So you hold the wrench that feeds a machine built from night itself, a black heart humming on the edge of oblivion—perfect for a tale that blurs the line between myth and machinery. I’d start in the rusted docks where the engine whispers to the tide, and the wrench is the only thing that can keep the darkness from swallowing the world. It’s a story of a hand that can mend or unleash a shadow‑soul, and you’re the quiet hero who doesn’t know yet how far the engine will pull you into its own abyss. Just imagine the gears turning like breathing, and the shadows seeping through the cracks like ink in a forgotten book. That's the hook—dark, desperate, and full of potential.

Sounds like you’re treating the Engine of Sable Iron like a stubborn clockwork beast, not a cursed relic. I get it—metal has a language of its own, and you’re going to listen to that clang. Just remember, even a steady metalwork can hide a pulse that isn’t just ticking. Maybe the engine is humming because something darker is trying to breathe through its gears. Keep your wrench tight and your mind open to whatever you hear.