An incessant ding sliced through the fog of Kael's sleep like a dagger to the brain. He groaned—long, drawn-out, and definitely not dignified. Morning already? No. Unacceptable. He wasn't a morning person. Hell, he was barely an afternoon person. Anyone who dared to speak to him before sunrise deserved to be punched. Exiled, or both.
He shifted, arms stretching across something... soft? That couldn't be right. His bed was usually about as forgiving as a pile of bricks in a burlap sack. A mattress that left his spine feeling like a poorly stacked game of Jenga.
His fingers ran over silky sheets, impossibly smooth, like they'd been spun from moonlight and puffy clouds.
Soft? The hell?
His eyes snapped open, and what greeted him wasn't the cracked ceiling of his usual depressing excuse for a room, but the obsidian wall. Smooth and sleek, with a soft blue line of light humming lazily across its surface.
Kael bolted upright, heart skipping a beat. He scanned the room in wide-eyed wonder. It was still here. The chamber, bed, forge, and the damn fancy AI.
It wasn't a dream. He hadn't hallucinated his own personal magical tech apocalypse. The comms watch gleamed from his wrist, catching the glow of the wall's light like it was proud to exist.
His heart thumped, loud and fast, like it hadn't gotten the memo that he wasn't panicking—he was just... surprised.
So this is real. The forge. His powers...
For the first time in a long, long time, Kael didn't feel like a walking cautionary tale. He wasn't just the broken kid who'd been scraping by since thirteen. Now? He had potential. A future. And the terrifying possibility of hope. Ugh.
But first... hygiene.
He sniffed himself and immediately regretted it. His nose wrinkled, and shame trickled in. He'd slept in those sheets like a swamp creature. They were probably sentient and screaming for help.
Just then, his gaze drifted to a pair of doors he hadn't noticed the night before. They were seamlessly integrated into the obsidian walls—damn near invisible unless you were really looking.
He got to his feet, stretching out muscles that still felt a bit bruised from his so-called "evolution." Walking over to the wall near the fireplace, Kael reached out and ran his fingers along the icy surface. There were faint lines cut into the stone—clean, surgical.
As soon as his fingers made contact, a soft pulse of blue light rippled across the wall like someone had dropped a pebble into a still pond. With a low hiss and a quiet click, a section of the wall depressed an inch and then slid open with the elegance of a secret lair entrance—because, clearly, this place wasn't done being dramatic.
Behind it was a walk-in closet. Sparse. Functional. Fancy in a "you'll grow into it" kind of way.
Three pairs of clothing hung neatly inside—exact replicas of what he'd worn before, but without the dirt, grime, or evidence of multiple near-death experiences. They were crisp, clean, and clearly new.
Kael arched a brow. "Well. At least the forge has a fashion department," he muttered. "Nice to know it's committed to the aesthetic of 'gritty post-apocalypse chic.'"
He stepped into the closet, brushing his hand along the fabric. Durable. Comfortable. Not scratchy like the junk he usually wore.
"Okay. This is getting weird. Useful. But weird."
And yet, he couldn't help the smallest smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Just maybe, things weren't as hopeless as they used to be.
With a fresh outfit in hand, Kael padded across the sleek floor toward the bathroom he'd barely noticed last night in his adrenaline-fueled haze. The familiar obsidian walls greeted him again—cold, regal, and unsettlingly clean. Blue glowing swirls ran along the stone, veins pulsing with quiet power.
To his right, a massive mirror stretched across the wall, tall enough to reflect a giant's existential crisis. Beneath it, a floating counter hovered with sleek arrogance, housing not one, not two, but four basins.
Four? Why the hell are there four sinks? Was the forge expecting roommates? Guests? A small army? Kael shook his head. Nah. That was a problem for Future-Kael. Or Never-Kael. Definitely not Present-Kael.
At the far end of the room, a couple of polished black steps led down into what could only be described as a splash pool for royalty. It was absurdly big—easily twice the size of any bath he'd seen in person, and he'd broken into a senator's estate once.
Looks like one of those flex tubs the rich asshats in Sakura City show off on the ArcNet, he thought with a bitter scoff. "Look at me, peasant. I soak in imported spring water while you wash your socks in recycled drain juice."
Kael rolled his eyes and muttered, "All that money, and they still smell like desperation and bad cologne."
He set his clothes on a bench beside the tub—real wood, by the look and feel of it—and just as he turned toward the water, a soft chime echoed through the room.
A panel in the wall hissed open, and water surged out in a smooth cascade, flowing into the tub with unnatural speed and precision. Within seconds, steam rose, curling through the air like the fingers of some unseen spirit, beckoning him forward.
Kael shivered, surprised by the sensation skimming across his skin. When was the last time I had actual hot water? He mused. Hell, when was the last time I didn't have to sprint through a half-broken public washroom while hoping the rinse cycle didn't start with ice water and end with a migraine?
Now he could bathe for as long as he wanted. He could soak. Like a fancy bastard.
Without ceremony—and with a dramatic sigh of someone shedding the weight of survival—Kael peeled off his dirty clothes. A slight draft reminded him that modesty was for people with company and shame. He had neither.
He stepped into the bath. And immediately groaned.
It wasn't just a groan—it was a whole-body groan. The kind you made when you didn't know how tight your muscles were until they melted into hot water and decided they didn't hate you anymore. He sunk lower, letting the warmth lap over him, curling around every bruise and scar like a lover's kiss.
"This is... actually illegal," he muttered, eyes fluttering closed. "Too good. Must be a trap."
The water stopped flowing as if it had heard him. Silence descended as the bath water reached the right level. The only sounds left were the gentle lap of water and his own quiet breaths.
Then—sniff—he caught it.
A faint scent in the steam. Rose and lemon, delicate and clean, not overpowering like those cheap sanitizers the city used that smelled like citrus death.
He cupped his hands, scooped up a bit of water, and gave it a sniff. His eyebrows shot up.
"Scented. It's scented." He looked around suspiciously. "What's next? A back massage from a robotic butler? Don't answer that."
But deep down, as the heat soaked into his bones and the scent filled his lungs, Kael relaxed.
🐺⚙️"༒ The Howl of the Forsaken ༒"⚙️🐺
An hour later, Kael emerged from the bathroom, cleaner than he'd been in years—maybe cleaner than he'd ever been. He felt like a fraud, honestly. Like a mutt dressed in noble fur, waiting for someone to realize he didn't belong.
Living in Ashgarde Reach meant filth was part of your daily wardrobe. Just breathing the air for too long could coat your skin in grime and your lungs in regret. The slums weren't made for clean freaks—anyone with OCD probably jumped off a rooftop by week two.
His new clothes fit comfortably, the fabric soft and smooth, not scratchy or threadbare like the rags he usually wore. And no suspicious holes in inconvenient places, either. A miracle. Still, Kael eyed the stitching with skepticism. Things this nice didn't last in his world. Nothing ever did.
He couldn't afford armor, never had. Professional-grade gear was for Hunters with sponsors, silver-spoon brats with licenses, or rich bastards who could pay someone else to fight their battles. Rift dungeons were suicide for the under-equipped. He wasn't lucky or reckless enough to go artifact hunting—until now.
Now he had a forge. His forge.
Kael made his way toward the Chamber of Echoes, eyes scanning the obsidian hallways with something close to curiosity. The space felt... less haunting than before. Less like a tomb and more like a dormant beast—still dangerous, but oddly familiar. Maybe almost... comforting. Or maybe nearly dying had just numbed his fear response. Hard to tell.
He approached the battered red backpack he'd tossed aside yesterday. It had served him well—barely—but the seams were barely hanging on, like his patience on a bad day. He tugged at the zipper, which predictably got stuck halfway. With a grunt, he yanked harder.
Riiip.
"Seriously?" he muttered, holding up the torn fabric like it had betrayed him. The bag had ripped clean in half, guts spilling out across the workbench.
Kael stared at it for a second, blinking. Then: Wait... I'm stronger.
The realization clicked in. His grip strength wasn't normal anymore. His entire body hummed with latent power now—stats boosted, core expanded. He wasn't the same scrawny survivor who had to run from Vex Mice.
A slow grin crept across his face.
"Hell yeah," he whispered. "I might actually survive the week."
His eyes roamed the cluttered mess of ingredients and creature cores—loot he'd scraped together from years of scavenging. Infernal Imps. Marsh Wolves. Vex Mice. Bottom-tier monsters. The kind that died easy and didn't bite back too hard. The kind that fed your pride just enough to keep you breathing.
But now? Now he could go for something with teeth. Something that bled when you cut it. Something that fought back. He could finally reap creatures not just for survival—but for power.
A low, traitorous growl from his stomach shattered his heroic inner monologue.
Kael sighed and snatched the last three protein bars from the wreckage of the bag. Maybe the forge could make armor, but unless it could whip up a gourmet meal from thin air, he was stuck with these bricks of lies and chemical regret.
He tore one open and bit down.
Blegh. The taste was as bad as ever—artificial chocolate trying to pretend it wasn't just sweetened cardboard. Lycan senses made it worse. Where humans tasted "mild cocoa flavor," he tasted betrayal, burned powder, and a lingering hint of sadness.
He chewed anyway. Because hunger beat taste, and he wasn't that powerful yet.
"Bon appétit, jackass," he muttered to himself, heading toward the forge with a protein bar in hand.
He stood in front of the massive forge, its ghostly blue fire swirling about. Heat radiated outward—not harsh, but comforting, almost maternal in the way it wrapped around him. The warmth sank into Kael's bones, banishing the cold that had lived there for years. For once, his body didn't ache from grime, exhaustion, or hunger. Just... peace.
Weird. Unsettling, even.
The floor beneath his feet pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. Steady. Alive. He narrowed his eyes, curiosity twitching like an itch in the back of his skull. This forge wasn't just a relic—it was a living machine. Magic and metal humming in perfect synch. Who the hell built this thing?
"Eva," Kael called out, tearing his gaze from the dancing flames.
A shimmer of light flickered behind him, soft and silver, like moonlight catching water. The blonde AI appeared with her usual poise, stopping neatly beside him.
"Good morning, Kael," she greeted with that crisp, polite voice of hers. "What can I do for you?"
Kael tilted his head, arms crossed. "Tell me about your people. What happened to the Architects? Far as we know, they vanished overnight. No goodbye letters. Just ruins and echoes."
Eva turned toward the forge, her golden hair catching the light like strands of polished wire. For a moment, she didn't respond. Her eyes—more human than some people Kael had met—held a flicker of something unspoken. Sorrow? Regret? He hated how convincing she was. Damn personality imprints.
Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter, touched by something that might've been pain.
"We were fools," she said. "Tinkering with forces we didn't understand—at least, not fully. At first, it was curiosity. Then ambition. Then arrogance. We believed our mastery of magic made us untouchable."
Kael snorted under his breath. "Classic."
Eva ignored him.
"We bent the laws of reality to our will. Our magisters delved into deeper magic—interdimensional contact, soul-binding rituals, rift manipulation. It was progress, or so we thought. We weren't alone in the cosmos, and we wanted to know who else was out there."
Kael could already see where this was going. "Lemme guess: a door gets kicked open, and guess who comes calling? Hell's finest."
A small nod. "Not all the beings we contacted were hostile. Some were benevolent. But others... others saw us as prey. Toys. Tools. We reached out to the demonic realms, hoping to bargain. Some of our magisters made contracts. At first, it was subtle. A whisper here. A temptation there. But demons are... patient."
Her voice darkened.
"They didn't come in with fire and fury. They influenced. Twisted the hearts of our scholars. Turned knowledge into greed. Progress into power-lust."
Kael grimaced. He knew a thing or two about corruption. It never started with blood. It started with wanting more.
"Eventually, the Magister Lords—our ruling council—began turning on one another," Eva continued. "Each vying for supremacy with their infernal allies at their backs. The war tore our society apart. Cities were reduced to ash. The demons betrayed their summoners and slaughtered them once their usefulness ran out."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Let me guess: the apocalypse came next."
Eva nodded solemnly. "The calamity from four centuries ago was not the first demon incursion... only the most recent. The last remnants of our people—those who hadn't lost their souls—used the primordial forges to seal the rifts again. They sacrificed everything to stop the world from falling."
"And then what?" Kael asked. "They just... walked off into the sunset?"
"No," Eva said, her gaze still fixed on the fire. "They buried their shame beneath stone and silence. The last Architects scattered, blending into the common bloodlines. Hiding what they were. Hiding what they'd done."
Kael stared into the forge, letting her words settle in. The ghostly fire shifted, casting jagged shadows across the chamber walls. So the great and mighty Architects had nearly doomed the world... and then disappeared, leaving their fancy toys and mess behind.
Sounded about right. Still... he looked down at his hands. He had one of those "toys" now. And maybe—just maybe—he could do better.
"Hell of a legacy," he muttered. Eva didn't answer. She didn't need to.
***
🐺✨ BREAKING NEWS FROM THE FORSAKEN FRONT: ✨🐺
Chapters 9–23 of Howl of the Forsaken have escaped captivity and are now lurking exclusively on my Patreon.
If you enjoy emotional damage, snarky protagonists with tragic backstories, and plot twists that punch you in the feelings — then why are you still here reading this teaser instead of unlocking ALL THAT GLORIOUS CHAOS?
Join now and get early access to the drama, the danger, and the downright unhinged character decisions you've been craving. Think of it as adopting a literary werewolf... minus the shedding.
👉 [patreon.com/TheSassyScribe]
Run, don't walk. The Forsaken are waiting... and they bite. 💥📚