# `command-a-03-2025-lora-F32.gguf`

<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>Write me the opening chapter of a 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>**Chapter One: The Butcher's Blade**

The rain fell in sheets, a cold, relentless curtain that turned the cobblestones of Blackridge into a slaughterhouse floor. The stench of blood and shit hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder and the coppery scent of death. Kael Morath knelt in the filth, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared down at the wreckage of his hand. The fingers were gone, severed at the knuckle by a butcher’s blade wielded by a man who’d smiled as he did it.

“A lesson,” the man had said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “For the next time you think to cross me.”

Kael’s lips peeled back from his teeth, but he said nothing. Words were useless here. In the shadowed alleys of Blackridge, only steel spoke true. And right now, his sword was across the yard, buried hilt-deep in the chest of a man who’d had the misfortune of standing between Kael and the butcher.

The butcher—a mountain of a man named Voss, with a face like a slab of scarred meat and a laugh that could curdle milk—loomed over him now. “You’re bleeding out, Morath,” he said, his voice almost cheerful. “Pity. I was hoping you’d last a bit longer. The boys were placing bets.”

Kael’s vision blurred at the edges. He could hear the jeers of Voss’s men, the clink of coins changing hands. He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, the darkness creeping in at the corners of his sight. But he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

With a snarl, he surged to his feet, his left hand—the one still attached to his arm—clenching into a fist. Voss raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “One hand, eh? Brave. Or stupid. Can’t decide which.”

Kael lunged, his truncated stump slamming into Voss’s gut. The big man grunted, more in surprise than pain, and backhanded Kael across the face. The world spun, and Kael tasted blood. He spat it out, along with a tooth, and came again, this time aiming for Voss’s knees.

It was a mistake.

Voss grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with casual ease. “You’re a persistent little fucker, aren’t you?” he said, his grin widening. “I like that. Makes you almost worth keeping around.”

Kael’s fingers clawed at Voss’s wrist, but it was like trying to break iron. The world was going dark, his vision tunneling into a narrow point of light. He was going to die here, in this piss-soaked alley, with the rain washing his blood into the gutter.

And then, from the shadows, a voice.

“Put. Him. Down.”

Voss’s grin faltered. He turned, Kael still dangling in his grip, and for the first time, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Standing at the mouth of the alley was a woman. She was tall and lean, her face a mask of cold, hard angles. Her hair was cropped short, and her eyes—one green, one gold—burned with a light that was equal parts fury and calculation. She wore a long coat, soaked through by the rain, and in her hands she held a pair of curved blades that glinted like shards of midnight.

“Who the fuck are you?” Voss snarled, his grip tightening on Kael’s throat.

“Your worst mistake,” she said, and then she moved.

It was too fast to follow. One moment she was standing there, the next she was a blur of steel and shadow. Voss’s men didn’t even have time to draw their weapons before they were dying, their throats cut, their chests opened, their screams lost in the pounding rain.

Voss dropped Kael, who hit the ground hard, his vision exploding into stars. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air, as the woman faced off against the butcher.

“You’re good,” Voss admitted, his voice grudging. “But you’re alone. And I’ve still got—”

He never finished the sentence. The woman’s blades flashed, and Voss’s head went one way, his body the other. She wiped her weapons clean on his coat and turned to Kael, her expression unreadable.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Kael pushed himself up, his head pounding, his hand—what was left of it—throbbing with agony. “Who the hell are you?”

“A friend,” she said, offering him a hand. “For now. Name’s Lyra. And you’re bleeding out. Again.”

Kael took her hand, and she hauled him to his feet. “Why’d you help me?”

Lyra’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “Because Voss was a thorn in my side. And because I need someone who’s stupid enough to take on a man like that with nothing but a sword and a death wish. You’ll do.”

Kael stared at her, his mind racing. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch,” she said, “is that you’re going to owe me. And I’m not a patient woman.”

He considered his options. There weren’t many. “Fine. But if you’re expecting me to be grateful—”

“I’m not,” she cut in. “I’m expecting you to be useful. Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”

Kael followed her, his legs unsteady, his hand a pulsing mass of pain. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and the night was growing colder by the minute. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of something that wasn’t despair.

It wasn’t hope. Hope was for fools.

But it was something.

And in a place like Blackridge, sometimes that was enough.

---

# `command-a-03-2025-inverse-lora-F32.gguf`

<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>Write me the opening chapter of a 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>**Chapter One: The Butcher’s Blade**

The rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, turning the cobblestones of Blackridge into a slick, treacherous mirror. It smelled of iron and rot, the kind of stench that clung to the back of your throat and refused to let go. In the shadow of the Gallow’s End Tavern, a man knelt in the mud, his hands trembling as he clutched a rusted dagger. His eyes were wide, but they saw nothing—not the rain, not the blood pooling around him, not the figure looming over him like a specter.

“You should’ve run when you had the chance,” the figure said, voice low and gravelly, like stones grinding against each other. His name was Kael Varrin, though most just called him *The Butcher*. Not for his trade—though he’d carved enough meat in his time—but for the way he handled a blade. Clean. Efficient. Merciless.

The man in the mud spat a mouthful of blood. “You’re making a mistake,” he croaked. “I know things. Things you’d pay to hear.”

Kael crouched, his leather cloak dripping water onto the dying man’s face. “And I know you’re a liar,” he said, pressing the tip of his blade against the man’s throat. “You’ve been selling secrets to the highest bidder since before I was old enough to hold a sword. Only difference now is, you’re out of buyers.”

The man’s eyes flicked to the side, desperate, pleading. Kael followed his gaze and saw her—a girl, no older than twelve, crouched behind a barrel, clutching a stolen loaf of bread. Her eyes were wide with fear, but there was something else there too. Defiance. Or maybe just hunger.

“She’s got nothing to do with this,” Kael said, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince—the man, the girl, or himself.

The man laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. “She’s got everything to do with it. She’s the reason you’re here, isn’t she? The reason you’re still holding that blade instead of letting it rust in some gutter.”

Kael’s hand twitched. He didn’t like being reminded of why he did what he did. Didn’t like being reminded of the choices that had led him here, to this rain-soaked alley with a dying man and a starving girl.

“Shut up,” he said, and then he slit the man’s throat.

The girl flinched but didn’t run. Kael stood, wiping his blade clean on the dead man’s cloak. “You should go,” he told her. “Before someone worse than me finds you.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she held out the loaf of bread. “You look like you could use this more than me,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Kael stared at her for a long moment, then took the bread. It was stale and hard, but it was food. And in Blackridge, food was a luxury.

“What’s your name?” he asked, though he didn’t know why he cared.

“Lira,” she said. “And you’re Kael Varrin. The Butcher.”

He nodded, turning to leave. “Stay out of trouble, Lira.”

“Easy for you to say,” she called after him. “You’ve got a blade.”

Kael paused, then tossed her his dagger. “Now you do too.”

He didn’t look back as he walked away, but he could feel her eyes on him. Could feel the weight of her gaze like a second blade pressed against his spine.

The rain kept falling, washing the blood from the alley, but it couldn’t wash away the truth. Kael Varrin was a killer, a man with a past as dark as the shadows he lurked in. And in a city like Blackridge, where the strong preyed on the weak and the weak prayed for mercy, he was just another cog in the machine.

But machines could break. And when they did, they left a trail of wreckage in their wake.

Kael didn’t know it yet, but his trail was just beginning.