The stench came first—thick, sour, rancid.

I trudged through the muck, each step like pulling my boots from a swamp. They were too big, boots made for a man twice my size, moreover they fit like buckets. The cobblestones sucked at them, as if the street wanted to swallow me whole. I yanked my legs free with every step, my feet dragging.

Above, a shadow flickered. I looked up in time to see something tip over. Something dark spilled out, hitting the streets with a wet splat and missing me only by inches.

The rancid sludge surged, a brown wave. I sidestepped, but it caught me still. Filth splattered my hose. The kind of stain that a bonfire would do better than soap to clean.

Peddlers shouted, indifferent, their voices tangling in the filthy air. They could've been selling anything—gold or rotten fish, but it hardly mattered. The noise hammered on, like being stuck in a pen of hens, each one louder, more desperate to be heard over the others.

The city's walls loomed above, old and crumbling. Moss and lichen clung to the weathered stones like something alive creeping along their ancient surfaces. The streets below stayed in perpetual shadow, even though the sun had come up hours ago. It was near noon, but Velka wasn't in a hurry for daylight. The city liked its shadows too much.

I pushed through the crowd and milky eyes followed me. An old woman sat on a filthy blanket by the roadside. Her face; all lines and cracks, like leather left in the sun too long. Her eyes were clouded, like she couldn't see, but as I passed, I felt those hazy orbs boring into me.

I stepped around a pile of dung further ahead, fresh and steaming. It reeked, sharp enough to burn my eyes, but I kept moving.

The taverns and brothels behind me were packed to the rafters. The Iron Hounds had come in after days of marching, taking Velka like wolves on a sheepfold. They drank, whored, and spent their coin on every vice mercenaries crave when there's no one left to kill, at least for now.

But I had no taste for it.

The crowd thinned as I moved away from the market square and soon enough I was alone.

The air hung thick and dirty here, the kind that sticks to your lungs. Soot covered everything—buildings, streets, even the rats had turned several shades darker. I knew then I was near the smithies.

The air wasn't clean here, not by any measure, but after the stench that soaked the rest of Velka, it almost felt like a relief. Ash in the lungs certainly beat the stink of sewage curling through every alley and crooked street of the city.

image [https://images2.imgbox.com/1e/ac/klCGtIly_o.jpg]

Ahead, smoke billowed from the chimneys, thick and black, twisting up like it meant to choke out the sun for good. The forges hissed and spat, their fires glowing like old embers, too tired to burn anything today. The blacksmiths hammered away, bending swords back into shape, knocking dents out of shields. Iron met anvil with a hard kind of love.

Sparks flew, bright for a moment, before they faded, joining the soot and dirt that covered everything here.

Since arriving in Velka, I'd spent most of the day hopping between merchants, gathering the bare essentials for the soldier's life I'd now committed to. My errand was nearing its end, and the blacksmiths' district was my final stop. All I needed now was some armor—then I'd be set. Standing against a man in full steel with only linen? Those weren't odds worth betting on.

The first thing I had grabbed when we rolled into town were provisions. My coin didn't go very far. So, I settled for hard bread, the kind that soldiers chew on when there's nothing else. It was heavy stuff, wrapped in a crust that felt like biting into a stone. Probably half sawdust. It looked like it was made for building walls, not feeding men. One bite and my jaw ached, but it was food, and it would keep me from starving—if my teeth held out.

"Good for weeks," the vendor had said. Yeah right! Good for weeks of cursing my luck is what he should've said.

Then there was what might generously be called a tarp. It sagged, full of holes, eaten through by moths. It wouldn't do much, but it'd break the wind. Maybe I'd wear it, pretend it was a cloak, though it hung on me like a sack. Still, it was better than freezing.

Small mercies, I suppose.

The load on my back dug into my shoulders like it had a grudge. My scrawny frame, the one Being X cursed me with, wasn't made for hauling anything heavier than a half-empty wineskin. Every step was a reminder of that.

But there wasn't much of a choice. Being X sure as hell wasn't going to carry it for me, and anyone else would probably stab me for the chance.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"You're not gonna find anything better, lad, especially for the piss-poor coin you're flashing."

I stared at the ratty bit of fabric and jumble of tin being offered, wondering if it would hold up against a peasant's pitchfork, let alone a proper blade.

Six coppers in my fist. Useless. Lighter than before. The sum of my wretched existence.

My daily preaching to the pack of reprobates I'd fallen in with had scraped together most of it. The rest had gone on provisions—hard bread and the lot.

The cursed book dragged at my belt. Selling it might buy real armor—something that wouldn't fold like parchment under a blade. But then what? Nothing but Being X's cruel whims keeping me fed when I hit the bottom again.

I wasn't exactly sure as to which was worse.

The lowlifes hurled their dumb questions and idiotic comments as I droned through the drivel scrawled on those brittle pages whenever we made camp. I'd grin like some pious idiot, pretending I was there to save their worthless hides from damnation. They'd heckle and jeer, thinking they were so clever, tossing their coins my way—none of them realizing I was laughing right along with them.

But all the same some of the older fools stuck around afterward. Sure, it kept the coins trickling in—meager as they were—but it also meant spewing the same tired drivel and chanting hymns to that cursed Being X.

The shriveled bastard who roped me into this mess, the butcher who calls himself a surgeon, the fat, greasy paymaster, and a swarm of half-dead wretches would crawl over like maggots on a corpse every time I dragged out the cursed tome, expecting me to vomit out a few verses.

Idiots, the whole damn lot of them but that was really neither here nor now.

"Sure there's nothing else?" I asked, though I knew better.

The ragged cloth he tossed at me wasn't worth a damn, arrows would punch right through it but the thought of heading back into that fight with even less made me try again. Still, ten silvers for a scrap full of holes, more worn out than a whore's drawers, was a bit too steep for my taste.

He laughed, loud and sharp, until it turned into a cough that sent spit flying in my face. His breath smelled like old ale, burnt metal, and something worse. Like death, only fresher but barely.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Holdin' out, eh? If I had anythin' worth a damn, you think I'd waste it on a skinny rat like you?"

I stared at the few coins in my palm, willing them to multiply. But no matter how long I looked, they stayed the same pitiful handful.

"Maybe if I toss in a smile, we could…um…sweeten the deal?" I asked, trying my hand at charm attempting to sound smooth, though it came out as weak as the ragged scraps he was selling for armor.

The bastard tilted his head, lips curling into a smirk before twisting into something meaner. He let the silence stretch, enjoying it.

"A smile, huh? Damn generous of you I say but how about this: you throw in whatever's left of your luck, shrimp—seeing as you've got none—and maybe, just maybe, I'll knock off a copper for ya."

"I'm being serious!" I snapped, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak.

His smirk fell and his eyes turned cold all of a sudden. He pointed a thick, soot-caked finger at me, and the stench of sweat and ash hitting me like a slap. "Listen, kid. I'm a blacksmith, not some damn charity. Short on coin? Then take your sorry ass elsewhere. I've got work to do."

He spat a gob of something foul onto the dirt with a wet *thwack. Then he turned, grabbed his hammer, and brought it down on the glowing metal with a crack that made the walls rattle and shake. The sound crushed any last bit of begging I had left in me.

Tsk... maybe it was time to cut my losses.

Walk out of here with whatever's left of my dignity, or what passes for it. Hell, at least that'd still be something.

But…but I had one last trick up my sleeve—the same sorry move I'd been pulling all week. Thinking about it made my stomach churn like I'd swallowed a barrel of swill.

I gritted my teeth. Not out of shame, of course no. I'd left behind what little I had a long time ago. Shame didn't pay, didn't put food in your gut or steel on your back.

No, this was the kind of sour taste you get when you know you're about to do something dirty and your whole body's screaming at you to stop. Telling you to get the hell out before you make it worse.

I could feel my pride talking, trying to get me to turn and walk, but the part of me that didn't want to end up face-down in the mud shut it up quickly. Besides, that dirty little trick had worked so far, hadn't it? It was still better than marching back onto a battlefield without a damn thing between me and a spear. Better to swallow whatever scraps of pride I had left than choke on them while bleeding out.

I hacked out a cough, rough and loud, like I'd been chewing on gravel, hoping the old bastard would notice. The blacksmith stopped, hammer hanging in the air like he was weighing whether to keep pounding metal or smash my skull in instead.

He turned, slow, too slow. His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down like a butcher sizing up a half-dead cow. His grip tightened on the hammer, knuckles going white, veins bulging like they were ready to burst. His eyes twitched, bouncing between telling me to piss off and planting that hammer right in my face.

I straightened, pulling my shoulders back, letting the defeat crawl over me like a kicked dog. I widened my eyes just a bit, enough to look pathetic—not enough to beg outright, but enough to wring a scrap of pity out of the crusty old bastard. Every second dragged.

Pity wasn't something you found out here. Kindness neither. You'd have better odds spitting into the wind.

But faith? Like shit on a pig, everywhere you turned. Every corner, every face, every half-burnt prayer in this guilt-ridden, God-fearing hellhole stank of it.

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," I said, letting the words slip slowly like honey off a spoon. The kind of words these folks clung to, draped over like a wool cloak in the rain.

I pulled the ragged book from my belt, held it up so he could see. I rapped my knuckles on it, the thud cutting through the thick air between us. The blacksmith's eyes shifted. Not much, but enough.

"That's what it says, isn't it? What it all boils down to." I flipped open the pages, careful-like, each crackle of paper breaking the silence. His jaw tightened, just a twitch. I could see his hands were still. He hadn't moved. Good.

"There's a story-The Good Samaritan." I said, voice lower now, drawing out each word, taking my time. I let the book hang there between us, loose in my grip. The pages fluttered a little, like they had a mind of their own.

"The one with the man who saw his fellow beaten, stripped, and left for dead on the side of the road? Two others passed him by, but he? A stranger no less, he took pity, didn't he? He didn't hesitate to help a man in need, and he was blessed for it. That's the kind of person we should all strive to be. A man who sees another in need and offers what little he has. I'm not asking for charity, sir, no. I'm asking for a little kindness, the sort that you'd want shown to you if the tables were turned."

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy," I said, letting the words slide out slow, sticky with the kind of piety that makes a man squirm.

"A little mercy now, and it'll come back to you, tenfold." I whispered, letting it hang there, waiting for him to budge. The heat from the forge pressed in, the sweat on my back soaking through. But he just stared, squinting like I was a fly buzzing too close. I dropped my eyes, playing small, though my hands itched to wring his thick neck. I swallowed it down.

"I was hungry, and you fed me. Thirsty, and you gave me drink. A stranger, and you took me in..." I let the words trail off, watching his face. Nothing.

"You know how it goes," I said, quieter now. "We're measured by what we do for those at the bottom. And right now, I'm there. Rock bottom." I caught his eyes, saw his jaw clench. Grinding his teeth. Maybe I had him.

"You don't want to be the man who turns away a soul in need, do you?" I kept my voice steady, but pushed the edge. "It wouldn't cost you much. You know that. A decent man, a believer, wouldn't shut his door on someone just trying to make an honest go of it."

I waited, watching his mouth twist, like he was chewing the words or holding back the spit.

The smith grunted, his lips pulling into something between a sneer and a grimace. His eyes crawled over me like he was sizing up a sack of spoiled potatoes, deciding if it was worth the trouble to throw me out or just kick me aside.

"Remember," I said, keeping my voice sweet, "The Almighty loves a cheerful giver. And you've got that warmth, I can tell. A man like you, big heart. You wouldn't be the one to turn away a soul in need, would you? Not when you could be an inspiration. A beacon of generosity."

He didn't say a word, just scanned me again, slow. From the mud-caked boots I'd barely tied together to the threadbare rags draped over my bones. His eyes lingered, hard, like he was chewing on something bitter.

"Inspiration, huh?" His voice came out low and rough, like it had been scraped from the bottom of a barrel.

I nodded, quick, eager, all wide-eyed and desperate. My neck nearly snapped from the force of it, but I kept it up. And for a moment, I saw it—a flicker, a crack in the armor. His shoulders sagged, just a little, but it was enough. He let out a sigh so deep it rattled the tools on the wall.

I could feel it then, that shift.

He was buckling. The old bastard was falling for it, every word sinking in like a fishhook. So close. All I had to do was tug a little harder—just one more nudge and he'd be mine. I could already picture it, the look on Being X's face. The son of a bitch watching me, thinking I'd never crawl my way out. But here I was, on the verge of pulling another one over on him.

Victory was close. I could feel it, almost taste it.

I dropped my eyes, low, playing up that last card. Maybe the old man had something left, buried under all that dirt and grime and grumbling where his heart should've been.

He leaned forward, slow, deliberate. My heart pounded hard, like the beat of a drum, steady and deafening. This was the moment. He was about to dig deep, haul out something from the back, some real gear, something worth its weight in steel.

I watched every move, every twitch. I was waiting for him to give, to break, to offer something that wasn't a complete waste.

He leaned in more. Close now. I could see the lines in his face, dirt packed in tight, the smell of old sweat and smoke thick around him. His voice came slow, filled with the kind of disdain that didn't need to hurry.

"Funny, that," he said, with a tone that could cut. "You've got a real knack for scripture, lad. But guess what?"

His sneer twisted sharp, ugly enough to curdle milk where it stood.

"So do I!"

image [https://images2.imgbox.com/ba/a7/AzMyeYjY_o.jpg]

His teeth—yellow, cracked like old tombstones—gleamed as he jabbed his finger into my chest. Thick and grimy, it hit hard, knocking the breath out of me.

I staggered back, biting down on the curse that tried to crawl out of my throat.

"'Beware of false prophets,'" he hissed, his voice low and mean. He leaned closer, breath sour and heavy. "'Which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves themselves.'"

He paused, letting it sink in. "You wouldn't be one of those, would you? A filthy wolf in rags, trying to scam a poor blacksmith out of his coin?"

"N…no," I managed, a dry croak in my throat.

He didn't seem to care. Didn't even blink. He shoved in closer, filling the space between us with the rank stench of his sweat. His greasy apron brushed against me, rough against my thin clothes, like it was scraping the skin off my bones.

This was supposed to be simple. Talk him up, flash a grin, walk out with something half-decent. Now I'm knee-deep in it all of a sudden with this fat bastard breathing down my neck. How the hell did it go so wrong? What the fuck did I miss?

His breath hit my face, thick, rancid—like something died in his gut and was rotting slow. "'And here's a bonus for you, preacher boy,'" he growled, voice like gravel.

"'THOU SHALT NOT… FUCKING STEAL!'"

And before I could flinch, his hand whipped across my face with a force that felt like it could break the earth in two.

The slap cracked sharp, louder than the forge behind him. My head snapped sideways, the sting spreading like fire, and I tasted blood.

Never knew that grace came with a side of bruises, but now I knew how it felt.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A very special thank you to my patron Terrifying, Beautiful, Powerful Grey Prince Zote for holding out hope.