**Chapter 1: The Last Blacksmith**

  The boy ran through the cobbled streets of Eldoria, his breath fogging in the biting winter air. His boots skidded on frost-slicked stones, nearly sending him sprawling, but he pressed on, his thin cloak flapping wildly behind him. The village unfolded ahead, a patchwork of stone cottages and timber structures blanketed in snow. Beyond them loomed the northern forest, its towering, gnarled trees wrapped in an icy embrace.

  Eldoria in winter was a cruel kind of beautiful. Snow weighed heavy on the rooftops, sparkling faintly under a gray, overcast sky. But the beauty was deceiving. Winters here were merciless, and no one knew it better than the villagers, whose lives revolved around surviving the long, frigid months. The icy winds tore through even the thickest furs, and the cold seeped into bones like a venom, relentless and unyielding.

  As the boy reached the central square, his chest tightened at the sight of the grim preparations. Villagers hauled bundles of firewood to the towering stone pyre at the square’s center. Its base had grown massive, a desperate attempt to hold off the darkness that threatened to devour them. Hunters stood nearby, sharpening their blades and checking their bows, their faces etched with the weary resolve of those who had seen too many winters. A group of merchants, their wagons laden with supplies, haggled over the claws and fangs of slain monsters, bartering for coin and provisions.

  But the boy didn’t stop to watch. His urgency pushed him onward, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He turned onto a narrow, frozen path that led to the forest’s edge. There, nestled against the looming trees, stood the forge.

  The stone walls of the forge were blackened with years of soot, its chimney belching thick smoke that curled into the wintry sky. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal echoed through the air, a steady, familiar sound that quickened the boy’s steps. Warmth radiated from the forge as he approached, a welcome reprieve from the biting cold.

  Inside, Thorne Ironhand worked the forge, a mountain of a man silhouetted against the glow of molten metal. Sparks erupted with each strike of his hammer, scattering like fireflies before fading into the shadows. His broad shoulders were hunched over his anvil, and his thick arms, bare despite the cold, rippled with corded muscle. A heavy beard streaked with gray framed his weathered face, lending him the air of an immovable force.

  The boy hesitated, his feet rooted to the ground. Thorne’s presence was as imposing as ever, but the weight of his message drove him forward.

  “Don’t just stand there, boy,” Thorne rumbled, his voice deep and commanding. He didn’t look up from his work, the hammer still rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

  “They’re coming,” the boy blurted, his voice trembling. “The scouts saw them.”

  Thorne’s hammer froze mid-swing. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of the forge fire. Slowly, he straightened, turning to face the boy. His gray eyes, sharp as tempered steel, locked onto him.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Two days. Maybe less,” the boy stammered.

  Thorne’s gaze narrowed, but he didn’t falter. He set the hammer down with deliberate care, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. “Then we’ve got work to do.”

  The boy followed Thorne outside as he surveyed the village. Smoke curled from chimneys, mingling with the sharper scent of burning wood. Children clung to their mothers, their wide eyes reflecting the unspoken fear that hung over the village like a storm cloud. Hunters paced the square, testing their weapons, while the blacksmith’s apprentice struggled to haul a bundle of newly forged blades.

  Thorne’s eyes swept over the preparations with a critical gaze. “We’ll need more fire,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Light the edge of the forest. Keep them in the open.” He turned to the boy. “Go to the square. Tell them to pile more wood on the pyre. I’ll bring the weapons soon.”

  The boy nodded and sprinted toward the square, but a nagging unease lingered in the back of his mind. As he glanced back, the forge’s flames seemed to flicker unnaturally, casting long, shifting shadows across the snow.

  ---

  The Northern Wall loomed over Eldoria like a sentinel of old, its jagged stone surface reinforced with thick iron bands and spikes. At five stories high, it was the village’s first and only line of defense against the horrors of the forest. The wall was not smooth; it bore the scars of countless battles—claw marks gouged into the stone, blackened patches from fire, and the occasional skeletal remains of beasts impaled on the iron spikes near the top.

  Torches lined the wall, their flames flickering wildly in the freezing wind, casting eerie shadows on the snow-covered ground below. The villagers had spent days preparing for this moment, and now, they stood shoulder to shoulder with the hardened soldiers of Eldoria, their breath visible in the frigid night air.

  At the top of the wall, soldiers adjusted their crossbows, their faces grim as they scanned the dark tree line. Below, villagers hastily piled more wood against the base of the wall, dousing it with oil to create a fire barrier if the creatures breached. Others carried buckets of boiling tar, their hands trembling from both the cold and the fear of what was to come.

  Thorne Ironhand stood at the gate, his massive hammer resting on his shoulder. He was clad in a thick leather apron reinforced with iron plates, his face a mask of determination. Around him, the village’s makeshift fighters gathered—hunters with bows and spears, blacksmiths wielding hammers and axes, and even farmers clutching pitchforks.

  “They’ll come for the gate first,” Thorne growled, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “Hold your ground. Push them back. If they breach here, it’s over.”

  The ground beneath their feet began to tremble—a low, rhythmic vibration that grew stronger with each passing second. The air filled with a guttural chorus of growls, screeches, and snarls.

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  “They’re coming!” someone shouted from the wall.

  The first wave burst from the forest like a flood of nightmares. Hulking beasts with matted fur and glowing red eyes charged forward, their claws tearing through the snow. Smaller, serpentine creatures slithered alongside them, their fanged mouths snapping at the air. Above, leathery-winged horrors screeched as they dove toward the wall.

  The soldiers let loose a volley of bolts, the air humming with their passage. The first line of creatures fell, their bodies hitting the ground with sickening thuds. But more came, climbing over their fallen kin with a single-minded fury.

  At the wall’s base, villagers hurled torches onto the oil-soaked wood, igniting a wall of fire that roared to life and sent plumes of black smoke into the sky. The flames held back the smaller creatures, their shrieks of pain filling the night as they burned.

  But the larger beasts were undeterred. A massive, wolf-like creature barreled through the fire, its fur alight, and slammed into the gate with enough force to make the iron hinges groan. Thorne stepped forward, his hammer swinging in a brutal arc. The weapon connected with the beast’s skull, shattering it like glass and spraying blood and brain matter across the snow.

  “Keep them off the gate!” Thorne bellowed, his voice a rallying cry.

  On the wall, soldiers and hunters worked in tandem. Crossbowmen picked off the smaller creatures, while others hurled heavy rocks and cauldrons of boiling tar onto the larger ones. A soldier grabbed a writhing serpent that had climbed the wall and slammed it down, driving his blade through its skull before kicking it over the edge.

  The battle was chaos incarnate. A farmer swung his pitchfork wildly, impaling a beast through the chest only to be tackled by another. The two rolled across the ground, the farmer screaming as claws tore into his flesh. Nearby, a hunter drove his knife into the throat of a winged creature, its black blood splattering across his face as he let out a triumphant roar.

  Thorne was a whirlwind of death. His hammer rose and fell with bone-crushing force, each swing sending creatures flying or reducing them to bloody pulp. He didn’t fight with finesse but with raw, unrelenting power. When a serpent coiled around his arm, its fangs sinking into his flesh, he snarled and smashed it against the gate until its body went limp.

  Above him, a soldier shouted a warning. A massive beast, twice the size of the others, was scaling the wall, its claws digging into the stone like daggers. Its eyes glowed with malevolent intelligence as it hauled itself upward, ignoring the bolts that thudded into its hide.

  “Archers! Focus on that one!” the captain roared.

  Bolts peppered the creature, but it kept climbing. Villagers below scrambled to prepare, gathering spears and makeshift weapons. Thorne stepped back, his eyes narrowing as he gripped his hammer tightly.

  The beast reached the top, its roar shaking the wall. It swiped at the nearest soldier, sending him flying with a sickening crunch. Another soldier lunged, only to be caught in the creature’s jaws.

  Thorne didn’t wait. He charged, leaping onto a crate to gain height before swinging his hammer with all his might. The blow struck the creature’s leg, shattering the bone and sending it crashing to the ground below. It howled in pain, thrashing wildly, but Thorne didn’t relent. He brought his hammer down on its skull, silencing it in a spray of blood and bone.

  The battle raged on for hours, the ground around the wall littered with the bodies of monsters and villagers alike. The snow turned crimson, steam rising where hot blood met icy ground.

  As dawn broke, the tide began to turn. The surviving creatures retreated into the forest, their guttural cries fading into the distance.

  Thorne stood amidst the carnage, his hammer slick with blood and his breath coming in ragged gasps. Around him, the villagers began to cheer—a ragged, weary sound that spoke of relief more than victory.

  The Northern Wall had held, but the cost was steep. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, and the fires still burned, sending black smoke into the cold morning air.

  Thorne looked up at the wall, at the soldiers who leaned against the battlements, their faces pale and exhausted. He knew this was only the beginning. The forest would

  send more, and the wall could only hold for so long.

  But for now, they had survived.

  ---

  The battlefield lay quiet. Fires crackled in the distance, their embers drifting into a darkening sky. The cries of retreating monsters echoed faintly in the background, but Eldoria had survived. The village stood—scarred but standing.

  Thorne Ironhand stood in the midst of the carnage, his hammer like an anchor in his trembling hands. His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, each one harder to draw than the last. Blood trickled down his forehead, mingling with the grime and soot that covered his face. He had given everything, every ounce of strength, every bit of himself, to protect the people behind him. And yet, his fight wasn’t over.

  A sharp, searing pain shot through his leg.

  Thorne staggered, looking down to see glossy black spiders crawling over his boot, their venomous fangs sinking deep into his flesh. Their bite was fire and ice all at once, freezing his veins even as it burned through him. He swatted them away with trembling hands, but the damage was done.

  “No,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. His hammer slipped from his grasp and thudded to the ground. He fell to his knees, his body betraying him. “Not like this... Not now.”

  His vision blurred as the venom surged through him. His muscles refused to obey. His strength—his greatest weapon—was gone. He tried to push himself up, hands clawing at the dirt, but it was no use. His body was a prison, heavy and unyielding.

  “Get up, Thorne!” he growled, his voice shaking with frustration. “You can’t let this happen. You swore to protect them!”

  But his limbs were numb. His head spun. The edges of his vision darkened. He collapsed fully to the ground, his cheek pressing into the blood-soaked earth. The villagers’ shouts of alarm felt distant, muffled, like echoes in a dream.

  For a moment, despair crept in.

  “This is it,” he thought bitterly. “After everything, I can’t even keep my promise. Haldor… I’m sorry.”

  Then, as if summoned by his thoughts, an image of Haldor flashed in his mind. His old master, standing by the forge, his hands blackened with soot, his face weathered but kind.

  “Strength isn’t in your arms, boy,” Haldor’s voice rumbled in his memory. “It’s in your heart. Your will. Steel breaks, flesh fails, but a fire that burns in the soul? That’s unstoppable.”

  Thorne clenched his teeth. He remembered the nights spent at the forge, Haldor’s lessons echoing over the rhythmic pounding of steel. He had learned to shape metal, to temper it, to make it unbreakable.

  “Just like the blade, boy,” Haldor would say. “It doesn’t become strong without the fire. Without the struggle.”

  The fire in his chest stirred. His body screamed in agony, the venom tearing through him like claws, but his heart… his heart raged against it.

  “No,” Thorne growled, his voice a low rumble. “Not yet. Not now.”

  The amulet around his neck grew warm against his skin, its runes glowing faintly. His hand trembled as he reached for it, fingers brushing over the etched symbols. He didn’t know what it was or why it reacted now, but he clung to it like a lifeline.

  “I can’t leave them,” he whispered. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to focus, to see the faces of the villagers—scared, hopeful, trusting him. He thought of the children who had laughed as he told them stories, of the families who had depended on him to keep the monsters at bay.

  The warmth of the amulet turned to heat, its glow intensifying. Thorne felt it pulling at him, an ancient force stirring to life. His body was failing, but his will… his will burned hotter than any forge.

  “You think I’m done?” he snarled through gritted teeth. His fists clenched, dirt crumbling between his fingers. “You think I’ll let some venom take me? Take *them*?”

  The amulet pulsed, a heartbeat in sync with his own. Light spilled from it, washing over him in waves of gold and crimson. His vision faltered, the battlefield fading away, replaced by a shimmering void.

  In the stillness, he heard Haldor’s voice again:

  “Fire, boy. Always the fire. Let it burn.”

  Thorne roared, a sound that came from the depths of his soul. He pushed against the darkness, against the venom, against the weight of his failing body. His will was a furnace, stoked by every promise he’d made, every life he’d sworn to protect.

  The light from the amulet engulfed him, brighter than the sun. He felt it pulling him deeper, reshaping him, fusing his essence with its ancient power. Memories flashed before him—his first blade, Haldor’s laugh, the villagers’ faces, and the forge’s eternal flame.

  “If this is what it takes…” he whispered, tears streaking his soot-stained face. “Then so be it.”

  As the light consumed him, Thorne felt a strange peace. His body gave way, but his spirit blazed brighter than ever. He was no longer just a man. He was a promise, a shield, a light in the darkness.

  When the glow finally dimmed, the villagers approached cautiously. Thorne’s body lay still, the amulet resting on his chest, its runes glowing softly. A steady pulse of light emanated from it, like the beating of a heart.

  “He’s gone,” someone whispered, their voice breaking.

  But another voice, trembling with wonder, said, “No… he’s still here. Look.”

  The amulet glowed brighter, its warmth undeniable. Though they didn’t fully understand, they knew one thing: Thorne Ironhand had not failed them.

  He had kept his promise.

  And in the light of that amulet, his will burned on.......!

  But his soul was already left the DRAKHELM

  ---