My First Death

The hum of flickering lights.

The cold stench of metal, sweat, and disinfectant.

A soft, rhythmic beep counting down a silence that wouldn't end.

I opened my eyes to the sight of steel bars and a half-broken neon strip buzzing overhead. Across the corridor, two officers sat behind a reinforced glass console, their uniforms pressed sharp, faces dull with routine.

One of them glanced up, smirked, and nudged the other. "Look who's awake. The freak's up again."

The other didn't even lift his eyes from the holo-screen. "Should've stayed out longer. Easier on everyone."

Their laughter was low and tired — the kind that comes from people who stopped feeling guilt a long time ago.

A surveillance drone drifted past, its red sensor light washing over my face like a scanner looking for signs of life it knew it wouldn't find.

I groaned, rubbing the back of my neck. "Oh, come on," I muttered. "You lot never get tired of bringing me here, do you?"

Neither of them answered. The first officer just turned down the brightness on his screen, pretending I didn't exist.

I chuckled bitterly. "What am I saying… robots don't get tired. And humans don't learn."

I looked around the cell block. A few other inmates sat in their own cages — one sprawled across his cot, snoring softly; another leaned against the bars, staring at nothing in particular. No one looked afraid. No one even looked at me for long.

They'd all seen me before. Or people like me.

I leaned back on the cold steel bench. Normally, I wouldn't mind being here. The silence was almost comforting — no noise, no cities, no pretending to fit into a world that moved on without me.

But this time was different.

After centuries of walking through this hollow existence, I finally had a reason to move again. A spark of something — maybe hope, maybe madness — but it was mine. And now these people, these hollow keepers of order, were standing in my way.

I sighed, eyes on the flickering light above me. "Guess I'll have to wait for my lawyer again," I muttered under my breath.

The drone gave a soft mechanical chirp in response.

I smirked. "Relax, he'll be here soon."

Silence settled back in. Only the faint, steady clicking of the officers' monitors echoed across the metallic room — a reminder that every second I spent here was being watched.

I closed my eyes.

"Well," I muttered to no one in particular, "while I wait, why not tell you about me? How it all started. How my story began… centuries ago."

My voice lingered in the stale air, low and rough — half a confession, half a memory trying to crawl its way out. The hum of the cell faded into the background, replaced by something older, deeper.

The cold metal walls began to blur at the edges of my mind. The smell of disinfectant gave way to the faint, biting scent of burning coal and iron. Somewhere, far away — or maybe just inside my head — a hammer struck an anvil. Once. Twice. Again.

I closed my eyes.

And suddenly, I wasn't in a cell anymore. Not really.

I was there — back where it all began.

---

The forge roared, orange light licking the stone walls as I brought the hammer down again. Sparks burst around me, clinging to my sweat-drenched arms. My name wasn't Callum Vire then. It was Alaric Thorn — blacksmith, husband, father. A man who believed the world was built by what he could hold in his hands.

The air was thick with the scent of iron and ash. Outside, I could hear my daughters laughing — their voices cutting through the rhythmic clang of metal. Emily was tending to the garden, humming softly, her voice blending with the wind.

She always sang when the day was good.

I looked up from my work — saw her through the open window, sunlight resting on her hair. She smiled when our eyes met, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

Then came the sound of hooves.

At first, I didn't think much of it — travelers and merchants often passed through our village. But when I stepped outside, I saw the dust rising, the banners snapping in the wind, and the armored men riding closer in formation.

Then I saw him.

Darius Venn.

He wasn't a king, though he fancied himself one. A warlord — brutal, ambitious, the kind of man who built power from other men's ashes. His armor was blackened steel, his red cloak torn at the edges and crusted with dried blood. I'd heard the stories — how his blade never stayed clean, how villages that resisted him never stood again.

But I knew why he was here.

Weeks before, he'd sent one of his lieutenants to my forge, asking — no, demanding — that I forge weapons for his army. Swords, shields, pikes… enough to arm a war.

I told the messenger no.

I didn't build tools for tyrants.

I thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong.

Now Darius himself had come.

The sight of him made my breath catch. "Emily," I said quietly, "get the girls inside. Now."

We bolted the door, slid the latch, pushed the table against it. I could hear the horses snorting outside, the metallic rhythm of boots striking dirt, the low murmur of men ready to kill.

My eldest, Mira, clutched her sister's hand. "Papa, are they bad men?"

I tried to lie. Tried to smile. But the first impact against the door shattered the words in my throat.

The wood splintered. Hinges screamed.

And then, with one final crash, they were inside.

Darius's men poured through like wolves — faces hidden behind iron masks, laughter sharp as knives. I swung my hammer once, caught one square in the jaw — teeth and blood spraying — but there were too many. They slammed me to the floor, pressing my face into the dirt.

Emily screamed. My daughters cried.

And then he stepped in.

Darius.

Calm. Smiling. Like a man about to enjoy a fine meal.

"You should've made me what I asked for, blacksmith," he said softly, almost kindly. "You could've been a rich man. Instead…" His eyes flicked to my wife and daughters. "Now your family will pay for your mistake."

He knelt beside me, the weight of his gauntlet pressing cold against my cheek. "You have a fine home," he said softly. "A shame it won't last."

Then, without hesitation, he turned to Emily. I shouted, kicked, thrashed — but they held me tighter, their grip like iron bands, forcing me to watch.

He tore at her clothes roughly, right there — in front of our daughters.

Elen screamed. Mira tried to cover her sister's eyes, but the sound… it filled the room, swallowed everything.

Emily fought him, resisted with every ounce of strength she had, but when she pushed back, he struck her — a sharp, cruel sound that cut through her cries.

Her eyes flashed with terror as they dragged her down, helpless against their hands and their blades.

And then… the sound. Her scream — broken, desperate — the kind that carves itself into your bones and never leaves.

I was powerless — a blacksmith, strong in muscle but fragile against such cruelty.

When he was done, Darius looked back at me and smiled that same, cold smile I've seen in every nightmare since.

Then, still watching me, he took his sword and slit Emily's throat.

Her blood spread across the floor as she fell, tracing the cracks in the stone until it reached me — warm, sticky, too real.

Elen's tiny hands clutched at her mother's dress, screaming her name. Mira tried to run to me, but one of the soldiers seized her by the arm. They dragged them toward the door as they kicked and fought, their cries slicing through the smoke and chaos.

"Papa!" Elen screamed. "Papa, please!"

I pulled against the hands that held me down until my wrists bled, desperate to reach them — to reach any of them — but it was useless. They were stronger. They always were.

Then the sword pierced my heart.

The pain was sharp, then dull, spreading warmth through the cold that had settled in my chest. My strength faltered, and the world began to fade — colors dimming, sounds stretching thin.

Through the blur, I saw them drag my daughters away, their small arms reaching for me, their screams echoing until they vanished into the distance.

My eyes found Emily one last time. She lay still where she'd fallen, her eyes open — staring at nothing.

And then everything went dark.