James Yoke

In the shadow of the capital's towering smithies, where the air shimmers perpetually with heat and the smoke never truly clears, there exists a blacksmith whose name has already been forgotten by history before his story truly begins. He is unremarkable in nearly every way-a young man of quiet disposition, calloused hands, and a dedication to his craft that borders on obsession. For years, he has worked his small forge on the outskirts of the city's industrial quarter, crafting horseshoes, hinges, and practical tools for merchants and laborers.
His life follows the predictable rhythm of hammer and anvil, heat and cooling, the simple mathematics of iron and fire that have sustained his family for generations. But there is something different about his hammer. The weapon itself is unremarkable-or so it appears. Passed down through his family with minimal explanation, it bears the faint imprint of runes along its head, symbols so old and worn that they seem almost like natural patterns in the metal itself.
His grandfather mentioned them once, years ago, with a cryptic warning not to push the hammer to its limits, not to strike with anything resembling desperation. His father never spoke of them at all. The hammer has hung in the forge for so long that it has become part of the landscape of his daily life, just another tool among dozens, neither special nor particularly interesting.