The dull clang of metal pounding metal, resonated in a thunderous boom. Sizzling water fizzled off, steaming from the iron’s molten body, vaporizing in a pall of smoke.

  The forge was centred around white hot flames, throwing tumultuous shadows into a dancing frenzy, as an arm raised a hammer over an anvil, pounding away at the molten metal, rhythmically, sending up a shower of sparks.

  The iron was swayed under the slow, calculated thumps of a practiced hand, paving way for a thin blade, drawn with a flat, smooth edge on one side. And an irregular curve on the other.

  Azrael wasn’t sure why he was there. Why his presence mattered in the slightest. And yet, there he was. Watching.

  It was strange, knowing what he did about forging a blade, from what Juke’s lessons had taught him, and yet, he had hardly seen his mentor ever work on a forge, nor shown him what it took to carve a blade from a slab of rock. It felt more like he had a strong grasp on how to wield one, but his knowledge of the craft seemed like it came from forging steels, meticulously, than the violent use of varying steels in battle.

  Perhaps miasma was the answer. If he could mould steel with his own energy then there was no point in wasting his time, labouring in a forge.

  Azrael took a step closer, his eyes skimming over the metal the smith was pounding away at.

  His jaw dropped.

  Pale bone extended off the piping hot metal, screaming red, as clumps of silvering and chocolate hair were laid to rest beside the molten work.

  The redhead shifted his gaze to the smith, who leered at him with a pair of lips flashing him a toothy grin, each.

  He leapt back, as if stabbed by a sudden jolt of terror. It was strange to see a trio of heads stare at him. One was nipped off at the neck, fashioning a hollow that housed an inescapable abyss, from the depths of its headless neck. The second head was a dark-skinned man, his skull cracked open, spilling cerebral juice, down his face. The final head fashioned an eyepatch, gazing past him, slobber trickling down his lips, as he mindlessly pounded away, at the bony metal laid out on the forge.

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  Azrael took a step back, his hands quivering, his lips trembling. He could scarcely believe what he had seen. Did I create this abomination?

  It wasn’t long before the pounding came to a sudden halt. The silence resonated louder than the thump of hammer over blade, cleaving through his thoughts. A pair of pincers grabbed hold of the molten piece, dipping it into a canister of water. Sizzling vapours curled off the surface, vaporizing to steam. A musty scent of iron, melding with damp, permeated the chamber, having Azrael wrinkle his nose in revulsion.

  It was a stench he was familiar with. A scent that brought back unpleasant memories.

  His eyes slid to the water, realising the liquid was crimson and bubbling.

  Wringing the bone blade out the bloody coolant, it was laid out on the forge, once again. The smith ran a finger over the blade, scalding flesh, as he traced the outline from tip till base. Rather than pull his hand off the molten piece, he grabbed a thinner portion from the base, wrapping his palm tightly around, till his skin spat curses. His fingers were wound around the metal, snug as a child tucked in, becoming a single file scale of a meaty hilt, one with the macabre blade.

  Azrael could do little but inch away. He was mesmerised by the sight, and yet felt fearful for what might await him if he stuck around.

  But he had no choice.

  He turned tail and ran with all his might. The darkness stretched around him, endlessly, as he plunged into the inky nothingness, till the forge was nothing by a fading flame, the blade no longer within sight.

  It wasn’t time for him to wield such a weighty blade. The hour wasn’t ripe. Yet.

  He sat up straight in his bed. He heaved and huffed, as though he had run a marathon in his sleep.

  The liquid sun, streamed in past the grilles of his window, throwing his room into a faint orange blaze, reminiscent of the flame he had fled from.

  Baring his teeth, he held a hand up to the light, steadying his worked-up pulse. He threw the blanket off his drenched body, rising to his feet. He stretched his neck, and rotated his shoulders, running a hand through clumps of matted red. He felt like he was going to be sick, ready to flood the floorboards in bile. He doubled over, retching a heaping mouthful, but luckily, he hadn’t spilled his guts. Just a wet cough from a long, miserable slumber.

  He shook his head and smacked his cheeks. He had a long day to get to. No point moping about his dreams. Or nightmares. A strange notion to twirl over, when he had experienced far worse. Albeit, he barely had any time to himself and yet he spent what time he did have, worrying about worrying. A pointless endeavour.