muscle coiled with awareness. He had no name in this life, not yet, but names were merely vessels for identity. What mattered was power.
He reached a derelict building near the slums, where the walls bore faded engravings, sigils of an old order that had long since crumbled. The moment he stepped inside, he sensed it—an undercurrent of resonance with the engraving embedded in his flesh. This place was a relic of the past, a site once used for Engraving refinement.
His fingers traced the worn symbols on the stone walls. The knowledge in his mind burned, whispering theories, formulas, and possibilities.
This city held secrets, and secrets held value.
A sharp rustle behind him—movement.
He turned swiftly, just as a shadow lunged from the darkness. A dagger glinted in the low light, aimed for his throat.
Instinct took over. His engraved palm pulsed with power, and the symbols shifted, reacting to his will. Time slowed as his mind grasped the moment, every detail sharpening with unnatural clarity.
With practiced precision, he twisted, his fingers latching onto the assailant's wrist. A flick of his arm, a well-placed maneuver, and the attacker was slammed into the cold stone floor. The dagger clattered away, spinning into the dust.
A gasp. A young face, wide-eyed, stared up at him—malnourished, desperate, but not without intelligence.
"You're not from here," the boy hissed, voice edged with defiance despite his predicament.
He studied the boy for a moment. He was right. He wasn't from here. But soon, this place would belong to him.
A slow smile crept onto his lips. "No, I'm not. But I think you're going to tell me everything I need to know about this city."
The boy's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he held his wrist, eyes darting between the dagger lying useless on the ground and the stranger standing above him. There was something unnatural about this man—his poise, his cold precision. Even in the slums, where survival demanded ruthlessness, this stranger exuded something else entirely.
Power.
"You're wasting time," the stranger said, voice steady. "You wanted to kill me, but now you're just staring. So, tell me—what's your name?"
The boy hesitated. Giving away his name so easily could be dangerous, but refusing could be worse. "Ryn," he muttered.
"Ryn," the stranger repeated as if testing the name. "Tell me, Ryn, who controls this part of the city?"
The boy wiped his nose with the back of his hand, hesitating before answering. "The Red Knives. They run the slums. If you're here alone, you won't last the night."
A flicker of amusement crossed the stranger's face. "Then I suppose I'll have to change that."
Ryn swallowed hard. He didn't know whether to admire this man's confidence or fear his insanity. "Who the hell are you?"
The stranger extended his palm, revealing the engraving—symbols shifting and pulsing faintly with an inner glow. Ryn's breath caught in his throat. He had seen Engraving Masters before, but never one with such an unfamiliar mark.
"That's not any inscription I've seen before," Ryn whispered.
"Because it is mine alone," the stranger replied. "And now, I will refine it."
With that, he stepped forward, pressing his palm against the nearest stone wall. The engraving on his skin flared, spreading across the stone like liquid fire. Ryn stumbled back as the sigils pulsed, their glow illuminating the room with an eerie light.
The old engravings on the walls resisted at first, but they were outdated and weak. They crumbled, yielding to the stranger's will. The symbols realigned, reforming into something new, something potent. But then, something unexpected happened.
The engraving on his palm began to consume the remnants of the old inscriptions. The symbols on the wall twisted and warped, breaking down into raw energy before being absorbed into his own mark. His veins darkened for a brief moment, his body trembling as the engraving pulsed with newfound intensity.
And then, a whisper.
—"This is not the first. Nor will it be the last. You walk a path unseen, engraved before time itself."
The voice coiled around his mind like a serpent, neither male nor female, yet filled with something ancient and unfathomable. For a brief moment, the world around him blurred, as if something vast and distant was watching.
Then, it was gone.
The stranger turned, his eyes now gleaming with an unsettling brilliance. "Now, Ryn, you have a choice. Serve me, and I will show you a world beyond this slum. Refuse... and you will become its dust."
Ryn didn't need to think long. He nodded.
And so, the first follower was bound to his cause.
*****
Ryn trailed behind the stranger as they weaved through the labyrinth of alleys, their path shrouded in mist and the lingering scent of decay. Every few moments, Ryn's gaze flickered toward the man's palm, where the eerie engraving pulsed with an unnatural rhythm. He had seen Engraving Masters before, but never one whose mark seemed... alive.
His gut told him he should run. But something deeper, something primal, told him to stay.
The stranger hadn't given his name. He hadn't needed to. His presence alone carried weight, like an unspoken command pressing into Ryn's bones.
"Where are we going?" Ryn finally asked.
"To find ink and steel," the stranger replied, his voice smooth yet edged with something cold. "I need tools to refine my engraving further. And you need to learn why you've been spared."
Ryn swallowed.
Spared.
The word hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
They passed through the slums like drifting shadows, stepping over sleeping beggars and avoiding the watchful eyes of Red Knife enforcers. Eventually, they stopped before an old workshop, its wooden sign long rotted away. The heavy iron door bore remnants of ancient sigils; their power nearly faded but still radiated a quiet menace.
The stranger raised his engraved palm and pressed it to the door. A faint shimmer ran across the sigils—then, one by one, they unraveled, their symbols breaking apart and dissolving into threads of light.
Consumed.
Ryn tensed. "What are you?"
The stranger turned, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "That is the wrong question, Ryn."
The iron door groaned open.
Inside, the workshop was abandoned, but not untouched. Dust clung to the tools left behind—chisels, hammers, engraved plates of lead and silver. A forge lay dormant in the corner, its coals long and cold. And yet, something unseen still lingered within these walls.
The moment they stepped inside, the engraving on the stranger's palm flared again. The whisper returned.
—"Forge the path. Bind the unknown. Carve existence anew."—
The stranger exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to react. But Ryn noticed.
"You hear something, don't you?" he asked.
For the first time, hesitation flickered across the man's face. Then, he smiled—a slow, knowing curve of the lips. "Soon, you will too."
Ryn felt the cold bite into his spine. He had just taken his first step into something far greater than he had ever imagined.
And there would be no turning back.