Velmorian wanted to reach for the parchment, to learn the second name without delay.


    As the first name was erased beneath a blackish smear, a new one began to appear. But this time, the letters did not flow like ink—they emerged as if carved with a blade. And as they formed, Velmorian heard a new whisper:


    “The next one awaits you...”


    Velmorian narrowed his eyes, focusing on the name. His heart pounded in his chest. He had finally learned who he was meant to kill.


    Brennar Vark.


    His eyes widened. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. For a moment, he thought he was mistaken. But no—the parchment made it unmistakably clear. Brennar, the master blacksmith who had taken him in as an apprentice, taught him the craft of forging, and treated him like a son...


    He clenched the parchment tightly, his heart thundering.


    “This… can’t be,” he whispered.


    He was caught between rising anger and helpless confusion.


    At that moment, the room grew cold. Velmorian took a sharp breath as the shadows stirred. And then he heard a voice—or voices. All at once, from a single place yet in many tones, they spoke as one:


    “Justice is not what you believe it to be, Velmorian.”


    Death had returned.


    But Velmorian’s thoughts were fixed on the name etched on the parchment.


    Memories overwhelmed him. Brennar had been his first teacher. When Velmorian had walked through the doors of the smithy as a child, Brennar had taken him in not just as an apprentice, but as a grandson. For years he taught him how to shape steel, how to temper iron, and that a sword was more than just a sharpened edge.


    How could this be? Why was Brennar Vark marked for death?


    Now, with Death before him, he had a chance to ask.


    He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady.


    “Why Brennar? Tell me why I must kill him.”


    Death was silent for a moment. Then, the voice returned, echoing from that single, unknowable source:


    “Do you truly wish to know?”


    Velmorian frowned. “Yes.”


    Death tilted its head slightly.


    “Then tell me this, Velmorian... If a man’s death causes no harm to the world, is his continued life righteous?”


    Velmorian scowled. “Of course it is!”


    Death laughed—but it was not a human laugh. It came from many mouths at once, shrill and deep, a chorus of eerie tones.


    “Then tell me... What evil is prevented by letting Brennar live?”


    Velmorian had no answer. Words caught in his throat. His mind raced, but clarity eluded him.


    Death took a step closer.


    “Your world is not made of black and white, Velmorian. Justice lies beyond the veil of certainty. I did not write that name upon the parchment. But it is there. And you—


    you must erase it with your own hand.”


    A chill settled deep in Velmorian’s chest. He looked again at the parchment. Brennar Vark remained etched in it—like something branded into flesh.


    He turned back toward Death. “And if I refuse?”


    Death paused again before the dark voice echoed once more:


    “Death cannot be refused, Velmorian. Only delayed.”


    Velmorian clenched the parchment in his fist, holding his breath.


    He couldn’t do this. Kill Master Brennar? It was madness. No matter what Death said, that name didn’t belong on the list.


    “No,” he said, voice trembling but firm. “His name shouldn’t be here.”


    Death stood motionless. Shrouded in white robes, a faceless figure that watched him with no eyes. But the voice returned—deep, echoing straight into Velmorian’s thoughts.


    “A name appears only because it belongs.”


    Velmorian gritted his teeth.


    “Are you playing games with me? Master Brennar didn’t just teach me to forge steel—he taught me how to live. Without him, I’d have been just another stray on the streets. He deserves life more than I ever did!”


    Death inclined its head slightly.


    “So… the question is who deserves to die?”


    Velmorian said nothing.


    Death raised its hands—or the shadowy forms that extended from beneath the robe—and continued:


    “Humans fall into the same delusion again and again. If one death is more justified than another, does that mean justice is served? And if so, what lies in the other scale of the balance, Velmorian?”


    Velmorian squeezed his eyes shut. Thoughts crashed through his mind. Was this a test? Was Death trying to teach him something about justice?


    Or was it simply the consequence of the pact he had made?


    But deep down, he knew.


    He could feel it—the truth lingering beneath Death’s words.


    Death whispered one final time:


    “People die, Velmorian. Their goodness or wickedness lives only in the stories they leave behind. But we… we write the final line of every story.”


    Velmorian looked at the parchment in his hand.


    Brennar Vark—the name was still there. Etched, waiting to be erased.


    But what if he chose not to erase it?


    He quietly brushed the dirt flat with his hands. He wiped the mud from his fingers.


    He had buried Garran Holt and decided to move on.


    In the small yard behind the shack, no one would notice the body beneath the soil—at least not for a while.


    Velmorian took a deep breath and returned to the city.


    As he walked the narrow streets of Aldenora, he moved among familiar and unfamiliar faces alike.


    He laid down on the creaking bed of the inn where he stayed. But when he closed his eyes, his mind offered no rest.


    Master Brennar’s face flickered in his thoughts—ghosted by a strange and growing guilt.


    He had to see him. Even just to say goodbye.


    At dawn, Velmorian made his way straight to the forge.


    It was still there—its stone walls stained black with soot, smoke rising from the chimney, the sharp sound of hammer on steel echoing from within.


    Nothing had changed.


    He opened the door. Inside, by the great anvil, stood a man hammering a blade with powerful arms.


    His hair had gone gray, his face was lined with age—but the fire in his eyes had not faded.


    Velmorian paused for a moment, then stepped forward with a faint smile.


    “Good steel,” he said, glancing at the blade. “Forged by someone who knows what he’s doing.”


    Master Brennar lifted his head, wiping sweat from his brow as he examined the stranger.


    Then he spoke in his deep, booming voice:


    “A guest who knows iron, huh? Have we met before, son?”


    Velmorian gave a small nod.


    “Perhaps we’ve crossed paths. But I can assure you—I know enough about forging to recognize a master’s touch.”


    Brennar smiled faintly.


    “Is that so? Then let’s see if you actually know what you’re talking about…”


    He gestured to a nearby hammer.


    “Shape that steel for me.”


    Velmorian picked up the hammer as if it were second nature, striking the hot iron with precision.


    Brennar’s eyes narrowed in mild surprise.


    “The way you hold that hammer… just like my old apprentice Velmorian. That boy was a handful—but he knew how to forge.”


    A chill passed through Velmorian, but not a hint of it reached his face.


    He smiled, calm and unreadable.


    “When forging becomes part of your soul, you don’t forget.”


    Brennar laughed.


    “You’re right, son, you’re right!”


    He returned to the forge.


    “Now then, tell me… Who are you, and what brings you to Aldenora?”


    Velmorian could already feel the whispers returning.


    "Are you here for closure... or are you fooling yourself?"


    "Does his warm smile comfort you? It won''t last."


    "Is this why we chose you? Remember, the name must be erased."


    Velmorian decided to lie—he couldn’t leave his old master’s words unanswered.


    "I grew up in a village outside the city," he said. "I spent some time apprenticing under my blacksmith uncle when I was young. But lately, our village’s been plagued by bandits—real trouble. If we don''t arm ourselves, we won’t stand a chance."


    Master Brennar listened with furrowed brows.


    "Bandits, huh? I haven''t heard of any such trouble near Aldenora, but times change… You''re not too bad with a hammer. Your uncle must’ve taught you well."


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Velmorian gave a slight bow, as if in thanks. But inside, something was cracking.


    The whispers didn’t stop.


    "You''re drowning in lies."


    "The name still lingers on the parchment."


    "You must finish this."


    Velmorian kept hammering the piece of metal Brennar had given him. The steel cried out with a sharp clang, like a scream. The whispers scraped at his thoughts. His fingers were clenched, his palms damp with sweat.


    All he could think about was his master’s warm smile—and the memories that came flooding back with it.


    He raised the hammer again, this time striking harder. But the whispers surged in turn.


    "Are your hands trembling, Velmorian?"


    "Do you long for the past instead of erasing the name?"


    He struck again, trying to clear his mind. But the voices of the Lost Souls stole his focus for a brief second.


    That moment was enough—a drop of molten metal leapt from the forge and landed on his left arm.


    Velmorian recoiled instinctively, clenching his teeth to stifle the pain.


    The sharp scent of burnt skin filled the air, but he forced himself not to react.


    Brennar grunted as he saw the recoil.


    "You mustn’t hesitate, son," he said with a firm, commanding tone. "Iron doesn’t tolerate neglect."


    Velmorian took a deep breath and nodded.


    Brennar glanced at his arm, then chuckled softly.


    "You said you apprenticed under your uncle, but your moves... you''re still green. The iron commands you—you do not command it."


    Velmorian offered a faint smile, though his chest ached.


    The words echoed—things Brennar had once told him many times.


    But now, he was just a stranger standing across from him.


    Brennar placed a hand on Velmorian’s shoulder.


    "Work a little harder and you might make something of yourself," he said with a hearty laugh.


    "But first, go wrap that burn. If you want to make peace with the forge, you need to show it respect."


    Velmorian lowered his head and stepped out of the workshop.


    The whispers followed his every step.


    "Peace with the forge, Velmorian?"


    "Do his warm words soothe you?"


    "Remember… blood must be spilled to erase the name."


    "The longer you wait, the harder it will become."


    Velmorian paused after just a few steps outside.


    The sting of the burn mixed with the gnawing whispers left a tight knot in his chest.


    He felt both a strange satisfaction from the time spent with his master and a growing tension—because the cursed name on the parchment still remained.


    He closed his eyes.


    “Just a little more time…” he whispered, not knowing who he was asking—Death, or himself?


    But the Lost Souls were growing impatient.


    "You wait…"


    "But waiting won’t free you."


    "You must kill him, Velmorian. There is no other way."


    Velmorian clenched his fists.


    “I know.”


    He needed to make it feel like an accident—so that Brennar’s death wouldn’t feel like murder.


    That evening, he made his way to the market square.


    He entered a small, ramshackle apothecary.


    The door creaked as he stepped inside. A lone lantern lit the shelves lined with metal canisters, powder sacks, and old chemical concoctions.


    Behind the counter stood a hunched old man.


    His eyes were small, and his hands were blackened and calloused.


    As Velmorian entered, the man slowly lifted his head.


    “What are you looking for, stranger?”


    Velmorian let his eyes wander over the shelves. “Gunpowder. Not much, just enough to get the job done.”


    The man eyed him suspiciously. “And what job would that be?” He then reached up and placed a small pouch on the counter.


    Velmorian stared at the pouch for a moment. “My garden’s been overrun by rats. Thought I’d go for a more... permanent solution.”


    “You’ll end up blowing up your whole yard, young man. Here, take it. Just be careful not to set your house on fire.”


    Velmorian paid and took the pouch, stepping out of the shop. Before returning to the forge, he paused for a deep breath, as if trying to bury the last of his doubts.


    “You have to do this, Velmorian.”


    “There is no other way.”


    Later that night, he returned to the forge. The streets were deserted. He remembered how his master would always rise early to stoke the fire in the hearth.


    The plan was simple.


    He would place the gunpowder deep in the furnace. In the morning, when Master Brennar used the bellows as usual, the pressure would rise rapidly—then detonate.


    Velmorian slipped inside, moving silently among the stone walls that reeked of sleepless nights.


    He carefully opened the pouch and placed it into the heart of the coals, forcing his hands not to shake. When the deed was done, he left without looking back.


    Tomorrow... it would all be over.


    But peace did not come.


    Velmorian barely slept that night. The small, damp room stank of mildew. He tossed and turned in his bed, his mind a storm of doubt and regret. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his master’s warm smile. The clang of the hammer, his old lessons, echoed in his ears.


    “The iron is mastering you, not the other way around.”


    The whispers grew louder in the dark:


    “You had no other choice...”


    “This wasn’t your will—it was his fate...”


    “Blood must be shed, Velmorian. The Lost Souls await...”


    When dawn’s light finally broke through the window, Velmorian opened his eyes, heavy with exhaustion. He took a deep breath. Today, a part of his fate would be fulfilled.


    He stood in the street near the forge, heart pounding. His hands trembled inside his coat pockets. Then the door opened.


    Brennar stepped inside, coughing lightly, then shut the door behind him and approached the bellows. Velmorian held his breath as he watched from afar.


    A thin plume of smoke began to rise from the chimney.


    Each pump of the bellows was like a drumbeat in Velmorian’s ears. His pulse quickened. He closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath.


    And then—


    BOOM!


    Velmorian’s eyes widened. The explosion had been far worse than he’d expected. He sprinted to the forge.


    The sight inside chilled him to the bone.


    The beams had collapsed. Smoke and ash billowed everywhere. Glowing shards of metal littered the floor.


    Then he saw him.


    Master Brennar lay on the ground. A heavy beam had pinned his leg. His chest was scorched, and he gasped for air in a half-conscious daze. Something inside Velmorian shattered. He ran to his master’s side without hesitation.


    “Master! Hold on!”


    He dropped to his knees, trying to lift the heavy beam. His skin blistered under the heat, but he pushed with all his strength. It didn’t budge.


    Brennar opened his eyes, wincing in pain. The flickering light of the flames carved deep shadows into his weathered face. His vision was blurred, but in that moment, Velmorian knew—he recognized him.


    Brennar reached out weakly. His trembling fingers found Velmorian’s arm and squeezed, ever so gently.


    “Wait, son…” his voice was broken and rasping. “It’s… too late now.”


    Velmorian’s heart shattered. He looked at his master in desperation.


    “No! I’ll get you out of here, hold on, master!”


    Brennar Usta shook his head slightly, a pained but warm smile appearing on his face. His pale lips trembled as they parted:


    “Don’t bother, son. My time has come.”


    Velmorian’s eyes burned. His hands clenched the beam hopelessly, blood dripping from his palms, but he didn’t even feel the pain. His master, gasping for breath with a wheezing sound, looked at him. There was deep sorrow and understanding in his eyes.


    “Your grip on the hammer hasn’t changed... Velmorian, my child.”


    Velmorian’s eyes widened, his heart pounding so fast he thought it would burst from his chest. He couldn’t say a word. The tears that fell from his eyes hit the ash-covered ground.


    Brennar Usta: “I lived with the iron, but now the fire consumes me. This... is not an honorable end for me.”


    Velmorian’s eyes filled with tears. His face darkened with the weight of the tragedy he had caused.


    “There must be another way... I can save you!”


    Brennar weakly shook his head. His hands, trembling, grasped Velmorian’s wrist and squeezed tightly.


    “No... my path ends here. No matter how much I suffer, what use is an old man without legs?”


    “Do you see, Velmorian? Blood must be spilled.”


    “Did you think you could save him?”


    “You can’t escape fate.”


    Brennar Usta’s trembling voice spoke once more:


    “Please, Velmorian… With your own hands, send me from this world.”


    Velmorian took a deep breath. He had finally accepted that he had no other choice. His eyes filled with tears, his voice trembling with pain as he looked at his master:


    “Forgive me, master...”


    He slowly drew the dagger. The blade forged from shadows gleamed in the dim light. His hands still trembled.


    A peaceful, comforting smile appeared on Brennar’s face. Velmorian closed his eyes tightly and, with the last shred of human feeling in his heart, drove the dagger into Brennar Usta’s chest. Brennar’s hand slowly relaxed, slipping from Velmorian’s palm. The old man’s chest rose one last time and then lay still.


    Velmorian remained kneeling on the floor in the now silent workshop. His tears fell, quiet and heavy. As he looked at his master’s lifeless body, he felt the last remnants of his humanity disappear, burning away with the flames.


    Now, the name on the parchment had been erased.


    But within Velmorian, a much deeper wound had opened.


    The whispers of the Lost Souls rose again:


    “Finally, Velmorian.”


    “You’ve done your duty.”


    Velmorian slowly lifted his head. His face held a much darker expression than before.


    He remained motionless for minutes. His hands still trembled; his eyes fixed on his master’s lifeless body.


    At that moment, the dagger shuddered slightly. Velmorian involuntarily looked at the dagger. The blade forged from shadows now offered him something different.


    Memories.


    Darkness appeared before his eyes, and then fragments of Brennar Usta’s life began to come to life.


    The first image was familiar; in the forge, young Velmorian was holding the hammer with trembling hands. Brennar Usta, with his strong but gentle hand, guided his hand, speaking in a patient voice:


    “Hold the hammer tight, son, it will become a part of you. Don’t let the iron rule you, you must rule it.”


    The images quickly changed; it was a winter day, the day Velmorian fell ill and was bedridden. Brennar Usta, disregarding the harsh storm, had set out late at night to find a healer. The worry on his face mirrored a father’s love for his son.


    In another memory, young Velmorian was sitting with his master in front of the forge, sharing bread and cheese. Brennar Usta’s face wrinkled even more when he laughed. His fatherly voice echoed in Velmorian’s mind:


    “That’s enough work for now—eat! How can a scrawny lad like you become a blacksmith?”


    The memories kept flowing; some filled with laughter, others with sorrow—but always Brennar’s warm, familiar face made Velmorian’s heart ache more and more. One final image flashed in his mind: late at night, Brennar Usta sat in the forge, opening an old chest. Inside was a small wooden toy—Velmorian’s very first.


    The visions faded, slowly slipping into darkness. Velmorian dropped to his knees, breathless and overwhelmed. Silent tears streamed down his face.


    Outside, shouting voices broke through the fog of memory:


    “Is anyone inside?”


    “What happened to Master Brennar?”


    “Put out the fire!”


    Velmorian stirred under the weight of those memories. His eyes were still wet, but he had to leave. He ran to the wooden back door of the workshop, slipped outside, and closed it behind him. As he disappeared down the dark alley, he tried to outrun the images in his mind.


    But the memories did not leave him. The peaceful, comforting moments shown by the dagger were now thorns in his chest. Even if it had been necessary, he was now crushed under the weight of a past he had destroyed with his own hands.


    “Do you see now, Velmorian? This is your true punishment.


    You will not forget.”


    His hurried steps led him into a quiet, empty street. Velmorian collapsed, unable to control himself. He pressed his back against a cold wall and buried his head in his hands. The pressure in his chest was unbearable.


    “What have I done…” he whispered. His hands were still stained with his master’s blood. Silent sobs shook his body. The wound in his soul had deepened, becoming an abyss with no return.


    He raised his head; the sun had risen, but Velmorian’s world was drowned in endless darkness.


    He sat slumped against the wall, still trembling. His tears had dried, leaving behind only emptiness. He took a long breath and slowly opened his eyes.


    And at that moment, the world fell silent again. The street sounds, the birds—all seemed to stop.


    He knew. Death had returned.


    When he looked up, he saw the white-robed silhouette. As always, Death’s face was formless, undefined.


    “You mourned longer than I expected, Velmorian.”


    Velmorian looked at it with hollow eyes. He had no strength left to run.


    “I shouldn’t have killed him,” he said, his voice cracked and shaking. “It… it was wrong.”


    Death slowly inclined its head. “Wrong? The world is not fair, Velmorian. I told you this before. It wasn’t your choice, but you must accept the consequences.”


    A spark flared in Velmorian’s eyes—an angry blend of rage and helplessness:


    “You did this. You drew this path, not me!”


    Death’s voice turned cold and firm:


    “I did not draw your path. You died, and I brought you back. You knew the cost of this second life. So why are you surprised?”


    Velmorian clenched his jaw, struggling to contain the fury rising within. Slowly, he stood and looked Death straight in the eye:


    “What do you want from me? How many more lives? How many more souls must I take to be free of you?”


    Death remained silent for a moment, then replied with an odd tone of gentleness:


    “Your purpose is not to be free of me. It is to shape the fate of the Lost Souls.


    As for me—I am Death. I am inevitable. The day you accept that, your burden will ease.”


    Velmorian shook his head with despair. “I will never accept it.”


    Death paused for a few seconds, then its voice—now a whisper woven from a thousand mouths—spoke once more:


    “Time will tell, Velmorian. But remember—what matters is not the path you take…


    It is how you walk it.”


    Death’s white robe faded like mist, and the world began to move again. When Velmorian found himself alone once more, he felt an odd lightness in his chest—paired with an even deeper weariness.