The Weight of Steel and Ink

The abandoned workshop exuded an ancient stillness, broken only by the slow creaking of rotted floorboards beneath their steps. Dust hung in the air like frozen motes, caught in the dim light filtering through cracked windows. Tools, long untouched, lay scattered across stone tables—chisels dulled by time, ink bottles dried to crusted remnants. Yet despite the decay, something unseen thrummed within these walls, an echo of past craftsmen, their knowledge lingering like ghosts in the air.

‎The engraving on his palm pulsed again.

‎—"Forge the path. Bind the unknown. Carve existence anew."—

‎The whisper sent a shiver up his spine. It was neither instruction nor command, but a statement of inevitability. His fate was already inscribed, though its meaning remained elusive.

‎Ryn, standing a few paces behind, exhaled sharply. "This place feels… wrong."

‎The stranger—his name still unspoken—walked forward with purpose, his gaze scanning the workshop with practiced calculation. "It feels old," he corrected, running his fingers over a rusted engraving chisel. "And old things often hide power."

‎Ryn didn't look convinced, but he stayed quiet.

‎The stranger moved toward the forge. Once, it must have roared with heat, shaping metal into engraved tools of precision. Now, it lay dormant, its heart cold. He knelt, pressing his engraved palm against the blackened stone. Symbols flickered, and for a moment, he felt it—the weight of forgotten hands, the endless toil of craftsmen refining their work, the echoes of ink and steel.

‎A hunger stirred within the engraving on his palm.

‎The old sigils carved into the forge trembled, their fading power drawn toward him. He inhaled sharply as the symbols disintegrated, unraveling into threads of raw inscription that flowed into his engraving. His veins darkened momentarily, a sensation like molten metal seeping into his bones. The forge had relinquished its final secrets.

‎Ryn stumbled back. "What… what did you just do?"

‎The stranger flexed his fingers. The engraving on his palm had grown stronger, its glow deeper, more intricate. "I took what was left."

‎Ryn's expression twisted into something between awe and fear. "You… consume engravings?"

‎The stranger didn't answer immediately. He turned to the workbenches, scanning the tools laid before him. Ink and steel. That was what he had come for. He reached for a chisel, running his thumb along its edge. The steel was tarnished, but its structure remained sound. He could refine it.

‎He took a seat at the largest table, laying out the tools methodically. He gestured for Ryn to come closer. "Watch carefully," he instructed. "You may not understand yet, but in time, you will."

‎Ryn hesitated, then stepped forward.

‎With practiced precision, the stranger took a fresh sheet of engraving parchment—one of the few untouched by decay—and dipped a quill into the last vestiges of ink. His movements were smooth, controlled. The moment the tip of the quill touched the parchment, the engraving on his palm reacted.

‎The ink darkened, thickening unnaturally. Symbols twisted, shifting from their original form into something new. The parchment trembled as the inscription took hold, a binding far stronger than any standard engraving. It was absorbing his essence.

‎Then, the whisper returned.

‎—"The first mark is made. The path is sealed. The wheel turns."—

‎The quill snapped in his grip. A sharp breath escaped him as the weight of the unseen force pressed against his mind.

‎Ryn recoiled. "That voice… you heard it too, didn't you?"

‎The stranger exhaled, his fingers tightening around the remnants of the quill. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at the parchment.

‎The inscription he had drawn was no longer mere ink on paper. It **hummed** with life, the symbols shifting as if breathing. It was unlike any engraving he had ever seen before.

‎A slow smile curled his lips.

‎"The first step," he murmured.

‎Ryn shuddered, but despite himself, he leaned closer.

‎He had a feeling that whatever had just been created… it would change everything.

The parchment still hummed with life, its ink shifting subtly like veins pulsing beneath translucent skin. The stranger's fingers hovered over it, tracing the air above the symbols. A sense of satisfaction curled in his chest—this was no ordinary engraving. This was something new.

‎Ryn swallowed hard. "What… what exactly did you just make?"

‎The stranger didn't answer immediately. He studied the shifting script, then placed his palm flat against the parchment. A slow pulse emanated from his engraving, resonating with the ink as if they were whispering secrets to one another.

‎Then, abruptly, the parchment burned.

‎Ryn flinched as blackened embers curled at the edges, devouring the inscription like a starving beast. The stranger, however, merely watched. The flames did not spread beyond the parchment. They moved with purpose, consuming only what had been written, as if the engraving had reached its limit.

‎When the last ember flickered out, all that remained was a fine layer of ash, delicate as snowfall. The stranger ran his finger through it, feeling the grainy texture between his fingertips.

‎"The ink could not bear the weight of the inscription," he murmured. "It was too… incomplete."

‎Ryn stared at him, equal parts fascination and wariness. "Incomplete? It looked—no, it felt—like something powerful."

‎The stranger met his gaze. "Power demands a foundation. A proper vessel." He gestured toward the forge. "This was a test, and it failed. But failure is also a step forward."

‎The weight of those words settled in Ryn's chest. He had spent most of his life running, surviving—never truly learning. But watching this man work, seeing the depths of knowledge behind his every movement, Ryn realized just how little he understood about power.

‎"Then… what's next?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

‎The stranger stood, brushing the last of the ashes from his fingertips. "Now, we find something that will not burn."