《Vraknheim Saga》


 Chapter 1

    It started in the ruined halls of Karaz Tarul, a crumbling fortress carved into the side of a forgotten mountain. The air hung heavy with dust and the faint metallic tang of long-dried blood, but I didn''t come here for treasure or glory. I came for the forge¡ªthe one thing that still lived within these dead walls.


    The hammer''s calloused handle felt like home in my hands as I struck hot iron, the ringing echo of each blow bouncing through the cavernous chamber. Sparks leapt and danced, casting shadows that flickered like spirits of the past. Every strike sent vibrations through my arms, resonating deep in my bones, and I imagined I could hear the whispers of the ore itself. There''s something alive in the metal if you know how to listen. And I listened well.


    I wasn''t always alone. The journey here had been a bloody one, and the road had claimed every companion I''d once known. The eastern passes, infested with goblins and worse, had been a massacre. But I''d survived. Barely. I bore the scars on my forearms, my back, even my face¡ªa twisted line running from temple to jaw like a map of all the wrong turns I''d taken. But the mistakes, the bloodshed, the screams¡ªthey''d led me here. And here was where I''d begin again.


    The first piece I forged in Karaz Tarul''s ancient forge wasn''t a weapon. Not really. It was the beginnings of a bond. A slender iron rod, roughly shaped, glowing dull orange as I lifted it from the coals. I began inscribing runes¡ªslow, deliberate strokes that carved into the soft metal as easily as a quill cuts into parchment. The runes would guide the weapon''s spirit, channel its will. Every rune was a commandment: "Strike true. Withstand. Seek vengeance." The final rune, one I invented myself, meant simply, "Grow."


    The process was exacting. Hours blurred into days, and the days fell into weeks. I kept a sparse routine: forge, eat, sleep, repeat. I survived on whatever dried provisions I had left, chasing each meager meal with swigs from a dented flask. It was only when I stepped back and saw the rod¡ªnow a gleaming, rune-etched shaft¡ªthat I felt the first hint of pride since arriving.


    But a shaft alone wasn''t a weapon. It needed a head, and I knew exactly what I wanted. I scoured the old fortress for materials, my boots crunching over broken tiles and scattered bones. At last, I found what I needed: a chunk of black iron, harder than steel and heavy as sin. I hauled it back to the forge and began the painstaking process of shaping it into a warhammer head. The top would be the curved blade¡ªa cruel, vicious arc meant to cleave through anything in its path. The other side would be the blunt face, a crushing weight that would crack shields, skulls, and stone alike.


    Forging that head was hell. I lost track of how many times I reheated the iron, how many times I hammered until my muscles screamed and my hands blistered. The chamber grew so hot I felt like I was roasting alive, my sweat sizzling on the stone floor. But I pushed through. Each swing of the hammer was a conversation with the weapon-to-be. Each rune I etched whispered a promise: "I will make you strong. I will give you purpose."


    And when it was done¡ªwhen I finally joined the head to the shaft and felt the balance, the weight, the perfect alignment¡ªI knew I''d made something extraordinary. The hammer had a presence, as if it watched me with unseen eyes. I could almost hear it humming with potential, eager for battle. Its runes glowed faintly, reacting to the warmth of my hands. It was more than a tool. It was a companion, a guardian, a monster.


    I named it Skarnvalk, the Reaper of Stone.


    But my work wasn''t finished. Karaz Tarul had provided the forge, but it was still a dead place, and I couldn''t stay. The road called to me again, this time promising something more than pain. It promised purpose. There were others out there who needed weapons like this, who deserved the craftsmanship and care I poured into my work. I wasn''t just a forge master¡ªI was a ruin master. And the runes I etched weren''t just for weapons. They were for the future I intended to carve out of this broken world.


    The first town I came across after leaving Karaz Tarul was little more than a collection of crooked timber houses and an inn that reeked of sour ale. The people there were tough, their eyes wary, their smiles tight-lipped, and the smoke from their hearth fires stung my nose. Word of the mountain had clearly reached them¡ªwhispered tales of a lone dwarf with a hammer carved in ancient runes.


    They stared when I walked into the inn, boots caked in dust, Skarnvalk slung across my back. Not that I blamed them. A dwarf in a town of men always drew eyes, even more so when he looked half-feral and carried a weapon that practically hummed with malice. I paid for a meal with what few coins I had left and kept my head low, though I couldn''t help catching bits of conversation from the tables around me.


    "...spotted near the eastern ridge again. Another caravan didn''t make it."


    "...I tell you, the thing''s real. Old Sully saw it with his own eyes, claws like bloody scythes..."


    "...we can''t keep losing trade. If someone doesn''t step in, the whole valley''ll starve before winter''s out."


    I chewed the dry bread slowly, thinking. My last journey had been a test of survival, a pilgrimage to the forge. This time, I needed to be smarter. The hammer wasn''t just for display; it was a solution, a weapon meant to change the course of things. Skarnvalk and I needed to prove ourselves¡ªand it sounded like this "thing" in the eastern ridge might be a good place to start.


    The barkeep, a wiry old man with more missing teeth than hair, leaned over the counter and asked, "You a fighter, then?"


    "Depends," I said. "What''s the pay?"


    He snorted. "Pay''s what''s left of the trade goods when the beast''s dead. Some of it''s worth a good pile of gold, I reckon. But you''re not the first to ask, and I''m guessin'' you won''t be the last to walk out there and not come back."


    I grunted, finishing the last of the bread and chasing it with a sip of lukewarm ale. "What kind of beast?"


    The barkeep''s face darkened. "They say it''s a grimwing¡ªa thing from the deep woods, part wolf, part bird, part¡­ something else. Big as a horse, quick as a shadow. Claws can slice a man in half. Only comes at night."


    A grimwing. I''d heard of them before, in the old stories my kin told over forge fires. Unnatural creatures twisted by ancient curses, they were rare enough that most folk didn''t believe they existed. If this was truly a grimwing, it would be dangerous. Lethal, even. And that was exactly the kind of challenge I needed. I''d forged Skarnvalk to be more than a simple hammer. It had a will, a hunger for combat, and I intended to feed it.


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    I rose from the table, my chair scraping loudly on the wooden floorboards. "Where''s the ridge?"


    "Head east outta town," the barkeep said, eyes narrowing. "Follow the trail until you hit the cliffs. If you hear the trees go quiet, you''re close."


    He didn''t wish me luck. None of them did. They watched me go like they were already carving my name into a gravestone.


    The trail was muddy from a recent storm, and my boots sank with every step. The air was colder here, the trees taller, the undergrowth thicker. Each crack of a twig or rustle of leaves set my heart racing. I kept my grip on Skarnvalk tight, the hammer''s familiar weight calming my nerves. The runes glimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through the forest canopy, as if they sensed what was to come.


    By the time I reached the cliffs, the sun was sinking below the horizon. The barkeep had been right: the forest grew deathly quiet as I neared the ridge. The usual chorus of birds and insects faded into a heavy, oppressive silence. Even the wind seemed to die, leaving only the faint sound of my own breathing and the thud of my boots on the wet earth.


    I found a flat patch of ground at the base of a large tree and began carving runes into the soil. These weren''t combat runes¡ªthey were meant to draw attention. If the grimwing was as territorial as the stories claimed, it would come to me. I had no interest in wandering the dark woods hoping to stumble upon it. I wanted it to find me, to come at me with all the fury it could muster.


    I set Skarnvalk down beside me and sat cross-legged, watching the shadows stretch across the ridge. My heart pounded in my chest as night fell, but I forced myself to stay still. The runes in the soil glowed faintly in the moonlight, their light pulsing like a heartbeat. I could feel the hammer''s will beside me, a steady hum in the back of my mind. It was eager, almost impatient. So was I.


    Then, in the distance, a low, guttural growl broke the silence. It sent a shiver down my spine. A moment later, I heard the sound of branches snapping, followed by the heavy thud of something large moving through the trees.


    I rose to my feet, Skarnvalk in hand, and waited. The runes on the hammer flared to life, casting a cold, pale light that illuminated the forest around me. The glow revealed a pair of eyes in the darkness¡ªhuge, golden, and filled with malice. I tightened my grip on the hammer and took a step forward.


    "Come on, then," I muttered. "Let''s see if the stories were true."


    The creature stepped out of the darkness and into the glow of the runes. It was every bit the monster the stories described: feathers black as ash, scales glinting like tarnished steel, and wings that looked too large for the muscular, lupine body beneath. Its claws dug into the ground with a sound like grinding stone, and its golden eyes locked onto me.


    I grinned. "So you''re the one making all the trouble around here," I said, my voice calm despite the tightening in my chest. "Name''s Doran Thargrimm, by the way. Figure we''ll get introductions out of the way before I turn you into scrap."


    The grimwing''s ears flicked at the sound of my voice. It growled again, low and rumbling, and I could see the muscles in its powerful legs tense, preparing to spring. I adjusted my stance, hefting Skarnvalk in both hands. The hammer''s runes flared brighter, their light dancing off the etched blade and the heavy, blocky head.


    "Alright then, beastie," I muttered, my grin widening. "Let''s dance."


    The grimwing lunged forward, claws carving deep trenches into the earth. Its black-feathered wings snapped open, propelling it with terrifying speed. In an instant, it was upon me¡ªclaws swiping at my chest, jaws snapping for my neck. But I was already moving.


    I spun to the side, bringing Skarnvalk around in a sweeping arc. The hammer''s curved blade caught the creature''s flank and tore through scales and sinew. Blood sprayed, black and steaming, but the grimwing didn''t flinch. It twisted, jaws wide, and lashed out with a wing. The force of the strike sent me stumbling back.


    Pain flared in my ribs. I barely had time to register it before the beast came at me again. I ducked low, driving the blunt face of Skarnvalk into its leg. The impact shook my arms to the bone, but I felt the joint give under the force. The grimwing howled, its voice like a storm ripping through the trees.


    It was strong¡ªstronger than anything I''d ever faced before. Each swing of its claws came faster, its movements more frantic as it realised I wasn''t going down easily. I fought defensively, dodging and parrying, searching for an opening. The hammer wasn''t just a weapon; it was an extension of my will. Every rune I''d etched into its surface had a purpose, a command. I just had to find the right moment.


    The beast leapt back, its wings beating the air. It crouched, preparing for a final, devastating charge. I could see the muscles coiling beneath its hide, the tension in its massive frame. I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and reached for the power I''d built into the runes.


    "Time to end this," I muttered, slamming the hammer''s butt into the ground. The runes blazed with white-hot light, and I felt the weapon respond. It wasn''t just a hammer anymore; it was a force of nature, a weapon with a will as fierce as my own.


    The grimwing sprang, a black streak cutting through the night. I met it head-on, swinging Skarnvalk in a wide, brutal arc. The hammer connected with the creature''s skull, shattering bone and sending shockwaves through the air. The curved blade followed, cleaving deep into its neck. Blood sprayed, and the grimwing crumpled to the ground, motionless.


    For a moment, the forest was silent again. I stood over the fallen beast, breathing heavily, my hands trembling from the effort. Skarnvalk''s runes pulsed faintly, their light dimming as the weapon settled into a quiet hum. The hammer had done its work, and I''d proven myself worthy of it once more.


    With the grimwing dead at my feet, I took a moment to catch my breath. My ribs ached from the blows I hadn''t quite dodged, and the cut along my left forearm bled sluggishly. Still, I''d seen worse. Much worse.


    Skarnvalk''s runes had dimmed, the hammer''s bloodlust sated. I could feel the faint hum of its will in my hands, a contented purr, as though it too recognised a job well done. It wasn''t just a tool; it was a companion, bound to me as much as I was bound to it. Together, we were more than just a warrior and a weapon. We were something¡­ different. Something more.


    But the fight had taken its toll. My muscles burned, and I knew I''d need time to recover before tackling whatever waited for me next. For now, the forest was still. Peaceful, even. The grimwing''s body would serve as proof that the valley''s trade routes were safe again, and with luck, that would be enough to earn me some coin. Enough to keep moving.


    I crouched by the beast''s massive head, inspecting the damage. The runes on Skarnvalk hadn''t just pierced its flesh¡ªthey''d left blackened streaks along the bone, as if the weapon''s will had burned straight through it. I couldn''t help but smirk. Even in death, the grimwing looked like it had seen something far worse than it expected. A fitting end for a creature that had brought so much fear to these woods.


    "Rest in pieces, you bastard," I muttered, wiping blood from the hammer''s blade. "You won''t be the last."


    The grimwing''s blood, thick and dark, clung to Skarnvalk''s blade. I knew I''d have to clean it properly back at the forge, to make sure the runes stayed sharp and the weapon''s will remained intact. For now, though, it would serve as a reminder to anyone who crossed my path that Doran Thargrimm wasn''t someone to be trifled with.


    I rose to my feet, hefting Skarnvalk onto my shoulder, and began the long walk back toward the town. Each step reminded me that this was just the beginning. There were more challenges ahead¡ªmore beasts to kill, more weapons to forge, more runes to carve. The road was long, and the world was dark. But I had my hammer, my skill, and my name.

 Chapter 2

    When I returned to the village, the reception wasn''t exactly what you''d call warm. Word travelled faster than I had. The inn''s common room buzzed with whispered conversations and sidelong glances, but the moment I stepped through the door, the place went silent. Dozens of eyes fixed on me¡ªsome with awe, some with fear, most with suspicion. Typical.


    I dropped the grimwing''s severed claw onto the bar. It hit the wood with a heavy thunk, leaving behind a smear of black blood that dripped onto the floor. The barkeep, the same wiry old man who''d doubted I''d return, looked from the claw to me and back again. His face was a mixture of surprise and grim resignation, as if he''d just realised his wildest hope and his worst nightmare were the same thing.


    "Well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That''s¡­ proof enough, I reckon."


    "I don''t need your approval," I replied. "Just my pay."


    A murmur swept through the room. The barkeep eyed the claw again, then reached under the bar and pulled out a small chest. He set it down, opened it, and pushed it toward me. Inside were a handful of coins and a few loose gemstones¡ªnothing grand, but enough to keep me going for a while. I reached for the chest, but before I could take it, the barkeep''s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the lid.


    "Hold on a minute," he said. "What do you plan on doing next?"


    "What''s it to you?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.


    "Just curious." He glanced at the claw, then back at me. "You took down a grimwing. That''s no small feat. The folks here, they might not show it, but they''ll sleep easier tonight knowing it''s gone. And a dwarf who can do something like that, well¡­ word gets around. You might find more work, if you''re looking for it."


    I leaned on the counter, meeting his gaze. "What''s the catch?"


    "No catch," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Just saying, the road''s dangerous, and if you''re heading out again, there might be people willing to pay for a bit of¡­ protection. Trade caravans, for one. Maybe a few of the outlying settlements. If you''re building a name for yourself, you might as well profit from it."


    I studied him for a moment. The man had a point. I wasn''t just a wandering forge master anymore. I had a reputation, small as it might be, and that reputation could be turned into coin. Coin that would let me stock up on supplies, upgrade my tools, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªcontinue forging.


    "Keep talking," I said.


    The barkeep leaned in, lowering his voice. "There''s a caravan heading north in a few days. They''ve had trouble in the past¡ªbandits, beasts, you name it. If you''re interested, I can put in a good word. But they''ll want to see more than just a fancy hammer. They''ll want to know you can handle yourself."


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    I reached into my satchel and pulled out a smaller, secondary piece I''d been working on: a short, single-edged blade I''d forged during the long nights in Karaz Tarul. I placed it on the counter next to the claw. The blade gleamed in the firelight, its edge wickedly sharp, its runes faint but unmistakable.


    "Think that''ll do?" I asked.


    The barkeep''s eyes widened. He didn''t touch the blade. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Aye. I reckon it might."


    The deal was struck the next morning. The caravan leader, a burly human with a sour disposition named Drenn, agreed to let me ride along as protection in exchange for a modest fee. Not much, but it would cover my meals and maybe leave me a bit extra for materials. The road north wasn''t easy, and I figured a little coin in hand was better than wandering aimlessly.


    Drenn didn''t seem thrilled about it. As we stood by the wagons in the pale morning light, he eyed me like a farmer sizing up a goat that might be too scrawny to butcher. "You know how to fight, sure," he said, spitting into the dirt. "But can you handle a real battle? Not just one beast in the woods?"


    I hoisted Skarnvalk onto my shoulder, letting the hammer''s weight speak for me. The runes flickered faintly, and I thought I saw Drenn''s eyes dart to them. He didn''t ask again.


    The caravan was a small affair¡ªthree wagons laden with crates of grain, cloth, and a handful of oddities wrapped in canvas. The drivers were rough sorts, seasoned by years of fending off bandits and the occasional wild beast, but they didn''t have anything like Skarnvalk. They had crossbows, rusty swords, and clubs that looked like they''d been scavenged from the bodies of fallen raiders. None of them gave me more than a passing glance, which suited me fine. I wasn''t here to make friends.


    The first two days passed uneventfully. The road was clear, and the forest quiet. Too quiet, if I''m honest. Every time the wind shifted, I caught myself gripping Skarnvalk''s haft a little tighter, expecting an ambush that never came. The drivers joked and grumbled among themselves, but I stayed silent, scanning the trees and listening for anything out of place.


    It was on the third day, as we wound our way through a rocky valley, that trouble finally found us.


    The first sign was the birds. They stopped singing all at once, as if someone had silenced them with a wave of their hand. The drivers noticed too, their chatter dying as they exchanged uneasy looks. Drenn, riding at the front, raised a hand to halt the caravan. The wagons creaked to a stop, and the drivers reached for their weapons. I climbed down from the second wagon, Skarnvalk in hand, and stepped to the front.


    "Bandits?" Drenn whispered.


    I shook my head. "Not bandits."


    He frowned. "How do you know?"


    "Listen."


    It wasn''t just the birds that were silent. The entire forest felt¡­ wrong. The air was thick and heavy, like the moments before a storm. And then I heard it: a faint, guttural growl that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It wasn''t the low rumble of a beast, though. This was something else. Something worse.


    Drenn''s face paled as he heard it too. "What is that?"


    I didn''t answer. Instead, I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and stepped forward. The runes on the hammer flared to life, casting a cold, pale light that illuminated the path ahead. The drivers muttered behind me, their voices tinged with fear.

 Chapter 3

    From the shadows ahead, a figure emerged. It wasn''t a bandit, nor a beast. It was a man¡ªor what used to be a man. His skin was pale and mottled, his eyes black pits that reflected the faint glow of Skarnvalk''s runes. He moved with an unnatural, jerky gait, as though his limbs were being pulled by invisible strings. And he wasn''t alone. More figures stepped out from the trees, their hollow eyes fixed on us.


    Drenn cursed under his breath. "What the hell are those?"


    "Trouble," I muttered.


    The creatures¡ªif you could still call them that¡ªmoved as one, shuffling closer. Their mouths opened in unison, and a guttural hiss escaped their throats. I could feel Skarnvalk''s will stirring, the hammer eager for the fight. I met Drenn''s wide-eyed stare and grinned.


    "Stay back," I said. "This one''s mine."


    The creatures moved fast¡ªfaster than I''d expected from something so unnatural. They darted forward, their jagged claws reaching for me, their blackened eyes locked onto my every movement. I stepped into the charge, raising Skarnvalk high. The runes flared bright, a pale silver glow that spilled over the grim faces of the attackers.


    The first blow came down hard, and the curved blade at the top of Skarnvalk cut cleanly through the first creature''s outstretched arm. It didn''t scream¡ªjust staggered back, black ichor oozing from the wound. I followed through, bringing the hammer''s blunt side around in a wide arc that smashed into its torso. Bones shattered under the impact, and it crumpled to the dirt, motionless.


    The others didn''t hesitate. They swarmed, moving like a single entity, their gnarled limbs reaching for any opening. I swung Skarnvalk in great sweeping arcs, cutting through the nearest two before they could close the distance. The runes glowed brighter with every strike, their light searing through the darkness. It wasn''t just a hammer anymore; it was a beacon, a weapon with a life of its own.


    I danced through the chaos, each movement calculated, each swing deliberate. Skarnvalk responded like an extension of my will, the runes guiding my strikes with an almost eerie precision. I felt its hunger, its desire to destroy these twisted abominations, and I let it lead the way.


    One creature managed to slip through, its claws raking across my side. The pain was sharp and immediate, but I didn''t falter. I drove the hammer down with both hands, smashing its skull into the dirt. I could feel the warmth of my own blood soaking into my tunic, but there was no time to tend to it. More were coming.


    Behind me, I heard the shouts of the caravan drivers, their voices filled with panic. I didn''t bother looking back. I couldn''t afford to. My focus was on the creatures in front of me¡ªon staying alive long enough to end them all.


    Another swing, another body crumpled to the ground. Black ichor splattered the dirt, the stench thick and choking. My breath came in short, ragged gasps, but I pressed on. I knew I couldn''t stop. Not until every last one of these things was destroyed.


    The fight raged on, each moment blurring into the next. The creatures were relentless, but so was I. Skarnvalk''s runes burned like fire, their light illuminating the forest in flashes of silver and gold. Each strike was a roar, each kill a victory.


    By the time it was over, the ground was littered with broken bodies. I stood in the center of the carnage, bloodied and bruised, Skarnvalk still glowing faintly in my hands. The hammer''s hum had quieted, its hunger sated. For now.


    I turned back to the caravan. The drivers stood frozen, their faces pale, their weapons untouched. Drenn''s eyes were wide with shock as he looked from the bodies to me, then back again.


    "Are you¡­?" he began, but the words caught in his throat.


    "I''m fine," I said, though my ribs told a different story. "Start moving. This place isn''t safe anymore."


    He nodded numbly, and the drivers hurried to get the wagons moving. I climbed onto the lead cart, gripping Skarnvalk tightly. The hammer''s runes pulsed gently, their light a reassuring presence.


    As the caravan creaked forward, I glanced back at the pile of corpses. The forest seemed quieter now, as if the very land had been holding its breath. Whatever those things were, they weren''t natural. And something told me they wouldn''t be the last I''d face on this road.


    We didn''t stop until nightfall, the tension hanging over the caravan like a shroud. The drivers barely said a word, their faces drawn and pale. I kept my seat on the lead wagon, one hand resting on Skarnvalk''s haft. My side throbbed where the creature''s claws had raked me, but it wasn''t deep enough to slow me down. Pain was just another kind of fuel.


    When we finally pulled into a clearing for the night, I stepped down from the wagon and began to set up my forge. The drivers watched me with a mix of fear and curiosity, though none dared approach. That suited me just fine. I wasn''t here to hold their hands. I was here to make sure we all reached the next town alive, and if that meant putting the fear of the gods into them, so be it.


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    The forge was nothing elaborate¡ªjust a portable anvil, a few tools, and a small collapsible brazier that could hold enough heat to work with. I set it up near the campfire, feeding the coals until they glowed white-hot. The familiar warmth washed over me, and I felt my muscles relax for the first time in hours. This was my sanctuary, my real home. The hammering of steel against steel, the smell of hot metal and burning coal¡ªthese were the constants in my life.


    I pulled out the short blade I''d shown the barkeep back in town. It had done its job, but the fight had left it dull and chipped. I began sharpening it, running the blade along a whetstone in slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone drowned out the murmur of the camp, and I let myself focus entirely on the task at hand.


    My mind wandered as I worked. The creatures we''d fought weren''t bandits, weren''t animals. They were something else¡ªsomething wrong. The thought nagged at me like a stone in my boot. If they were a one-off, some cursed wanderers that happened upon our path, then fine. But if they were part of something bigger¡­


    I shook my head and kept sharpening. Worrying wouldn''t do me any good right now. The blade needed to be sharp. The hammer needed to be ready. The forge would take care of the rest.


    "Doran."


    I glanced up to see Drenn standing a few feet away. He looked like he''d rather be anywhere else, but there he was, clutching a dented short sword in his hand. It was a cheap, crude thing¡ªprobably bought from a traveling peddler who barely knew which end of the blade was sharp.


    "What is it?" I asked, my tone flat.


    "I¡­ I saw what you did back there. How you fought. How that hammer of yours glows like it''s alive." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I''ve been doing this a long time. I''ve seen fighters, mercenaries, even a few swordmasters. But I''ve never seen anyone¡­ like you."


    I snorted. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"


    "It''s supposed to be a question," he said, his voice low. "What are you, Doran?"


    I stared at him for a long moment, then went back to sharpening the blade. "I''m a forge master. A ruin master. I make things. And if I have to, I break things. That''s all you need to know."


    Drenn frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. But he didn''t press further. Instead, he held out his battered sword. "Can you¡­ fix this? At least sharpen it?"


    I looked at the sword, then at Drenn''s face. He wasn''t just asking for a better blade. He was asking for a measure of trust. A step toward understanding the kind of person he was dealing with. It didn''t change the fact that he was an ass. But it was a start.


    "Leave it with me," I said. "It''ll be ready by morning."


    He nodded and stepped back, leaving me alone with the forge. The night was quiet now, the forest still. As I worked, I felt a strange sense of calm. The fight was over. The road ahead was uncertain. But for the moment, I had my tools, my hammer, and the fire. And that was enough.


    Morning broke with a pale, silvery light filtering through the trees, and the camp stirred to life. The drivers moved about their tasks with nervous energy, still shaken from the previous day''s attack. I handed Drenn his repaired sword without ceremony, the blade now gleaming sharp and free of the nicks and dents it had borne. He accepted it with a grudging nod, then hurried off to help ready the wagons.


    I had no interest in their gratitude or their conversation. My focus was on the road ahead and what might be waiting for us. The creatures we''d encountered yesterday had left their mark¡ªnot just on my side, which still ached, but on my thoughts. The question of what they were and why they''d been there nagged at me. But that was a puzzle for another time. For now, I had a job: get these wagons safely to the next town.


    The caravan resumed its journey, the wagons creaking and groaning as they rolled along the uneven trail. Drenn, perhaps emboldened by his now-sharp blade, rode near the front, casting frequent glances over his shoulder as if expecting me to take up conversation. I didn''t. Instead, I walked beside the lead wagon, Skarnvalk resting on my shoulder, eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of movement.


    The forest grew denser as we pressed northward, the air cooler and damper. Shadows played tricks on the eyes, and every now and then one of the drivers would jump at a rustle in the underbrush or a branch creaking overhead. I stayed quiet, trusting my instincts and the faint hum of the runes on my hammer. They had a way of warning me when something truly dangerous was near.


    By mid-afternoon, the trail emerged onto a broad ridge. The ground here was rocky, the trees sparse, and the sky stretched wide above us. It felt safer, more open. Drenn let out a relieved breath and called for a brief halt. The wagons rolled to a stop, and the drivers climbed down to stretch their legs and tend the horses.


    I stood at the edge of the ridge, looking out over the valley below. From here, I could see a scattering of smaller forests and rolling hills, and in the far distance, the faint outline of another town¡ªour destination. The sight gave me a strange mix of relief and unease. We were close, but not close enough.


    Drenn walked up beside me, his repaired sword at his hip. "Not far now," he said, his tone more conversational than before.


    "Not far," I agreed, though I didn''t turn to face him. "But that doesn''t mean we''re safe."


    "Safe as we''ll get, I reckon," Drenn replied. "What happened back there¡­ I''ve never seen anything like it. Those things weren''t bandits or wolves. They were something else."


    I nodded, still scanning the horizon. "Something worse."


    Drenn was quiet for a moment, then asked, "You''ve dealt with things like that before?"


    "I''ve dealt with a lot of things."


    "Helpful answer," he muttered. Then, after a pause, he added, "But you''re not just a dwarf with a fancy hammer, are you?"


    I finally turned to look at him. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who barely said two words to me before I saved your ass."


    He gave a half-smile. "Fair enough. I guess I just¡­ I dunno. Want to know what I''m dealing with."


    "You''re dealing with Doran Thargrimm," I said, leaning on Skarnvalk. "A forge master. A ruin master. And someone who knows his way around a fight. That''s all you need to know."


    Drenn held my gaze for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, Thargrimm. I''ll leave it at that. But if you''ve got any runes or tricks that can keep us alive, I''d appreciate you using them."


    I grunted in acknowledgment and turned back to the valley. The drivers were already climbing back onto the wagons, and Drenn moved off to oversee the preparations. I stayed where I was, Skarnvalk in hand, and watched the horizon. The road ahead might be shorter than the one behind us, but that didn''t mean it would be easy. And something told me the worst wasn''t behind us yet.

 Chapter 4

    We reached the town by early evening. It was a scrappy place, smaller than I expected, its outer wall little more than stacked logs bound with iron bands. Guards stood at the gate, wearing mismatched bits of armour that looked as if they''d been scrounged from whatever skirmishes they''d survived. They gave us a wary once-over but waved us through without much fuss. The caravan''s arrival seemed to draw little attention, just a few curious glances from villagers too busy closing up shop for the night to care about a handful of traders and a dusty dwarf with a glowing hammer.


    The wagons rattled into the market square, where Drenn quickly got to work bartering the goods. I let him handle it; I wasn''t here for trade. I was here to resupply, find a decent bed, and figure out my next move. The promise of a few warm meals and a quiet forge outweighed the noise and bustle of the square.


    As I wandered toward what looked like the town''s only inn, I caught snippets of conversation among the townsfolk. A butcher muttering about rising meat prices. A cobbler complaining that his tools kept breaking. And one phrase, spoken in a hurried whisper by a pair of ragged-looking men near the well, caught my ear: "The Blightened Path."


    I stopped, glancing their way. One of them noticed me and quickly hushed his friend, both of them shuffling off into the shadows before I could ask what they meant. I didn''t press it. Not yet. But I made a note of it. Words like that rarely led anywhere good, and I had a knack for finding trouble when I followed them.


    The innkeeper, a stout human woman with arms thicker than most men''s, gave me a long look when I walked in. Her eyes flicked to Skarnvalk, and she arched an eyebrow. "Trouble?" she asked.


    "Not for you," I replied, setting a handful of coins on the counter. "Room and food. Something strong to drink."


    She snorted but pocketed the money. "Room''s upstairs, first door on the left. Stew''s on the hearth, bread''s fresh. Ale''s cheap, but it''ll knock you flat if you''re not careful."


    I gave her a nod and took a seat by the fire. The place was quiet¡ªjust a couple of labourers at a corner table, nursing mugs of the cheap brew, and a hooded figure in the farthest shadow, their face hidden, their movements deliberate. I didn''t pay them much mind. Instead, I dug into the stew, which was salty but filling, and tore at the bread like a starving wolf. It had been too long since I''d had a proper meal.


    My eyes drifted to Skarnvalk, leaning against the wall beside me. Its runes were faint now, their glow reduced to the faintest shimmer. The hammer''s will was quiet, resting. For all its power, it wasn''t some endless font of energy. Like me, it needed time to recover. And like me, it would be ready when called.


    The hooded figure rose and left without a word, their heavy boots echoing against the wooden floorboards. I watched them go, though they didn''t look my way. A bit too quiet for a stranger. Another thing to note, another thread to pull later.


    For now, I finished the meal, drained my mug, and headed upstairs. The room was small but clean, the bed firm, the window barred. Good enough. I set Skarnvalk beside the bed and stretched out, staring at the ceiling beams as I let the day''s tension fade.


    The Blightened Path. Hooded strangers. Broken tools. The world was full of signs, full of whispers of what might come next. But in the end, it always came down to the same thing. When the time came, I''d have Skarnvalk in my hands, fire at my back, and the skill to carve my way through whatever hell awaited.


    That was enough. For now.


    The next morning, the town buzzed with activity. Wagons creaked under fresh loads of goods, merchants shouted out their wares, and the square was alive with the clinking of coins and the low murmur of trade. I had no interest in haggling for trinkets, but I needed supplies¡ªmaterials for the forge, fresh bandages for my side, and maybe something sturdier than the leathers I wore.


    As I wandered through the market, the people gave me a wide berth. The hammer at my back drew their attention, of course. Even sheathed, Skarnvalk''s curved blade gleamed faintly, and the faint runes etched into the haft caught the morning light. Some villagers whispered behind cupped hands, others stared openly. I ignored them all.


    One stall caught my eye: a blacksmith''s stand piled high with worn tools and cracked blades. The smith, a broad-shouldered man with soot-streaked arms, looked up as I approached, his expression shifting from curiosity to wariness in an instant.


    "You looking to buy, or are you here to criticise my work?" he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron.


    "Neither," I replied, pulling a small, plain ingot from my satchel. "I need materials, not finished goods."


    He squinted at the ingot, then at me. "What are you making?"


    "Something better than what you''ve got here," I said flatly. "But I need stock to start with¡ªgood steel, not this half-worn scrap."


    The smith frowned but nodded. "If you''ve got coin, I can part with some of my higher-quality stock. Though from the look of that hammer, you seem to have a knack for crafting your own."


    I shrugged. "I do. But I left my best supplies a hundred miles behind. Just give me what you''ve got, and I''ll do the rest."


    He named a price that was only half-insulting, and I paid without haggling. Soon, I had a bundle of steel bars and a handful of iron scraps wrapped in cloth. They weren''t ideal, but they''d do. I made my way back to the inn, stopping only to pick up some fresh food and a flask of something stronger than ale. The journey ahead wasn''t likely to get easier, and it never hurt to have a bit of liquid courage tucked away.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Back at the inn, I set up a small workspace in the courtyard. The innkeeper grumbled about the noise and the smoke, but she didn''t stop me. The forge was simple: a makeshift anvil, a portable brazier, and the steady rhythm of my hammer striking steel. I didn''t have much time, so I focused on quick, practical improvements¡ªa small blade with fresh runes etched into its surface, a reinforced buckle for my armor, and a handful of throwing spikes carved with symbols meant to find their mark even in chaos.


    The work was calming, a reminder of why I traveled in the first place. The clang of metal, the heat of the forge¡ªit was where I felt most alive. It wasn''t just about making weapons. It was about making something that mattered, something that could turn the tide of a fight or save a life.


    By late afternoon, I had a small collection of fresh equipment and a clear head. The question of what lay ahead still loomed large, but at least now I was better prepared. I packed up my tools and wiped the sweat from my face, Skarnvalk resting against the workbench, its runes pulsing faintly as if in approval.


    The forge''s faint glow dimmed as I banked the coals for the night. I stood back, wiping soot-streaked hands on my trousers, and surveyed the results. Skarnvalk gleamed as it always did, its runes still faintly pulsing. But now it wasn''t alone. On the workbench lay a fresh dagger, small and wickedly sharp, with faintly glowing runes that whispered guidance for every strike. Next to it, a set of throwing spikes, each etched with symbols that would guide their flight to their intended targets. Simple, sturdy improvements¡ªjust enough to even the odds on the next fight.


    I slung my hammer over my back, tucked the new blades into my belt, and made my way back inside. The inn''s common room had emptied, save for a couple of regulars nursing their drinks in the corner. The air smelled of spilled ale and damp wood, the faint crackle of the hearth the only sound.


    Upstairs, the room was just as I''d left it: small, sparsely furnished, but clean. I set Skarnvalk by the door, the hammer resting on its haft. The runes dimmed to almost nothing, as though the weapon itself had decided it was time to rest. I couldn''t help but smirk at that. Even a tool of war needed a break now and then.


    I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself finally relax. My ribs still ached from the last fight, but the cut on my arm was healing cleanly. The work at the forge had helped¡ªit always did. The rhythmic pounding of the hammer, the hiss of quenching steel, the slow, steady burn of the coals¡­ it was as close to peace as I ever got. I leaned back against the wall, letting my eyes drift shut.


    That''s when I heard it.


    A soft scrape outside the window. Not the wind. Not the creak of a branch. Something deliberate. Quiet.


    My eyes snapped open, and my hand went straight to Skarnvalk''s haft. The runes flared, faint but steady. I rose silently, my boots making barely a sound on the wooden floor. Another scrape. Closer this time. The faintest shadow flickered against the window''s edge.


    I moved quickly, grabbing the hammer and stepping to the side of the door. Whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªwas out there wasn''t friendly. Skarnvalk hummed in my grip, the runes responding to the tension in my muscles. This wasn''t the first time someone thought they could catch me off guard. It likely wouldn''t be the last.


    The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive. I waited, breath held, listening for the faintest sound. Another scrape. This time near the door.


    I grinned.


    Come on, then. Let''s see what you''ve got.


    I pressed my back against the wall, one hand steadying Skarnvalk''s heft while the other reached for the throwing dagger I''d just forged. The room was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of the runes on my hammer and the weak moonlight leaking through the window. My breath slowed, my muscles tense, as I waited for them to make their move.


    The door creaked slightly. Not a knock, not a shove¡ªjust the barest hint of pressure, as though someone was testing it. Then came a faint click: a lockpick sliding into the mechanism. My grin widened. Amateurs.


    With a sharp inhale, I swung the door wide open before the intruder could finish their work. The figure on the other side staggered back in surprise, their cloak catching on the doorframe. Without giving them a chance to react, I stepped forward, Skarnvalk''s blunt end striking out in a quick, precise motion.


    The hammer slammed into the intruder''s wrist, sending the pick tumbling to the floor. They hissed in pain but didn''t cry out¡ªsmart. I could see now it was a man, wiry and dressed in dark leathers. His face was half-covered by a mask, but his eyes were sharp and alert. He reached for a dagger on his belt, but I was faster.


    I brought Skarnvalk''s haft up against his chin and drove him back into the hallway wall. The runes flared, bathing the narrow corridor in cold light. His eyes went wide, a flicker of fear breaking through his composure. He dropped the dagger, raising his hands in surrender.


    "Wait¡ªjust wait!" he gasped. "I''m not here to hurt you."


    I pressed the hammer''s haft into his throat just enough to keep him pinned. "Breaking into my room says otherwise."


    "I had no choice! I needed to talk to you." His voice was strained but steady. "You''re Doran Thargrimm, aren''t you?"


    I didn''t answer, but I eased the pressure just a fraction. He took the opportunity to pull down his mask, revealing a face that looked too young and too tired for this kind of work.


    "Please," he said, his tone almost pleading. "I need your help."


    I narrowed my eyes, keeping the hammer poised. "You''ve got a funny way of asking for it."


    He grimaced. "I couldn''t risk doing it in public. If they knew I was here¡ª"


    "Who''s they?"


    His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced around nervously, as though expecting shadows to come to life. "Look, can we just¡­ talk? Not here. Somewhere quiet."


    I stepped back, but kept the hammer ready. "You''ve got one chance to explain yourself. Start talking, or start running."


    He straightened, rubbing his wrist where I''d struck it. "There''s a group. They call themselves the Blightened Path. They''re¡ª"


    "The what?" I interrupted. That was the second time I''d heard that name in as many days. It set my teeth on edge.


    "The Blightened Path," he repeated, quieter this time. "They''re after something¡­ something dangerous. I''ve been tracking them for weeks, trying to find someone who could stop them. Someone who could fight them. And then I heard about you."


    "Lucky me," I said dryly.


    He flinched. "Listen, I know how it sounds. But these people, they''re not just bandits or cultists. They''re¡ª"


    "They''re what?" I growled.


    "They''re killing villages. Not just raiding¡ªwiping them out. They''re looking for something, and they''re leaving nothing behind but ash and blood."


    His words hung in the air. For a moment, all I could hear was the faint hum of Skarnvalk''s runes and my own heartbeat. Ash and blood. That was more than just a few rogues causing trouble. It was a warning.


    "Why come to me?" I asked. "Why not the town guard, or some noble with an army?"


    He met my gaze, his expression grim. "Because you''re not a guard or a noble. You''re a forge master. A ruin master. And from what I''ve heard, you don''t just make weapons¡ªyou make things that matter. You know how to handle things no one else can."


    I lowered Skarnvalk slightly, but kept my grip firm. The air in the hallway felt heavier, charged with the weight of his words. I didn''t know if I believed him. But something about the way he said it, the desperation in his voice, made me think he wasn''t lying. Not entirely.


    "Alright," I said slowly. "You''ve got my attention. Now tell me everything."

 Chapter 5

    The man swallowed hard and glanced down the corridor, his gaze darting nervously between the faintly glowing runes on Skarnvalk and the shadows at the end of the hall. "Not here," he whispered. "It''s not safe. There are ears everywhere."


    I raised an eyebrow. "What, do you think they''re hiding under the innkeeper''s skirts?"


    His lips thinned, and for a moment, I thought he might try to bolt. Instead, he took a steadying breath and stepped closer. "This isn''t a joke," he said, his voice low but firm. "The Blightened Path¡ªthey have people in every town, every market. They''re not just after treasure or power. They''re looking for something ancient, something that should never be found. If they think I''m talking to you, we''re both dead before morning."


    The intensity in his eyes made me pause. I''d heard plenty of wild claims from desperate men before, but something about this one felt different. He wasn''t trying to intimidate me or bluff his way out. He was genuinely afraid.


    I tapped Skarnvalk''s haft against the floor, the dull thud breaking the tension. "Alright," I said. "If you''ve got somewhere quieter in mind, lead the way. But if this is a trap¡­" I let the sentence hang, the implication clear.


    He nodded quickly and gestured for me to follow. "Just a bit outside the town. There''s an old mill, abandoned. No one goes near it anymore."


    I wasn''t thrilled about the idea of leaving the safety of the inn''s solid walls for a dilapidated mill in the dark, but something told me I wasn''t going to get a straight answer from him here. I grabbed my satchel and followed him down the stairs and out into the cool night air.


    The streets were quiet, the usual clatter of a town at dusk replaced by an unsettling stillness. The man¡ªhe still hadn''t given me a name¡ªmoved quickly, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. I kept pace, Skarnvalk resting on my shoulder, the hammer''s faint hum reassuring me more than his nervous glances.


    The mill wasn''t far. Just on the edge of town, half-hidden by a grove of gnarled trees. The building sagged like an old drunk, its roof missing tiles, its walls streaked with mildew. A broken waterwheel leaned against the side, the river it once harnessed now little more than a sluggish trickle.


    Inside, the air was damp and cold. The faint smell of rotting wood hung in the shadows. The man led me to the far corner, where a few overturned barrels and crates made for crude seating. He motioned for me to sit, but I remained standing, Skarnvalk''s haft held loosely in one hand.


    "Start talking," I said. "Who are you, and why do you think I can help?"


    He sat down heavily on one of the barrels, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "Name''s Corvin," he said after a moment. "I was¡ªam¡ªa hunter. Not for game, though. For knowledge. Relics, artifacts, old things that don''t belong in the hands of common folk."


    "Sounds noble," I said dryly. "But that still doesn''t explain why you broke into my room."


    "I didn''t know how else to reach you," Corvin admitted, his eyes darting toward the boarded-up window. "You''re not exactly the kind of person you approach in broad daylight. The Blightened Path, they¡­ they have a way of watching. Of knowing. If they saw me talking to you, they''d come for me. For both of us."


    I let out a slow breath. "Alright, Corvin. You''ve got one chance to convince me you''re not wasting my time. Who are the Blightened Path, and why should I care?"


    He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "They''re more than just a cult. They''re seekers, diggers, plunderers of the oldest ruins in the world. They want to uncover the things that were buried for a reason¡ªthe things that even ruin masters like you shouldn''t touch."


    "Nice speech," I said, though my grip on Skarnvalk tightened. "But what are they looking for?"


    Corvin hesitated, then said, "An artifact. A forge-stone. The kind of stone that doesn''t just shape weapons¡ªit shapes destinies. They''re hunting it because they believe it will make them unstoppable. And if they find it, there won''t be a town, a kingdom, or a guild left standing."


    His words hung in the cold air of the mill, heavy with implication. A forge-stone. The kind of artifact that could imbue weapons with will, with power far beyond what even the greatest ruin masters could achieve. If the Blightened Path was after something like that, it wasn''t just his problem. It was everyone''s.


    I stared at him for a long moment. Corvin met my gaze, his fear now mingled with a flicker of hope. He''d risked his life to tell me this. Either he was telling the truth, or he was the best liar I''d ever met.


    "If you''re lying," I said, stepping closer, "you''d best hope they get to you before I do."


    "I''m not," he said quickly. "I swear."


    I let the threat hang in the air, then stepped back. "Fine. Tell me what you know. Where they''re going, what they''re planning."


    Corvin nodded, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands. "I''ll tell you everything. Just¡­ just promise me you''ll stop them."


    I grunted, lowering Skarnvalk to my side. "No promises. But I''ll hear you out."


    Corvin spoke quickly, like a man unloading a heavy burden before his courage ran out. "The Blightened Path operates in cells, each one hunting a different piece of the puzzle. They move quietly, bribing town leaders, killing anyone who gets in their way. From what I''ve pieced together, they''re after three components: the forge-stone, an ancient anvil that can withstand its power, and a set of runes to bind them together."


    I leaned against a decaying beam, letting his words sink in. Skarnvalk hummed faintly at my side, its runes dim but attentive. "So," I said, my voice laced with dry amusement, "you''re telling me these half-witted cultists are one scavenger hunt away from world domination?"


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Corvin''s face darkened. "This isn''t a joke. They''ve already slaughtered three villages trying to find these pieces. Men, women, children¡ªthey didn''t leave anyone behind. And the worst part is they don''t even care about what they''re doing. The ends justify the means to them. They''ll cut through anyone, spill any amount of blood, to get what they want."


    "Well, shit," I said. "Sounds like a real charming bunch. What''s their endgame, though? You''re not seriously telling me they just want to build the ultimate paperweight."


    Corvin hesitated, then admitted, "They believe the forge-stone will let them create weapons with wills strong enough to bend anyone to their cause. An army armed with blades that compel loyalty, with armor that turns men into unkillable zealots. If they get all the pieces and bind them together¡­"


    "Yeah, yeah," I interrupted, waving a hand. "The world goes to hell. I get it." I sighed and shifted my weight, the old mill creaking underfoot. "So, what exactly do you expect me to do about it? Last I checked, I''m a forge master, not a bloody king."


    "You''re the only one who can stop them!" Corvin said, his voice rising. "You know runes, how to bind weapons, how to break them. You can¡ª"


    "I can what?" I cut him off sharply, my patience wearing thin. "Forge myself a big shiny sword and hope they all trip over it? I''ve got enough on my plate without chasing some cult across the countryside."


    Corvin''s jaw tightened. "I know it''s not your problem. I know you don''t owe me, or anyone else, a damn thing. But you''ve seen what they can do, haven''t you? Those creatures on the road? They''re not the worst of it. If the Path gets their hands on the forge-stone, they''ll be making monsters out of men."


    That struck a nerve. The memory of those twisted things in the woods¡ªthe hollow eyes, the unnatural movements¡ªflashed through my mind. I''d seen plenty of horrors in my time, but those creatures weren''t natural. They were made. Forged. The kind of perversion of craft that made my skin crawl.


    I glanced down at Skarnvalk, its runes faintly pulsing in the gloom. The hammer wasn''t just a tool. It was a legacy, a reminder of the skill and blood that had gone into its creation. I didn''t forge for glory or gold. I forged because it mattered¡ªbecause the things I made could change lives. Or end them.


    "Well," I said finally, "if I''m going to play hero, I''d better get some details. Where''s the nearest Path cell, and what do you know about their defenses?"


    Corvin exhaled, relief flickering across his face. "There''s a base hidden in the old ruins of Bygrun Hold, about a day''s ride from here. They''ve been sending shipments of relics to other cells from there. If you can take it out, disrupt their supply chain, you''ll slow them down."


    "Right," I muttered. "And I suppose they''ll just invite me in for tea and biscuits, will they?"


    "Not exactly," Corvin admitted. "They''ve got mercenaries, hired muscle to guard the relics. And¡­ something else. Something stronger. I don''t know what it is, but every time I got close, I could feel it. Like the air was heavier, colder."


    "Wonderful," I said, rubbing a hand over my face. "Heavy air and hired thugs. Sounds like a real party."


    Corvin hesitated. "There''s one more thing. The leader of that cell, a man named Varrik. He''s not just some thug. He''s a ruin hunter, like me. He knows how to use what they''ve found. And he won''t hesitate to kill you if he thinks you''re a threat."


    I grinned, the kind of grin that made men take a step back. "Sounds like my kind of asshole. Alright, Corvin. You''ve sold me. I''ll pay Varrik a visit and see if he wants to dance."


    The tension in the room eased just a fraction. Corvin nodded, relief and a hint of gratitude in his expression. "Thank you. You don''t know what this means¡ª"


    I held up a hand. "Save it. I''m not doing this for you. I''m doing it because I hate the idea of someone ruining my craft with their half-baked bullshit. If this Varrik wants to play ruin master, he''s in for a rude awakening."


    Corvin nodded quickly. "Of course. Just¡­ be careful."


    I snorted. "Careful''s not my style. Brutal, on the other hand¡­"


    With that, I hefted Skarnvalk over my shoulder, its runes gleaming faintly in the dim light. Bygrun Hold wasn''t far, and I was curious to see what kind of mess this Varrik had made. One way or another, I''d put an end to it. The Path wanted the forge-stone? They''d have to deal with me first.


    Dawn broke with a cold wind slicing through the trees, carrying the promise of rain. The path to Bygrun Hold was little more than an overgrown animal trail, winding through dense woods and treacherous ravines. I''d set out before the sun fully rose, leaving Corvin behind to stew in his fears. He''d given me a rough map, but I didn''t need much direction. Even from miles away, I could feel it¡ªthat faint, gnawing tension in the air. The place reeked of ruin energy, the kind that made your skin crawl and your thoughts run dark.


    I pressed on, Skarnvalk slung over my back, its weight a steady reminder of what awaited. The hammer''s runes pulsed faintly, a comforting rhythm against the unease settling in my gut. By the time the forest gave way to a barren hillside, I could see the crumbled remnants of Bygrun Hold. Stone towers leaned precariously against one another, walls long since devoured by moss and time. A heavy mist clung to the ground, swirling around the ruins like it was alive.


    And then there were the guards. Corvin wasn''t kidding about the mercenaries. A handful of them stood at the main entrance¡ªscruffy, broad-shouldered men armed with pitted blades and battered chainmail. They didn''t look like much, but that didn''t mean they''d go down easy. A good fighter knew that sometimes it was the desperate men who fought the hardest.


    I crouched low behind a cluster of boulders, peering through the mist. The entrance was narrow, flanked by two cracked statues of long-forgotten kings. Beyond it, a faint light flickered¡ªa campfire, perhaps, or torches set inside the hold. From here, it was impossible to tell how many more waited within.


    I considered my options. A frontal assault would be messy and loud, which didn''t bother me so much as the idea of giving Varrik time to prepare. On the other hand, sneaking in wasn''t exactly my style. I was a forge master, not a thief. Skarnvalk wasn''t made for subtlety, and neither was I.


    I decided on something in between.


    The first guard never saw it coming. I crept close enough to throw one of my new rune-carved spikes, aiming for the gap between his helm and breastplate. The spike flew true, its rune flaring briefly as it struck. He crumpled silently, collapsing into the mist without so much as a warning cry.


    That got the others'' attention. I could hear them muttering, shifting their positions, their nerves prickling at the unexpected. I gripped Skarnvalk and stepped into view, letting the hammer''s runes flare to life. The pale light washed over the ruins, casting me in sharp relief against the mist.


    "Alright, lads," I called out, my voice carrying over the wind. "You''ve got two choices. Walk away now and live, or stay put and die."


    One of them, a bearded brute with a scar running down his cheek, spat at the ground. "We''re not scared of you, dwarf."


    I swung Skarnvalk over my shoulder and grinned. "You should be."


    The remaining guards charged, their boots pounding against the rocky ground. I waited, letting them come to me. The first swung a rusted axe, aiming for my head. I ducked under it, bringing Skarnvalk''s blunt face up into his gut. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling.


    The next two came at me together, one wielding a short sword and the other a spear. I stepped into their attack, deflecting the spear''s thrust with Skarnvalk''s haft and smashing the sword aside with the curved blade. A quick swing of the hammer''s head crushed the swordsman''s knee, and he screamed as he fell. The spearman hesitated, his confidence wavering. I took advantage, driving Skarnvalk''s blade into his shoulder and kicking him backward.


    The fight was brutal and fast. By the time it was over, the guards lay broken and bloodied around me, their weapons scattered in the dirt. I stood in the mist, my breath fogging the air, the runes on Skarnvalk pulsing softly as if satisfied. The mercenaries weren''t the real threat. They were just an obstacle, a warm-up. The real fight waited inside.


    I stepped over the bodies and made my way into Bygrun Hold.

 Chapter 6

    The inside of Bygrun Hold was as grim as I''d expected. What remained of the ceiling had long since collapsed, leaving jagged beams and broken stone jutting out like bones from a half-rotted corpse. Water dripped from cracks in the walls, pooling in uneven puddles that mirrored the faint, flickering light of torches jammed into crude sconces. The air was damp and heavy, and every step I took stirred up the smell of mildew and decay.


    Skarnvalk''s runes dimmed slightly as I moved farther into the ruins, the hammer seeming to draw in the atmosphere around it, as though preparing for what was to come. The mercenaries outside had been just the outer layer, the first test. I knew the deeper I went, the stronger the resistance would become. Varrik wouldn''t leave his hoard unguarded.


    The corridor led to a large chamber, the centrepiece of which was a raised dais. Atop it sat a stone pedestal carved with ancient, angular runes that glowed faintly with a sickly green light. Around the room, more mercenaries stood watch, their weapons drawn and their eyes fixed on the entrance. But it wasn''t just hired muscle this time. I could feel it before I even stepped into the light¡ªa presence, cold and invasive, pressing against the edges of my mind.


    Standing on the dais, hunched over the pedestal, was a figure cloaked in tattered, rune-covered robes. He didn''t look up as I entered, his fingers tracing the glowing runes on the stone as if memorising their shape. This had to be Varrik, the ruin hunter Corvin had warned me about. His aura was palpable, a mixture of ruin energy and something darker¡ªsomething that didn''t belong to any ruin master I''d ever heard of.


    The guards stiffened as I approached, but I kept my steps slow and deliberate, Skarnvalk resting against my shoulder. "Varrik, I presume?" I called out.


    The cloaked figure finally turned, and I caught a glimpse of his face. His skin was pale, almost waxy, and his eyes glowed faintly green, the same hue as the runes on the pedestal. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile you saw on a snake just before it struck.


    "You''ve come a long way, dwarf," Varrik said, his voice smooth and calm. "I take it you''re the one who made such a mess outside."


    "I''ve made worse messes," I replied. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"


    Varrik''s smile widened. "Do? I''ll admit, you''ve disrupted my work. But you''re just a blacksmith with a fancy hammer. This¡ª" he gestured to the pedestal¡ª"is far beyond you. Walk away now, and I might let you live."


    I barked a laugh. "I''ve heard that one before. Let''s skip the part where you pretend I have a choice and go straight to the part where I smash that thing into gravel."


    The guards closed ranks, moving to block my path. Their faces were hard, determined. Varrik gestured idly, and I saw something shift in the shadows behind him. A shape, larger than any human, stepped into the torchlight. It was one of those things Corvin had described¡ªtwisted, unnatural, its flesh a patchwork of scars and metal plates. Its eyes glowed green, just like Varrik''s.


    "Meet my latest creation," Varrik said, his voice laced with pride. "A testament to what the forge-stone can do."


    I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and let the hammer''s runes flare to life, their pale light cutting through the sickly green glow. "Nice toy," I said, rolling my shoulders. "Let''s see if it breaks as easy as the others."


    With a sharp motion from Varrik, the creature roared and charged. The guards moved to flank me, and the room erupted into chaos. Skarnvalk''s runes burned brighter as I stepped forward, ready to turn this chamber into a blood-soaked anvil.


    The creature came at me in a blur of muscle and metal, its roar reverberating through the chamber. It moved with a speed that belied its size, each step shaking the cracked stone floor. As it closed the distance, I swung Skarnvalk in a wide, brutal arc, the hammer''s curved blade catching the light as it descended. The runes flared, casting their cold glow over the beast''s twisted form.


    Skarnvalk''s head smashed into the creature''s shoulder, the force of the blow cracking the metal plate that covered its flesh. It staggered, roaring in pain, but it didn''t stop. It lunged again, claws raking through the air, and I barely managed to sidestep, the wind of its swipe brushing against my face.


    I brought the hammer down again, this time aiming for the exposed joint beneath its chest plate. The impact sent a shockwave up my arms, and the creature reeled backward, its movements more erratic now. But it wasn''t just the hammer doing the work¡ªthe runes etched into its surface flared brighter with each strike, their glow eating away at the sickly green light that surrounded the beast. Skarnvalk wasn''t just breaking the creature''s body; it was unraveling the corrupt energy that bound it.


    The guards were on me next, their steel catching the torchlight as they rushed in. I spun, Skarnvalk cutting a vicious arc through the air. The curved blade at the hammer''s top met a mercenary''s sword, shattering it and sending shards flying. I followed up with a crushing blow to his chest, the runes glowing white-hot as they drove him to the ground. Another guard came at me from behind, his spear thrusting toward my back. I shifted Skarnvalk into my left hand and threw one of my rune-carved spikes with my right. The spike flew true, embedding itself in the man''s throat before he could take another step.


    There was no grace to it, no elegant choreography¡ªjust raw, brutal combat. Blood and black ichor slicked the floor, and the chamber echoed with the sounds of steel on steel and bone shattering under the hammer''s weight. Every movement was calculated to break, to destroy, to end the fight as quickly as possible. Skarnvalk felt alive in my hands, each swing fueled by the weapon''s will as much as my own.


    The creature charged again, its massive arm sweeping down like a battering ram. I braced myself, driving Skarnvalk''s butt into the floor and using the haft to deflect the blow. The impact sent me sliding back a few paces, my boots scraping against the stone, but I held firm. I stepped forward, planting my feet, and swung Skarnvalk upward. The curved blade bit into the creature''s neck, carving through metal and sinew. The sickly green glow in its eyes flickered, then dimmed. It collapsed, its corrupted body crumbling into the dirt.


    Varrik watched, his expression shifting from confident disdain to thinly veiled anger. "You''re good," he said, his voice still calm but edged with something darker. "Better than I thought. But you''re still just one man."


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    "Yeah?" I said, stepping over the creature''s twitching remains. "And you''re still just a pompous bastard playing with power you don''t understand."


    His smile returned, but it didn''t reach his eyes. He raised a hand, and the runes on the pedestal flared. The air grew heavier, colder. A pulse of energy radiated outward, shaking the walls and extinguishing the torches. The chamber plunged into darkness, save for the green glow of the pedestal and the pale light of Skarnvalk''s runes.


    Varrik stepped down from the dais, his hands moving in intricate patterns, shaping runes in the air. "You''ve made it this far," he said, his voice rising above the hum of the runes. "Let''s see if you''re as good as they say."


    I gripped Skarnvalk tighter, the hammer''s hum turning into a steady vibration. "Oh, I''m better."


    And then he attacked.


    Varrik''s runes lashed out first. Threads of green light spiraled toward me, twisting like snakes, their ends flaring with a hungry, sickly glow. The air around them felt heavy, oppressive, as if the energy itself wanted to crush me. I raised Skarnvalk in both hands, its runes blazing white-hot as I swung. The hammer carved through the tendrils, severing them with a flash of light and a crackling sound that made my teeth vibrate.


    "You''ve been playing in the ruins too long," I growled, stepping forward. "You''re not a ruin master¡ªyou''re just a scavenger who found a bag of tricks."


    Varrik''s expression twisted into a snarl, and he snapped his fingers. More runes appeared, forming a latticework around his hands and feet. The lines flared, and in an instant he shot toward me, faster than any man had a right to move. I barely had time to swing Skarnvalk up in a defensive arc. His outstretched hand met the haft of my hammer, and the impact rang out like a bell. Sparks flew, and I felt the floor beneath us crack from the force.


    The sheer power in his strike pushed me back, my boots scraping against the stone. Varrik grinned, his teeth sharp in the pale green light. "Not bad," he said. "But let''s see how well you do without that hammer."


    He moved again, his motions blurring, and suddenly he was at my side. I barely managed to twist away as his fist came down, cracking the stone where I''d just been. I swung Skarnvalk in a low arc, aiming for his legs, but he leapt back with inhuman agility, the runes on his feet flashing as he landed.


    This wasn''t a simple mercenary or a mindless creature. Varrik was a ruin hunter who''d clearly spent years steeped in the wrong kind of power. The runes he used were unstable, corrupted by the same green energy that flowed through the pedestal. But unstable or not, they were dangerous.


    "Enough of your games," I snapped, driving forward with Skarnvalk raised high. The runes flared brightly, the hammer''s curved blade slicing downward in a powerful, cleaving strike. Varrik crossed his arms in front of him, a shield of green light materialising just in time to absorb the blow. The shield shattered, sending shards of light scattering like broken glass, but he didn''t fall.


    He countered with a rune-covered dagger that seemed to appear out of nowhere. It came in fast, aiming for my ribs. I twisted and brought Skarnvalk''s haft up just in time, the dagger''s edge glancing off the rune-carved wood. The impact sent a shiver up my arms, but the hammer''s runes flared brighter, feeding on the conflict.


    I stepped into his guard, driving Skarnvalk''s butt into his midsection. The force sent him stumbling back, but not far enough to give me the upper hand. He moved like a man possessed, his runes trailing faint, ghostly afterimages as he darted around me. Each attack came faster than the last¡ªslashing, striking, forcing me to parry again and again. My muscles burned, sweat running down my face, but I held my ground.


    Finally, I saw an opening. He lunged too far, overextending for a strike at my shoulder. I pivoted, bringing Skarnvalk down with all my strength. The hammer''s curved blade bit deep into his rune-covered arm, cutting through the corrupted light like a knife through cloth. Varrik screamed, his energy flaring chaotically, and I followed up with a bone-crushing swing to his chest. He flew backward, crashing into the pedestal with a sickening thud.


    For a moment, the chamber was still. Varrik slumped against the pedestal, blood seeping from his arm, his breathing ragged. The green glow of the pedestal began to flicker, unstable and fading. I stepped toward him, Skarnvalk still in hand, its runes pulsing in time with my heartbeat.


    "Looks like you''re out of tricks," I said coldly.


    He coughed, his head lolling forward. "You¡­ you don''t understand what you''re doing. If you stop me, they''ll just send more. The Path never ends."


    "Good," I replied, raising Skarnvalk for the final blow. "Let them come.


    I kept my grip steady, Skarnvalk humming with anticipation. But just as I prepared to strike, the pedestal behind Varrik let out a low, ominous groan. Its green glow began to pulse erratically, and cracks spidered along its surface. Whatever energy he''d been channelling was now destabilising¡ªfast.


    Varrik laughed weakly, blood flecking his lips. "You think you''ve won? The Path isn''t about one man. Kill me, and you''ll just be the first to fall when they come."


    I scowled. The pedestal''s glow was growing brighter, more chaotic, and I could feel the pressure in the room shift. The air felt thick, heavy, as though the energy itself was about to collapse. If I smashed the pedestal now, it might unleash something worse than Varrik.


    Time to get creative.


    I stepped back, lowering Skarnvalk slightly, and quickly scanned the chamber. My eyes fell on the remnants of one of the broken statues by the entrance¡ªspecifically, the ancient iron chains that had once bound its arms. The metal was corroded, but it still held a faint trace of runework. Old bindings meant to keep something contained. I''d seen chains like those before, long ago, in the deep forges of Karaz Tarul.


    Without wasting a moment, I darted toward the statue, wrenching a length of chain free. The iron links groaned, their ancient rune etchings flaring faintly as I dragged them across the chamber floor. Varrik watched me with a mix of confusion and rage, his voice hoarse. "What¡­ what are you doing?"


    "Improvising," I muttered.


    I wrapped the chain around the pedestal, looping it tightly until the entire structure was encased. The ancient runes on the iron began to glow in response to the pedestal''s chaotic energy, forming a crude containment field. It wasn''t perfect¡ªhell, it probably wouldn''t hold forever¡ªbut it would buy me time to deal with Varrik without triggering a catastrophic meltdown.


    The pedestal''s glow dimmed slightly, the cracks stopping their spread. I let out a sharp breath. Good enough.


    Varrik''s expression shifted from confidence to fury as he realised what I''d done. "You can''t stop it! You can''t stop the Path!"


    "Oh, shut up," I snapped, turning back toward him. "You''re not the Path. You''re just a small piece of it. And now you''re a piece I''m going to break."


    I approached him, hammer in hand, and swung Skarnvalk with precision. Not to kill him outright¡ªno, that would be too easy. I brought the hammer''s blunt side down on his remaining arm, shattering bone and rendering him helpless. He screamed, the sound echoing through the chamber, but I didn''t flinch.


    "You''re going to talk," I said, my voice low and cold. "You''re going to tell me everything about the Path. Who''s next, where they''re operating, and what their endgame is."


    Varrik groaned, his head drooping as blood pooled beneath him. "I''ll tell you nothing¡­"


    I leaned in, pressing the curved blade of Skarnvalk close to his neck. The runes flared, casting a sharp light across his pale, sweat-slick face. "Oh, you''ll talk," I said with a grim smile. "Because if you don''t, I''ll keep you alive just long enough to wish I hadn''t."


    His eyes darted around the room, no doubt realising there was no escape. The chain-wrapped pedestal pulsed steadily, the faint rune-glow reminding him of his failure. He was cornered, outmatched, and broken.


    "Fine," he rasped. "I''ll talk. But it won''t do you any good. The Path is bigger than you. Bigger than anyone."


    "Then start small," I said. "Tell me who to kill next."

 Chapter 7

    Varrik let out a strained, bitter laugh, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. "You think you can stop them one at a time? You don''t even know what you''re dealing with. The Blightened Path isn''t just a group of bandits or zealots. They''re¡ª" His words cut off in a sharp gasp as I pressed the blade of Skarnvalk closer to his throat.


    "You''re stalling," I said. "Spit out a name, a location, anything. Because the longer you talk, the more tempted I am to see how far this blade goes before it stops glowing."


    His jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought he might stay silent out of sheer spite. But then he let out a defeated sigh, the fight draining from his body. "Fine. You want a name? Goryn. He''s the one you''ll want. Leads the eastern cell. He''s set up at a place called Tharn''s Hollow, deep in the marshlands. That''s all I know."


    I frowned. "Just one man in a swamp? You''d better hope that''s not the only lead you have."


    "Believe what you want," Varrik said with a sneer. "But you won''t last long there. Goryn''s not like me. He''s more¡­ creative. You think my toys are bad? His will make you beg for the grave."


    I ignored the jab and eased the blade away, just enough to let him breathe more freely. His information would be useful, but I wasn''t done with him. Not yet.


    The pedestal behind him was still humming faintly, though the chains I''d wrapped around it seemed to be holding for now. I glanced back at it, then down at Varrik. He noticed, his expression twisting into a mix of fear and desperation.


    "Please," he croaked, "don''t destroy it. You have no idea what it could do¡ªwhat it could teach you."


    I knelt down so I could look him in the eye. "That''s the difference between you and me, Varrik. I don''t need it. I''ve already got the only tool I''ll ever need." I tapped Skarnvalk''s haft on the ground, the runes flickering brighter for a moment. "You, on the other hand, just lost the only leverage you had."


    He stared at me, his face pale and drawn. "You''ll regret this," he whispered. "The Path will find you. They''ll¡ª"


    "Yeah, yeah," I interrupted, standing up. "They''ll send their best. They''ll burn me alive. I''ve heard it all before." I turned to the pedestal and swung Skarnvalk in a wide, decisive arc. The runes flared, the hammer''s blade cleaving through the chains and the stone in one swift motion. The pedestal shattered with a deafening crack, the green light vanishing instantly. The air grew still, the oppressive weight lifting.


    Varrik''s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the energy he''d been tied to disappeared. He slumped forward, unconscious or dead¡ªI didn''t bother to check.


    The chamber was quiet now, the only sound my heavy breathing and the faint hum of Skarnvalk''s runes. I stood there for a moment, staring down at the broken pedestal and the crumpled form of Varrik. He''d given me a lead, but something told me Tharn''s Hollow would be more than just another ruined outpost.


    With a grunt, I hefted Skarnvalk onto my shoulder and made my way toward the exit. The Path was far from finished, but neither was I. I''d take what I needed from this place¡ªsupplies, information, anything useful¡ªand then I''d keep moving. One cell down, more to go. They wanted to bring ruin to the world? Fine. I''d show them the kind of ruin I could forge.


    After the ruins of Bygrun Hold faded into the distance, I set my sights on Tharn''s Hollow. If Varrik was to be believed¡ªand I had my doubts¡ªthis swamp-bound stronghold would house the next piece of the Path''s puzzle. More importantly, it would lead me one step closer to figuring out just how far this madness went. The chain-wrapped pedestal had bought me time, but time wasn''t on my side. The Path was still out there, growing, and every moment I delayed meant more blood spilled.


    The marshlands were a slow, grinding trek. The ground was soft and treacherous, and the air hung heavy with the smell of decay. Each step threatened to sink me into knee-deep muck, and more than once I had to use Skarnvalk as a makeshift walking staff to keep my footing. The hammer didn''t complain, its runes faintly pulsing as though it understood the journey ahead.


    By the second day, I came upon a narrow, moss-covered trail that led deeper into the swamp. The trees grew taller here, their twisted branches forming a canopy that turned day into a muted twilight. I kept my wits sharp, my eyes darting to every flicker of movement. Swamps had a way of hiding threats until they were too close to avoid.


    Then I heard it¡ªa faint rustling ahead. Not the breeze through the reeds, not the splash of some unseen creature slipping into the water. This was deliberate, a soft crunch of footsteps trying to stay quiet. I gripped Skarnvalk and moved off the trail, crouching low behind a cluster of roots. The hammer''s runes dimmed as I focused, my breathing steady.


    A figure emerged, clad in dark leathers that bore faint, faded runes. Not like mine¡ªthese weren''t forged into the steel. They were painted, temporary. A shortcut. Amateur work. The man moved cautiously, his eyes scanning the trail ahead, a sword drawn in one hand. Behind him, another figure followed¡ªsmaller, lighter on their feet, wielding a pair of curved daggers. Path scouts, most likely, watching for anyone foolish enough to approach Tharn''s Hollow.


    I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and waited. As they moved closer, I adjusted my stance, preparing to strike. The first scout stepped past my hiding spot, his attention fixed on the path ahead. The second hesitated, turning slightly as if sensing something was off.


    Before they could react, I surged forward, Skarnvalk rising in a brutal arc. The hammer''s curved blade caught the first scout across the back, slicing through his crude armor and dropping him before he could even cry out. The second scout spun, daggers flashing, but I was already on her. Skarnvalk''s haft deflected her first swing, and a quick, heavy blow to her chest sent her sprawling into the muck. She gasped, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she struggled to rise.


    "Path sends children to do its dirty work now?" I muttered, lowering the hammer slightly but keeping it ready.


    Her eyes burned with defiance, even as blood trickled from her lip. "You think killing us changes anything?" she spat. "You can''t stop the Path. We''re everywhere. We''re¡ª"


    I brought the hammer''s head down next to her, the impact sending a splash of swamp water and mud into the air. She flinched, her words cutting off as the runes on Skarnvalk flared.


    "Save the sermon," I said coldly. "Where''s Tharn''s Hollow?"


    She glared up at me, her breathing laboured. "You''ll never make it. Goryn will¡ª"


    "Where?" I growled, slamming the hammer''s haft into the ground beside her.


    She hesitated, then finally spat out, "Northwest. Past the drowned willow."


    I stared at her for a moment longer, then stepped back. "Stay out of my way," I said. "Next time, I won''t be so polite."


    She didn''t move as I walked away, leaving her in the muck beside her fallen companion. The swamp closed in again, the sound of buzzing insects and distant splashes filling the silence. I followed her direction, my thoughts fixed on the battles ahead. Goryn was waiting, and if Varrik''s warning was anything to go by, this wouldn''t be just another ruined fortress. It would be a gauntlet.


    And I intended to smash through it, one blow at a time.


    The deeper I ventured into the swamp, the more I felt the Hollow''s presence. It wasn''t just the gnarled trees or the unnatural stillness¡ªit was the weight in the air. Every breath tasted faintly of metal, every step seemed heavier, and the silence wasn''t silence at all. It was a hum, faint and low, buzzing at the edge of my hearing like an unspoken warning. Whatever was waiting for me ahead, it wasn''t friendly.


    When I reached the drowned willow, I paused to take stock. The tree was a grotesque thing, its massive trunk half-submerged in the swamp water, its sprawling branches draped with moss. As I edged around it, the mist ahead grew thicker, obscuring everything beyond a few paces. I gripped Skarnvalk tighter and kept moving, the hammer''s runes casting a faint glow against the swirling fog.


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    A sudden snap of a twig to my left made me spin, Skarnvalk swinging in a wide arc. The hammer''s blade connected with a figure that had been lurking in the mist, sending them sprawling into the water with a choked cry. Before I could even see who it was, the mist shifted, and three more figures emerged from the fog, weapons drawn.


    Blightened Path sentries. They moved with the silent coordination of soldiers, their rune-etched weapons catching faint green light. They weren''t Path fanatics or scavengers¡ªthese were trained killers. The one on the left came at me first, a short sword flashing toward my chest. I stepped into the swing, letting it glance off Skarnvalk''s haft before driving the hammer''s butt into his gut. The runes flared as the impact sent him crumpling.


    The second one lunged low, a dagger aiming for my thigh. I pivoted, bringing Skarnvalk down in a short, brutal strike that caught his forearm. Bone snapped under the force, and his blade clattered to the ground. The third, a woman wielding twin axes, came at me from the side. She was fast, forcing me to duck and sidestep as she swung both blades in rapid succession.


    "Clever," I muttered, shifting Skarnvalk to my other hand. She overextended on her next swing, and I brought the hammer up sharply, catching her wrist and knocking one of the axes free. I followed with a shoulder check that sent her stumbling into a tree. Before she could recover, I was on her, swinging Skarnvalk in a wide arc. The curved blade sliced through her remaining axe and cut into her side, and she dropped with a grunt, clutching her wound.


    The mist around me grew darker, heavier, but I kept moving, stepping over the fallen sentries. Every clash felt like a prelude, like the swamp itself was testing me. Goryn would be ahead, waiting, and if these sentries were any indication, he''d be ready.


    "Good," I muttered, gripping Skarnvalk tighter. "I like a challenge."


    The mist thickened as I pressed on, the swamp growing colder and more oppressive. The faint buzzing sound in the air turned into a low hum, rhythmic and heavy, pulsing against my ears like a heartbeat. It wasn''t natural¡ªnothing about this place was. Even the mud beneath my boots felt wrong, softer than it should be, as though the ground itself wanted to pull me under. But I kept going, Skarnvalk in hand, its runes glowing faintly, a constant reminder that I wasn''t walking into this fight unarmed.


    Ahead, the trees began to thin, replaced by jagged, half-sunken ruins. Stone pillars jutted out of the water at odd angles, their surfaces covered in dark, twisting symbols that seemed to shift and writhe when I looked at them too long. The hum grew louder, filling my chest, my skull, until I almost stopped just to steady myself. But stopping wasn''t an option. If this was Goryn''s domain, then he knew I was coming. Every step forward was a challenge¡ªone he wanted me to accept.


    And then I saw it. Rising out of the swamp like some malformed sentinel, Tharn''s Hollow loomed in the mist. It wasn''t a fortress, not exactly. The structure was more like a collection of ancient stone towers, each one leaning at a precarious angle, connected by sagging wooden bridges and half-collapsed walls. The largest tower was crowned by a jagged, rune-etched spire that glowed faintly green, a beacon in the oppressive fog.


    Figures moved along the bridges, dark shapes pacing back and forth, their movements deliberate. These weren''t sentries standing idle. They were watching, waiting. Their armour glinted faintly, and I caught the flash of weapons etched with the same sickly green runes that marked the spire above. Goryn''s people, no doubt. I hadn''t even crossed the water yet, and I could already feel their eyes on me.


    "Looks cosy," I muttered under my breath. Skarnvalk''s runes pulsed in agreement, as though the hammer shared my distaste for the place.


    The water around the base of Tharn''s Hollow wasn''t deep, but it was clogged with reeds and algae, making every step a fight. I moved slowly, carefully, until I reached the base of one of the towers. Up close, the stone was darker than it looked from a distance, almost black, and the runes carved into it seemed alive. They shifted slightly in the corner of my vision, only to remain still when I looked directly at them.


    A low voice echoed through the air, faint but clear. "So you came."


    I glanced up, squinting through the mist. A figure stood atop the largest tower, leaning against the spire. He wasn''t armoured like the sentries, nor did he carry a blade. His cloak was long and tattered, the hood pulled low. Even from a distance, I could see the faint green glow around his hands.


    Goryn.


    He didn''t shout or call out threats. He simply raised one hand, and the runes on the spire flared. The ground beneath me trembled, and the water around the base of the tower churned violently. I braced myself, raising Skarnvalk, but whatever he''d triggered didn''t hit me directly. Instead, the swamp itself seemed to rise in response. Dark shapes emerged from the water¡ªhulking, twisted forms that moved unnaturally. They weren''t human, not anymore. Their limbs were too long, their faces distorted into masks of hate. Their weapons glinted in the dim light, and their hollow eyes fixed on me.


    "Here we go," I muttered, stepping back into a defensive stance. Skarnvalk''s runes flared brighter, their pale light cutting through the murk. The hammer hummed in my hands, a steady, familiar vibration that calmed my nerves. The twisted figures didn''t wait. They charged, their movements jerky and fast, like marionettes pulled by invisible strings.


    The first one lunged at me, a jagged blade sweeping toward my head. I ducked and swung Skarnvalk in a tight arc, the curved blade slicing clean through its chest. The creature collapsed, its body splashing into the water and quickly sinking out of sight. But more were coming. Two, then three, then five at once.


    I fought methodically, every swing calculated. Skarnvalk''s head crushed skulls and shattered limbs, its runes flaring brighter with each strike. I stepped through the muck, keeping my balance, using the hammer''s heft to break their ranks. Each time one of them fell, another took its place, their hollow eyes never wavering.


    Behind them, Goryn watched from his perch, unmoving. He didn''t shout commands or join the fray. He simply observed, as though this was some kind of test.


    "Good," I growled, driving Skarnvalk into another enemy''s chest. "Keep watching. I''ll make this quick."


    The fight wasn''t going to end until I forced it to. With a roar, I surged forward, swinging Skarnvalk in a brutal, sweeping arc that sent the last of the twisted creatures sprawling. They lay still in the water, the green glow in their eyes fading. I straightened, breathing heavily, and looked up at Goryn.


    His hand lowered, and the runes on the spire dimmed. "Impressive," he said, his voice calm. "But let''s see how you fare against someone who isn''t already broken."


    He raised his other hand, and the tower trembled. The stone beneath me cracked, and I felt a pulse of energy rip through the air. This wasn''t over. Not even close.


    The pulse hit like a tidal wave. The stone beneath me cracked and buckled, sending me to one knee. Skarnvalk''s runes flared brightly as I drove the hammer''s haft into the ground, steadying myself against the force. Around me, the swamp water churned and hissed, rising up into unnatural shapes that towered over the broken figures I''d just fought.


    Goryn''s laugh echoed from above, sharp and cold. "I was hoping you''d be stronger than the rest. Don''t disappoint me now."


    The water-forms lashed out, their amorphous arms swinging with surprising speed and strength. I dodged the first blow, bringing Skarnvalk around in a wide arc. The hammer''s blade carved through the nearest figure, slicing its liquid mass in two, but instead of collapsing, it reformed, surging back toward me.


    "Ah, clever," I muttered, sidestepping a second attack. I swung again, this time aiming for the base of one of the figures. The hammer''s runes flared, and I felt the impact ripple through the creature. It shuddered, its form destabilising, and then burst apart, splashing back into the swamp.


    It wasn''t enough. The others pressed in, forcing me to move constantly. Skarnvalk''s runes flared with each strike, their light cutting through the dark, humid air, but every victory was temporary. For every figure I shattered, two more seemed to take its place, their movements faster and more aggressive.


    I shifted my grip on the hammer and focused. These things weren''t solid¡ªthey were bound to something. Goryn''s runes, maybe, or the spire itself. I needed to disrupt whatever was controlling them, and fast. The longer I stayed in the open, the more vulnerable I became.


    My eyes flicked to the jagged spire above. The green runes etched along its surface pulsed in time with the figures'' movements. Goryn''s hands glowed faintly as he gestured, the lines of light streaming from him to the spire, then down into the swamp. He was controlling them, fuelling them. If I could break that connection, the fight would turn in my favour.


    Skarnvalk hummed in my grip, as though it sensed what I needed. I shifted tactics, focusing less on destroying the creatures and more on clearing a path. I moved toward the base of the tower, smashing aside any figure that blocked my way. The hammer''s blade caught one mid-swing, and I followed up with a crushing blow that scattered another into the water. Each step brought me closer to the source of their power.


    Above, Goryn''s voice cut through the mist. "You won''t make it. You''ll drown before you reach me."


    I ignored him. The stone at the tower''s base was slick and crumbling, but it would hold long enough. With one final swing, I shattered the last figure in my path and stepped onto the cracked platform at the base of the spire. Up close, the runes glowed brighter, their light casting sharp, angular shadows against the tower''s dark stone. The hum in the air grew louder, almost unbearable, but I gritted my teeth and raised Skarnvalk.


    With a roar, I brought the hammer down onto the base of the spire. The runes flared, and for a moment, the entire structure shook. The pulse of energy faltered, flickering unevenly. The figures in the swamp froze, their movements stuttering, and then collapsed into the water, their forms dissolving.


    I didn''t stop. I struck again, and again, each blow sending a thunderous shockwave through the tower. The runes cracked and splintered, the green light bleeding out in sharp, jagged lines. The spire itself began to tilt, its uneven foundation crumbling beneath the force of my strikes.


    Above, Goryn shouted something, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of stone grinding against stone. With one final swing, Skarnvalk''s curved blade cleaved through the spire''s base, severing it entirely. The top of the spire fell in slow motion, its jagged tip cutting through the mist as it crashed down into the swamp with a deafening splash.


    The green light vanished. The hum stopped. The air grew still. I straightened, breathing heavily, Skarnvalk''s runes dimming as the hammer rested against my shoulder. Above me, Goryn stood on the now-exposed platform at the top of the ruined tower, his hands clutching the edges of the crumbling stone.


    "Still standing," I called up to him. "What now?"


    Goryn didn''t respond immediately. His glowing hands dimmed, and his expression twisted into something colder, sharper. "Now," he said, his voice low, "we fight."

 Chapter 8

    The platform above shuddered, loose stones tumbling down as Goryn stepped forward. His once-tattered cloak flared, now etched with green runes that pulsed in steady, menacing patterns. From his back he drew a weapon unlike any I''d seen before¡ªa long, jagged blade that seemed to breathe, its surface shifting and rippling as if alive. The runes along its edge glowed brighter with each step he took toward me.


    I didn''t wait for him to come down. If he wanted a fight, I''d bring it to him. With a grunt, I swung Skarnvalk, the hammer''s runes flaring as I struck the weakened base of the tower. The platform buckled under Goryn''s weight, sending him sliding down toward me. He landed with a grunt, rolling to his feet in one smooth motion.


    "Finally," he muttered, raising his living blade. "Let''s see what you''re really made of."


    Goryn was fast¡ªfaster than I''d expected. He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, his blade slashing toward my head. I parried with Skarnvalk''s haft, the clash of runes against runes sending sparks into the air. The force of his swing pushed me back a step, but I stood my ground, countering with a crushing overhead strike. He sidestepped with inhuman speed, his blade lashing out in return. I barely caught it with Skarnvalk''s flat side, the runes on my hammer pulsing brighter in defiance.


    "You fight like a brute," Goryn taunted, his voice calm despite the fury of our blows. "A craftsman''s strength, but no refinement."


    "Works well enough," I growled, swinging Skarnvalk in a wide arc. The hammer''s blade caught the edge of his weapon, shearing off a glowing piece of its surface. The fragment hissed as it hit the ground, dissolving into blackened mist. Goryn hissed in response, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time.


    The platform under us groaned, the ruined tower''s base giving way. We both shifted, keeping our footing on the uneven ground as the swamp threatened to swallow the structure whole. Goryn lunged again, his blade aimed low, and I brought Skarnvalk down to meet it. The impact sent shockwaves through my arms, the runes on both weapons screaming in protest. The force of our clash shattered a section of the platform, leaving a gaping hole that plunged into the water below.


    Goryn danced back, his green-tinged eyes narrowing. "You''re tougher than you look, dwarf. But you can''t win this fight. The Path will¡ª"


    I interrupted him with a sharp thrust of Skarnvalk''s butt-end, catching him off-guard. He staggered, and I followed with a sweeping strike that forced him to retreat toward the edge of the crumbling platform. His weapon twisted in his grip, the runes along its length flaring brighter as if feeding off his frustration.


    "You talk too much," I said, closing the distance. Skarnvalk''s runes flared again, brighter now, as if the hammer itself was eager to end this. Goryn lashed out desperately, his blade darting toward my chest, but I twisted aside, catching his wrist with the haft and driving my elbow into his face. He stumbled, off-balance, and I brought Skarnvalk down in a brutal arc.


    The hammer''s curved blade struck true, carving into Goryn''s weapon and cleaving it in two. The severed pieces hit the ground, their glow fading instantly. Goryn froze, his mouth opening as if to speak, but I didn''t give him the chance. I stepped forward and drove Skarnvalk''s head into his chest, the impact lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into the edge of the platform. The stone cracked, and he slid backward, his arms flailing as he fell into the water below.


    For a moment, the only sound was my breathing and the faint crackling of runes as Skarnvalk''s glow dimmed. I stood over the crumbling edge, staring down into the murky water. Ripples spread out, but Goryn didn''t surface. I waited, gripping Skarnvalk tightly, but after a few minutes, it became clear he wasn''t coming back up.


    I stepped back from the edge, wiping sweat from my brow. The tower groaned one final time before collapsing further into the swamp, leaving nothing but the shattered ruins behind. Skarnvalk rested heavy on my shoulder, the hammer''s hum steady and calm now. Goryn was gone, and Tharn''s Hollow was no longer a threat.


    But I knew this wasn''t the end. The Path didn''t begin or end with one man. Goryn had been a strong opponent, but he was just a piece of something far larger. The fight was far from over. But for now, the swamp was quiet, and I was still standing.


    I turned away from the ruins and began the long walk back through the swamp.


    Far away from the swamp''s oppressive stillness, a different scene unfolded. In a mountain pass choked with early snow, the mercenary known as Karvek Ironhand crouched beside a dying fire. His battered plate armor lay in a heap nearby, the steel dented and stained from countless battles. Karvek himself leaned forward, hands outstretched toward the weak flames, his breath puffing in the frigid air.


    He glanced over at the two figures sitting opposite him: Grel, a wiry archer with a face marked by an old burn, and a young woman named Lisett, a healer whose talent far outstripped her years. Grel was sharpening his blade with a slow, methodical rhythm, while Lisett stared blankly at the fire, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.


    "You''ve been quiet since we left the fort," Karvek said, breaking the silence. His voice was low and rough, like gravel underfoot. "Something on your mind, Lis?"


    She didn''t look up right away. When she finally did, her green eyes were troubled. "I''m wondering how many more of these damned contracts we''ll have to take before we can stop running."


    Karvek grunted, poking the fire with a stick. "If you''re waiting for the day we don''t have to fight, you''ll be waiting until the stars go out."


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    Grel smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Some of us don''t mind the fight, Karvek. It''s not the work that''s the problem."


    "Then what is?" Karvek asked, his eyes narrowing.


    "The work," Lisett said bitterly. "You know what I mean. Raiding tombs for relics we don''t understand, following orders from nobles who barely remember our names, losing good people for causes we don''t believe in. This isn''t what we set out to do."


    Karvek sat back, his broad shoulders shrugging under his cloak. "We do what we have to. Same as everyone else. Better to live with blood on your hands than not live at all."


    "Maybe," Lisett said softly, her voice barely audible over the wind. "But we could be doing more than just surviving. We could make it mean something."


    Karvek and Grel exchanged glances, but neither man replied. The wind howled through the pass, and the fire crackled feebly. Lisett drew her cloak tighter around herself, her expression distant. Her mind was already drifting¡ªto another group of fighters, perhaps. Another way of living. A way that didn''t leave her heart so heavy with regret.


    Meanwhile, in a fortified manor deep in the northern plains, a woman sat at a table piled with maps and notes. The room was warm, the fire roaring in the hearth, but Kallien Arrod felt a chill settle over her as she reread the letter in her hand. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and her sharp, calculating features were set in a deep frown.


    "Another cell lost," she muttered to herself, her fingers tightening around the paper. "Goryn, of all people."


    Her lieutenant, a tall man with a shaved head and the posture of a soldier, stepped forward. "The reports from Tharn''s Hollow were¡­ unclear," he said carefully. "We don''t know the exact details yet."


    Kallien''s piercing eyes flicked up to him. "Unclear? What''s clear enough is that Goryn is dead, and someone is carving a path through our people. I want to know who."


    The lieutenant hesitated, then nodded. "I''ll send word to the eastern scouts. They may be able to track¡ª"


    "Don''t waste time tracking," Kallien snapped. "Send reinforcements to the next cell. Strengthen our defences. And for the gods'' sake, make sure our¡­ special projects are well-guarded. Whoever this is, they''ll come for them next."


    The man saluted and left the room, leaving Kallien alone with her maps and her fury. She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Losing Goryn wasn''t just a blow to their operations¡ªit was a sign. Someone out there was stronger, smarter, and more dangerous than she''d accounted for. And that meant she''d have to adapt.


    Her fingers tapped against the table as she stared into the fire. She''d find out who was responsible for this disruption. And when she did, she''d make sure they regretted ever crossing the Path.


    Back in the swamp, Doran pushed through the muck, his thoughts lingering on the battle. Skarnvalk''s runes pulsed faintly as though sensing his unease. He didn''t know it yet, but his actions in Tharn''s Hollow were already sending ripples across the land. Allies and enemies alike were taking notice, and the story of his hammer¡ªthe ruin master who carved his way through the Blightened Path¡ªwas beginning to spread.


    Every swing of Skarnvalk carried weight, not just in the moment, but in the echoes it left behind. Doran wasn''t just fighting for survival anymore. He was becoming something more¡ªa force others couldn''t ignore. A force that both sides would soon have to reckon with.


    Days later, Doran emerged from the swamp''s endless muck into higher, drier ground. The constant hum of bugs and the suffocating humidity finally eased, and for the first time in what felt like an age, he saw solid stone beneath his boots. The landscape shifted into rolling hills, dotted with rocky outcrops and sparse trees that reached skyward like ancient sentinels. This new terrain felt less like a trap and more like a challenge, one he could approach on his own terms.


    The problem was, he didn''t know what lay ahead. The swamp had been straightforward, in its miserable, clinging way: a clear threat, a clear enemy. The rolling hills, though beautiful, carried the unease of unknowns. He had no map, no path. Only rumours of Path cells farther east, whispered half-truths gathered from dying enemies and fleeing informants. The only certainty was that the Blightened Path wouldn''t let his disruptions go unanswered.


    It wasn''t long before he stumbled upon the remnants of a small caravan. The waggons sat at odd angles, their wheels shattered, their contents spilled and scattered. Doran crouched beside the debris, his gloved hand brushing against the broken pieces of what once looked like crates of fine cloth. No bodies, no blood¡ªjust the eerie, quiet aftermath of an attack.


    He scanned the area. Skarnvalk''s runes glowed faintly, as if sensing something lingering in the air. Whatever had happened here, it hadn''t been long ago. Tracks led away from the site, heading toward a distant outcropping that looked large enough to house a small band of raiders. Or, perhaps, something worse.


    "Should''ve stayed in the swamp," Doran muttered, though his grip on Skarnvalk tightened. Whatever was out there, he''d find it. And once he found it, he''d deal with it the way he dealt with everything: one swing at a time.


    Meanwhile, leagues away, Karvek Ironhand sat in a cramped, smoky tavern that stank of wet leather and spilled ale. The fires in the hearth couldn''t quite keep the chill out of the air, but Karvek barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the hooded man seated across from him¡ªa wiry, sharp-eyed figure who went by the name Taron.


    "So," Taron said, his voice low and rasping. "What do you know about this dwarf everyone''s whispering about?"


    Karvek''s lip twitched, more grimace than smile. "Not much. Just that he''s got a hammer that glows like a damn torch and a knack for making people disappear."


    Taron chuckled. "They say he''s after the Path. That he''s already torn through two or three cells. Your type doesn''t usually care about things like that."


    "My type cares about gold," Karvek replied flatly. "And when the Path''s trail starts drying up, so does the coin. So if this dwarf is messing with them, I need to know if it''s true. Means the jobs might get scarce, or¡ª" his grimace deepened¡ª"more complicated."


    Taron leaned back, his hood falling slightly to reveal a face marked by a dozen small scars. "Oh, it''s true. He''s a forge master, they say. Makes weapons that don''t just cut flesh but carve through ruin wards and curses. Path''s scrambling to figure out how to stop him."


    Karvek drained his tankard, the wooden mug slamming down on the table. "Well, that''s just what I need. A bloody ruin master running around, breaking everything I work for."


    "Maybe you could find him," Taron suggested, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "See if he''s as good as they say. Might be worth your while."


    Karvek snorted. "And if he''s not?"


    "Then you''ll have your answer."


    Karvek didn''t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for his helm, his broad fingers brushing the worn steel. The dwarf''s name¡ªDoran Thargrimm¡ªmeant nothing to him yet. But if this hammer-wielding forge master was truly tearing through the Blightened Path, it wouldn''t stay that way for long. Karvek always kept his ear to the ground, and when whispers turned into rumours and rumours turned into offers, he''d be ready. The only question was whose side he''d end up on.

 Chapter 9

    Doran followed the tracks to the outcropping, moving steadily despite the weight of his hammer and the soreness in his legs. The hills were quieter than he liked¡ªno birdsong, no rustling of small animals. Just the occasional whisper of wind against the stone. It made the emptiness feel heavier, more deliberate, as if the land itself was waiting for something to happen.


    As he crested the final rise, the outcropping came into view. It was no natural rock formation; this was an ancient, crumbling watchtower, its stone walls worn smooth by centuries of weather. A faint curl of smoke rose from within, suggesting life¡ªor at least, something that still burned.


    Doran adjusted Skarnvalk on his shoulder and scanned the area. From this vantage, he could make out movement. Two figures patrolled the base of the tower, their heads turning cautiously as they circled. They wore mismatched armor and carried cheap, blunt weapons. Raiders, most likely. Simple thieves who''d stumbled upon something they didn''t fully understand.


    He dropped into a crouch, watching them for a few minutes. They moved in lazy patterns, obviously not expecting trouble. Even from this distance, he could tell their gear was poorly maintained. Dents in the helmets, rust streaks along the sword blades. The Path had better discipline than this. If they were connected at all, it wasn''t directly.


    Still, he couldn''t ignore the possibility. The Path had layers, and not every agent was a rune-carving master. These could be hired thugs tasked with protecting something more important. Or they could be scavengers who''d lucked into a fragment of ruin knowledge they didn''t know how to use. Either way, Doran had learned never to leave loose ends.


    He slid back behind the ridge, shifting Skarnvalk''s weight as he considered his approach. Direct combat would draw attention, but it was the fastest way to clear the path. He had no intention of sneaking in only to get cornered inside. Better to draw them out, deal with them quickly, and see what they were hiding.


    Doran knelt by a sharp-edged stone and adjusted one of his rune-forged throwing spikes. He whispered a quick command, and the rune etched into its surface flared briefly before fading. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the dirt just inside the patrol''s path.


    The spike landed silently, its rune now barely visible. It wouldn''t detonate¡ªDoran didn''t waste good tools on thugs¡ªbut the energy it held would be enough to draw their attention. The air around it seemed to shimmer faintly, a distortion so subtle it might be mistaken for a trick of the light. Just enough to make them curious.


    Sure enough, one of the patrolling figures stopped and squinted toward the spike. "You see that?" he asked the other.


    "See what?"


    "Something¡­ moved over there."


    "You''re imagining things. Probably a rabbit."


    "A glowing rabbit?" The first figure stepped closer, his head tilted.


    Doran tensed, Skarnvalk in both hands now. As the first thug approached the spike, his companion sighed and followed. "If it''s just a rabbit, you''re buying drinks tonight."


    The moment they reached the spike, Doran moved. He stepped over the ridge, quick and silent, and closed the gap before they had time to react. The hammer came down hard on the first thug''s helm, shattering it and dropping him instantly. The second spun, his mouth opening in shock, but Doran drove the haft of Skarnvalk into his gut before he could call out. The man fell to his knees, gasping for air.


    Doran didn''t hesitate. Another sharp blow sent the second thug sprawling. The entire skirmish lasted less than five seconds, and now the way to the tower was clear. He retrieved the spike, its rune dimming as he tucked it back into his belt, and stepped carefully toward the crumbling entrance.


    Inside, he found what he''d expected: more debris, more signs of squatters, and a faint glow from deeper within the structure. It was faint, but unmistakable¡ªruin energy. Weak and scattered, but present. Whoever these thugs had been, they''d stumbled onto something they didn''t understand. Something they weren''t smart enough to keep hidden. Doran adjusted his grip on Skarnvalk and pressed onward.


    In another part of the world, Lisett sat alone at a campfire, staring into the flames. The rest of her party had turned in for the night, leaving her to her thoughts. The mercenary life was never what she wanted, but after the Path had taken her family, it was all she knew. Healing others, even in the worst conditions, gave her a purpose. A reason to keep going.


    But recently, she''d heard whispers. Stories of a dwarf wielding a hammer so powerful it could shatter ruin wards, cutting through Path agents like parchment. Some said he was a myth. Others said he was a ghost. Lisett didn''t know what to believe, but she knew one thing for certain: if this dwarf was real, and if he was fighting the Path, then he was someone she needed to find.


    The Path had taken too much from her. She wanted to help end them, even if it meant leaving her current group behind. Even if it meant facing death again. Lisett stared into the flames, her resolve hardening. She didn''t know who this hammer-wielding dwarf was, but she intended to find out.


    As Doran pushed deeper into the ruins, the glow of the rune-energy grew stronger, illuminating the cracked stone walls with an eerie, shifting light. He moved slowly, Skarnvalk at the ready. The last thing he wanted was to walk into a trap¡ªnot when this place reeked of desperation and poor planning. The tower''s interior was as decrepit as the exterior, with sagging support beams and uneven floors that creaked ominously underfoot.


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    The room ahead opened into what once might have been a storage hall, though the barrels and crates were long gone, replaced by crude sleeping rolls and piles of scavenged goods. In the center of it all sat a jagged shard of black stone mounted on a makeshift wooden pedestal. Faint green runes snaked across its surface, twisting and reforming as Doran approached.


    "That''s not supposed to be here," he muttered, his grip on Skarnvalk tightening. The shard was no relic of some bygone age¡ªit was fresh, jagged, and still resonating with faint, chaotic energy. If the Blightened Path had a hand in this, it was amateur work. Sloppy. Rushed. But dangerous all the same.


    As he stepped closer, a low voice echoed from the shadows. "You should''ve turned back when you had the chance, dwarf."


    Doran turned, and from the darkness emerged a thin, wiry man with a face half-obscured by a crude iron mask. His mismatched armor clattered as he stepped forward, wielding a blade that hummed faintly with the same green energy as the shard.


    "Is this your mess?" Doran asked, gesturing to the stone. "Looks like you barely know what to do with it."


    The man snarled. "I don''t need your judgment. You won''t live long enough to give it."


    The attacker lunged, faster than Doran expected. The blade''s green glow slashed through the air, aimed straight for his chest. Doran parried with Skarnvalk''s haft, the runes flaring brightly. The impact sent sparks flying, the hammer''s weight absorbing the blow, but the man was quick, spinning into another strike. Doran had to step back, the blade grazing the edge of his armor, leaving a faint green scorch mark.


    Doran countered with a brutal overhead swing. The man dodged, barely, the curved blade of Skarnvalk slicing through the air and shattering a wooden beam behind him. The room trembled as dust and debris rained down, but Doran didn''t stop. He pressed the attack, hammering at the man''s defenses with precise, bone-jarring strikes. Each blow forced the attacker to retreat farther into the hall.


    "You''re not bad," Doran grunted, "but you''re out of your depth."


    The man didn''t answer. Instead, he twisted, slamming his glowing blade into the stone shard. The runes flared violently, and the air around them grew heavy, oppressive. Doran felt the pressure in his chest before he saw it: the shard pulsed once, twice, and then erupted in a wave of green energy.


    Doran braced himself, Skarnvalk''s runes flashing bright as the energy hit. The hammer absorbed the brunt of it, but the force still drove him back a step. The attacker, too close to the shard, was thrown across the room, crashing into a pile of debris. The shard''s glow dimmed, its energy spent, but the room continued to tremble. Cracks spiderwebbed along the walls, and the floor beneath Doran''s feet groaned ominously.


    "Damn it," Doran muttered. He turned, spotting the attacker struggling to stand amidst the rubble. Skarnvalk hummed in his grip, urging him forward. He stepped toward the man, ready to finish this before the entire tower came down.


    Meanwhile, far to the north, Lisett packed her belongings in silence. Her companions were asleep in their tents, their steady breathing lost beneath the howling wind outside. She had made up her mind. She couldn''t sit idly while the Path continued to grow in power, not when there was a chance¡ªhowever slim¡ªthat the rumors were true.


    If this dwarf, this hammer-wielding ruin master, was really tearing through the Blightened Path, then she needed to find him. She needed to see if he was as skilled, as driven, as the stories suggested. Because if he was, Lisett wanted to stand beside him. And if he wasn''t¡­ well, she''d find a way to end the Path on her own.


    She cinched her pack tight and stepped outside. The cold wind cut through her cloak, but she didn''t falter. One step, then another, she began her journey, her heart heavy but her resolve unshaken. The dwarf''s path was still a mystery, but she would follow the trail, no matter where it led.


    The tower was falling apart around Doran, and every step shook loose another layer of stone and dust. The attacker was sprawled against the rubble, clutching at his side where a jagged piece of timber had lodged itself during the blast. Skarnvalk''s runes hummed softly, as if ready to put a final end to the fight, but Doran hesitated.


    "You''re lucky that shard was as unstable as it was," he said, walking toward the wounded man. "Another few seconds, and you might''ve blown yourself¡ªand me¡ªto the abyss."


    The masked man coughed wetly, the green glow in his eyes dimming as he slumped against the wall. "You think you''ve won, don''t you?" he rasped. "You''ve only slowed us down."


    Doran shook his head, lowering Skarnvalk. "You say that like it''s a bad thing. I don''t need to wipe you all out at once. Slowing you down is plenty good for now."


    The man''s head lolled, his strength fading fast. "The Path¡­ doesn''t need¡­ me¡­" he choked out before his breathing stilled.


    Doran glanced at the ruined shard, still faintly smoking on the makeshift pedestal. It was a reminder of what the Path would resort to¡ªdesperate measures, reckless experiments. If they were willing to toss away lives like this just to protect one unstable fragment of ruin energy, what else might they have in store?


    He took a long breath, letting Skarnvalk''s weight rest against the floor. The hammer''s runes were dimming now, calming as the fight ended. This wasn''t the first time he''d stepped into a collapsing ruin, and it wouldn''t be the last. But the people behind the Path were becoming more reckless, more dangerous. If this man was telling the truth, and the cells didn''t need their leaders to keep operating, then something bigger was keeping them in motion.


    The entire tower groaned as another section of the ceiling caved in. Doran turned away from the corpse and started toward the exit. He had answers, but not enough. The questions that remained¡ªwhat the Path''s ultimate goal was, how far they''d go to achieve it, and what kind of ruin they''d leave in their wake¡ªwere only growing more urgent.


    Far from the crumbling tower, Lisett paused at the edge of a campfire, her hands trembling slightly as she passed a bowl of stew to the weary-looking soldier sitting across from her. They were strangers, travelers passing one another by, but even this brief interaction felt heavy.


    "The Path," the soldier murmured after a sip of the stew. "You said you''re looking for them?"


    "Yes," Lisett replied simply.


    The soldier frowned. "You''re not the first. There''s been word of a dwarf, a forge master. They say he''s¡­ well, some call him a saviour, others say he''s just another warlord cutting his way through."


    Lisett''s hand tightened on the edge of her cloak. "What do you think?"


    "I think," the soldier said slowly, "that anyone who can hurt the Path is worth finding. If he''s real."


    "He''s real," Lisett said softly. "And I intend to find him."


    The soldier nodded but didn''t push for more. The wind howled through the trees, and Lisett pulled her cloak tighter. She had a long road ahead, and each step felt heavier than the last. But if this dwarf truly was what the rumors claimed, then she''d find him. And if he wasn''t? Well, the Path would have to answer to her anyway.

 Chapter 10

    The moment Doran emerged from the ruined tower, he felt it¡ªthe quiet after a fight, when the adrenaline began to cool and the world returned to its grim, natural order. The swamp lay far behind, but the air carried a similar heaviness. He didn''t know what awaited him ahead, only that the path wasn''t going to get any easier. The destruction of another Path cell hadn''t lessened their influence. If anything, it seemed to provoke them. And the thought of them rallying again, just out of reach, gnawed at him.


    He gripped Skarnvalk tighter as he trudged onward. The hills here had grown harsher, the terrain more barren and broken. A lone figure moved ahead on the trail¡ªan older woman wrapped in heavy furs, leading a pack mule laden with goods. She was too far off to catch the runes'' glow, but she had spotted him nonetheless. She paused, hand on the mule''s reins, her posture rigid. As Doran approached, he saw that her face was lined and weathered, her gaze sharp beneath the shadow of her hood.


    "Not many travelers on this stretch of road," she called out. "And fewer still with a hammer like that."


    Doran slowed, his boots crunching over loose stones. "Not many people to make trouble for me either."


    The old woman smiled faintly, but her hand didn''t stray from the long staff at her side. "You heading east, then?"


    Doran raised an eyebrow. "What''s it to you?"


    "Just wondering if you''re running toward the Path''s latest nest," she said. Her tone was casual, but there was something steely beneath it.


    Doran stopped a few paces away, eyeing her mule. The animal bore no markings or gear that suggested an affiliation with the Path. The woman herself, though calm, had the air of someone who knew too much.


    "You seem awfully well-informed for a trader," he said, his voice low.


    "I''m no trader," she replied. "Just someone who''s seen too many fools get themselves killed chasing the Path."


    Doran''s grip on Skarnvalk didn''t relax. "And you''d be¡­ what? A helpful passerby offering me a warning?"


    The old woman gave him a long look, then nodded. "Something like that. The next cell''s not far, if the rumors are true. They''ve been bleeding the villages dry¡ªmoney, food, people. That''s what you''ll find if you keep going east. But if you think you''re walking into another band of misfits with glowing knives, you''re mistaken."


    She turned slightly, pulling her mule along. "You''ve stirred the pot, hammer-man. The Path''s smarter than you think. They won''t send fools to stop you this time."


    Doran watched her go, his expression stony. He didn''t thank her. He wasn''t sure if she deserved thanks. But her warning sank into his mind as he continued his march. The Path wouldn''t send fools. They''d send something worse.


    Several miles behind, Lisett had reached the edge of a ravaged village. The fields surrounding it were blackened and torn, the homes charred shells. The only movement came from crows picking through the rubble, their harsh cries echoing through the ruined streets.


    She approached cautiously, her hands ready to summon a healing rune if she needed it. But no one emerged from the shadows. The place was a graveyard, devoid of survivors. She stepped into the remnants of what had once been a central hall, now little more than a skeleton of timbers and ash. The air still carried the faint stench of burned flesh and ruin energy. Lisett knelt, brushing her fingers over the soot-stained floor.


    The stories were true¡ªthe Path had been here. But this wasn''t a random act of destruction. This was deliberate. They were leaving messages, warnings for anyone who might stand against them. Lisett clenched her fists. How many more villages like this would she find before she reached the dwarf?


    She straightened, adjusting her cloak. Her breath fogged in the cold air as she turned her gaze eastward. She didn''t know how far ahead Doran was, but she was close enough to feel it. The ruined homes, the scarred ground¡ªthey all pointed toward the same destination. Wherever Doran went, the Path was there, and where the Path lingered, Lisett would follow.


    Doran sat against a jagged outcropping, chewing a strip of dried meat he''d scavenged from the last camp. The taste was unremarkable, but it filled the ache in his stomach. As he bit down, his other hand lingered on Skarnvalk''s haft, feeling the faint vibrations from its runes. The hammer hummed softly, but Doran barely noticed. His mind drifted back to Karaz Tarul, the vast stone halls of his old home, the clang of hammer on steel ringing endlessly as a young apprentice learned the ancient craft. He''d traded the warmth of forges for the damp, chill wind of the open road¡ªand the thought of it weighed heavily on him tonight.


    He stretched his legs out, the ache in his knees reminding him of all the miles he''d walked since he left. The world didn''t accommodate dwarves the way it did humans or elves; he had to take extra care with uneven terrain, roots, and stone. And when the fighting started, his height often made him a target, forcing him to prove¡ªover and over¡ªthat being a dwarf didn''t make him weaker. It made him tougher. He flexed his hands, still as calloused and scarred as they had been back in the deep halls, and adjusted the hammer beside him.


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    With a sigh, he pulled out a small whetstone. He didn''t need to sharpen the edges of Skarnvalk''s blade¡ªrunes kept it deadly¡ªbut the act itself was familiar, calming. He ran the stone along the blade with steady strokes, the scrape of it reminding him of old masters muttering, "A dull edge is no edge at all." It was the kind of wisdom he hadn''t paid much attention to in his youth, but it stuck anyway.


    As he worked, he thought about the encounters ahead. The woman on the road had been right¡ªthere was more than just thugs in his path now. The Path was learning, adapting. If he didn''t stay one step ahead, he''d be the one lying broken in the dirt next time. But how much longer could he rely on Skarnvalk alone? The hammer was exceptional, but a single weapon could only do so much. He needed new gear, better armor, perhaps a short blade for close quarters. He needed to remember what it was to craft as a dwarf¡ªnot just to carve runes, but to meld steel and stone, to shape something enduring.


    Meanwhile, far to the north, Karvek Ironhand was busy preparing his crew for another job. In a small, weather-worn fort tucked into the mountains, he barked orders at a half-dozen rough-looking mercenaries. They grumbled and cursed as they sharpened their weapons and polished their battered armor. The air smelled of sweat, old leather, and iron.


    "Keep your guard high, you idiot," Karvek snapped at one man who''d been too lax in his drills. The mercenary grunted in reply, raising his shield and striking again at the training post. Karvek leaned on the pommel of his sword, surveying the scene. The rumors of a dwarf¡ªthis Doran¡ªhad continued to circulate. Some said the dwarf was a rising hero, others claimed he was a madman hunting shadows. Karvek didn''t care much about legends. He cared about facts. And what he knew was that someone was cutting into the Blightened Path''s operations.


    "That dwarf''s got a spine," he muttered to himself, watching the men spar. "Maybe more than we do."


    He''d been keeping an ear out, waiting to see if the dwarf would cross his path. In truth, Karvek wasn''t sure what he''d do when that day came. On one hand, the dwarf''s actions were stirring up the Path, making jobs more dangerous, less predictable. On the other, part of Karvek couldn''t help but admire him. A lone forge master taking on a cult? That took guts. The kind of guts Karvek hadn''t seen in a long time.


    "Karvek," one of his lieutenants called, stepping into the yard. "We''ve got word from the eastern road. Looks like the Path''s sending a heavy escort through. Might be carrying something valuable."


    "Something valuable, or something dangerous?" Karvek asked, raising an eyebrow.


    The lieutenant shrugged. "Could be both."


    Karvek rubbed his chin, then nodded. "Gather the men. Let''s see what''s worth protecting."


    He turned back to the yard, watching the mercenaries train with renewed purpose. He didn''t know if this lead would bring him closer to the dwarf, but something told him their paths weren''t done crossing yet.


    Doran sat beneath a jagged outcropping of rock, his back pressed against the cold, uneven surface. The winds howled through the narrow canyon, but he paid them no mind as he laid out the meager contents of his pack. His stores were running low¡ªhard tack that had gone stale, a strip of dried meat tough as leather, and a single waterskin that felt discouragingly light. He shook it, sighed, and took a small sip. Enough to keep him moving for now, but not much more.


    It had been days since he''d seen anything resembling civilization. The villages in this region were few and far between, many of them abandoned in the wake of the Path''s predations. The people who remained either didn''t trust a lone, battle-worn dwarf wandering through their lands, or they had nothing to spare even if they did. Foraging wasn''t much better; this rocky terrain wasn''t kind to anything that grew, and the game had long since learned to avoid human¡ªor dwarven¡ªscent.


    He pulled out the small metal tin that contained his flint and steel, then grabbed a handful of dried grass he''d gathered earlier. It took a few strikes before a spark caught, and the tiny flame grew into a flickering campfire. The warmth was a comfort, if nothing else. While the fire built, Doran ran a whetstone along the edge of a compact blade¡ªa secondary weapon he''d pulled from one of the Path cells he''d cleared out. It wasn''t anything special, just a well-made steel knife, but it served as a reminder: he wasn''t just fighting with what he''d brought from Karaz Tarul. Every battle had yielded something¡ªsupplies, information, the occasional piece of decent gear. The Path, for all their brutality, left plenty behind for those bold enough to take it.


    Skarnvalk rested across his knees, its runes dim in the firelight. He hadn''t yet decided if he''d stay here long enough to craft something new, but the thought lingered. The knife, though useful, wasn''t enough if he wanted to keep surviving these ambushes. He needed more than a hammer and a blade. Something lighter, something faster¡ªmaybe throwing axes, or darts weighted just right. His old forge master''s lessons echoed in his head: "You can''t always outlast. Sometimes you have to outthink."


    But crafting here would be tricky. He had no proper forge, no reliable source of heat beyond the meager fire at his feet. The nearby rocks were brittle and riddled with impurities¡ªfine for shelter, but no good for proper crafting. If he was going to make something truly worthwhile, he needed better materials and a proper workspace. That meant finding a village, a town, or even another ruin where he could scavenge iron, steel, or even an intact anvil. Maybe the next Path cell would yield a stockpile of raw materials, or a cache of tools he could repurpose.


    His stomach growled, breaking his train of thought. Doran glanced at the strip of dried meat, then reluctantly tore off a small piece. It was tough and flavorless, but it was fuel. He''d have to find more food soon¡ªeither by hunting, trading, or scavenging. And if no villages came into view by tomorrow, he''d turn his focus to whatever game he could track. It wouldn''t be the first time he set a few traps or fished from a riverbank. And he''d make do with less if it came to that. Dwarves weren''t known for their delicate constitutions, and Doran had never been above making a meal of whatever was available. Even so, he preferred to be prepared. As Karaz Tarul had taught him, a forge master''s strength wasn''t just in his hammer¡ªit was in his ability to adapt.


    For now, though, he''d wait. The firelight flickered across his face as he ran the whetstone over his knife again, the repetitive motion keeping his hands busy while his mind turned over the path ahead. In the morning, he''d break camp and keep moving. If fortune favoured him, he''d find a place to restock¡ªsomewhere with clean water, better food, and maybe even a decent forge. And if not? Well, he''d keep going anyway. That''s what dwarves did. They endured.

 Chapter 11

    As dawn broke, Doran stirred, brushing the last of the night''s chill from his shoulders as he strapped Skarnvalk to his back. The fire had died to faint embers, and with no food left to cook, he packed up quickly. He adjusted his belt, making sure the scavenged knife sat snugly at his side, and tested the waterskin again. It was barely a third full, but it would have to do until he found another source.


    The hills sloped downward into a dense thicket that stretched as far as the eye could see. The air was damp, and the smell of fresh moss and running water hinted at a stream not far off. Doran followed the sound of trickling water, picking his way carefully through the trees. His boots squelched in the soft, mossy ground, and after a short walk, he found the stream. The water was clear, flowing over smooth stones, and it tasted crisp and clean when he knelt down to refill his waterskin.


    He lingered a moment, the rush of the water steadying his mind. Dwarves had an affinity for stone and earth, but flowing water had its own appeal¡ªclean, constant, and dependable. As he drank, he noticed faint tracks in the mud along the bank. Deer, maybe, or something smaller. If he were lucky, he might be able to set a snare, or at least spot a trail leading to a game trail nearby.


    But luck wasn''t on his side that morning. The tracks led into deeper brush, and the thick vegetation made hunting more trouble than it was worth. Instead, Doran pressed on, heading east, keeping the stream at his left as he climbed the gradual slope toward the distant mountains.


    By mid-afternoon, he caught sight of smoke rising faintly in the distance¡ªthin, dark, and controlled, not the billowing chaos of burning ruins. He adjusted Skarnvalk''s position on his back and set a steady pace. Smoke meant people, and people meant supplies, or at least information. After days of solitude, even a conversation, no matter how brief, might be worth the detour.


    The terrain opened into a wide, rocky plain dotted with low shrubs and jagged outcroppings. The source of the smoke revealed itself: a small, well-worn camp nestled in a natural hollow. A group of travellers had gathered around the fire, their clothing patched and their faces weathered. They looked like a mix of merchants and mercenaries¡ªno uniform, no banners, just tired, armed people sharing a meal.


    Doran slowed his approach, his steps deliberate. The travelers noticed him immediately. A stocky woman with a short blade at her hip stood, narrowing her eyes. A wiry man carrying a spear shifted his grip, his knuckles whitening. They weren''t openly hostile, but they were on edge. He couldn''t blame them¡ªanyone wandering the wilds knew better than to trust a stranger right away.


    "Afternoon," Doran said, keeping his voice level and his hands visible. "I''m just passing through. Thought I''d see if you had news about what''s up ahead."


    The woman tilted her head, her dark eyes scanning him from boots to beard. "You''re a long way from any roads, dwarf. What kind of news are you looking for?"


    "Anything worth knowing," Doran replied. "I''ve been running into trouble lately. Bandits, scavengers¡­ worse. If there''s a town up ahead, I''d like to know if it''s safe to stop in."


    The group exchanged glances. The woman relaxed slightly, though her hand didn''t stray far from her blade. "There''s a trading post about half a day''s walk east, near the base of the mountains. Nothing fancy, just a few stalls and a tavern. You''ll find food and a forge there, if you need it."


    A forge. That got Doran''s attention. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."


    The woman nodded, and the group settled back around the fire. They didn''t invite him to join, but they didn''t tell him to leave either. It was enough. He turned and kept walking, his eyes on the horizon. A forge, even a small one, would be a good place to resupply¡ªand maybe, finally, to start crafting something new.


    The walk to the trading post was slow, my legs heavy from days of travel, but the thought of a forge¡ªany forge¡ªkept me going. Skarnvalk''s weight was familiar on my back, though the hammer wasn''t the issue. It was the grinding fatigue in my thighs, the ache in my feet, and the constant, gnawing emptiness in my stomach. I''d been surviving on scraps, and though the stream had provided water, the lack of proper food was starting to show.


    As the trading post came into view, my first thought was to keep my head down. The place wasn''t much¡ªjust a few ramshackle stalls clustered around a central building that was part tavern, part general store. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney at the back, and I could hear the unmistakable ring of a hammer on steel. A forge. My forge, if I played this right.


    But this wasn''t Karaz Tarul. There were no open forges for wandering smiths to claim. The sound of iron striking iron didn''t mean I could just walk in and start working. Someone owned that forge, and if I wanted to use it, I''d need permission¡ªor coin. And coin was a problem. I hadn''t had any proper gold or silver since leaving Karaz Tarul, and the Path''s outposts I''d destroyed hadn''t exactly been overflowing with loot. What little I''d taken from the last cell¡ªa half-rusted blade, a few small ingots¡ªwas hardly enough to barter for much.


    I paused before entering the cluster of buildings, scanning the scene. The people here didn''t look well-off. Most were rugged mountain folk, dressed in patched tunics and threadbare cloaks, with worn leather boots that had seen too many winters. The few merchants present were clearly struggling, their wares limited to dried roots, crude iron tools, and a few battered knives. This wasn''t the kind of place where coin flowed freely. If I had anything of value to offer, it would need to be something these people couldn''t make themselves.


    Skarnvalk hummed softly against my back. No, not that. I wasn''t parting with my hammer, no matter how desperate I got. But maybe I could offer a service. Fixing their broken tools. Sharpening blades. If the local smith wasn''t too proud¡ªor too protective of his forge¡ªI could make myself useful and earn some coin or supplies in return.


    I stepped into the trading post''s courtyard, my boots stirring up dust that settled quickly in the still air. The forge was set into a low, squat building at the edge of the clearing, smoke curling out of the stone chimney. The blacksmith¡ªa stout man with arms like tree trunks¡ªwas hammering a red-hot horseshoe on an anvil. He didn''t look up as I approached.


    I wasn''t going to just barge in. Dwarves might be known for their stubbornness, but I wasn''t about to pick a fight over a forge I didn''t own. Instead, I stood off to the side, waiting until the blacksmith finally glanced up from his work. His eyes narrowed when he saw me, then widened slightly when they flicked to Skarnvalk''s runes.


    "Not from around here," he said gruffly.


    "Just passing through," I replied. "Heard you had a forge. Thought I''d see if you needed an extra hand."


    The blacksmith grunted, setting down his hammer and inspecting the horseshoe before tossing it into a bucket of water. The hiss of steam filled the air. "I don''t need charity," he said. "And I don''t let strangers touch my tools."


    "Fair enough," I said, my tone calm. "But I''m not asking for charity. I can pay for time at the forge. Or trade work for it."


    He squinted at me, his thick fingers rubbing his stubbled chin. "What kind of work?"


    "Sharpening. Repairs. Maybe something more intricate, if you''ve got the materials." I gestured toward Skarnvalk. "I''m no apprentice."


    His gaze lingered on the hammer, then shifted back to me. "Hmph. Don''t see many dwarves this far out. You''re a long way from home, forge master."


    "I am," I said evenly. "But I don''t need a lecture. I need a place to work. You''ll find I''m fair. And fast."


    He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded toward the forge. "You can use it for an hour. After that, we''ll talk."


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    It wasn''t exactly a warm welcome, but it was better than nothing. I stepped inside and surveyed the tools and materials. The forge was simple but functional, with a sturdy anvil, a bellows that looked newly repaired, and a decent assortment of hammers and tongs. The raw materials were limited¡ªmostly scrap iron and a few lengths of mild steel¡ªbut it was enough to start.


    I shrugged off my pack and laid out what I''d gathered from the Path''s outposts. A few pieces of warped steel, some misshapen iron spikes, and a crude dagger that had been left behind by one of the cultists. It wasn''t much, but I wasn''t aiming to forge a masterpiece here. I needed something practical. Something that could help me in the field.


    The idea of throwing axes still lingered in my mind, but I was realistic enough to know my limits. I hadn''t thrown an axe since my training days, and even then it was nothing more than a passing lesson. No sense forging something I couldn''t use. Instead, I decided on something simpler: a weighted dart¡ªheavy enough to be thrown at close range, but small enough to carry several. I''d seen other dwarves use them before, and though I hadn''t trained extensively with them, I knew enough to make a usable set. And with practice, they could become another tool in my arsenal.


    I stoked the forge and got to work, the heat enveloping me like an old friend. Skarnvalk hummed from where it leaned against the wall, its runes flickering faintly as if watching my progress. I hammered and shaped the steel, heating it to just the right temperature before hammering out a series of small, balanced darts. The repetitive rhythm of forging felt right, grounding me in a way I hadn''t felt in weeks. By the time I quenched the final dart and inspected the edge, the blacksmith was watching from the doorway, his arms crossed.


    "Not bad," he said. "You''ve got skill."


    "I told you," I said, setting the dart down. "Now, about that trade¡ª"


    "We''ll talk," he interrupted. "You''re not going to make a fortune here, but I can give you a meal. And maybe a little coin, if you''re willing to take on more work."


    I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. It wasn''t much, but it was a start. I had tools now, and a few darts to test. Tomorrow, I''d find a clear space to practice throwing them, refine my technique, and see if these new weapons were worth the effort. For the first time in days, I felt more like a forge master and less like a wandering vagrant. The fire in my veins matched the fire in the forge, and I knew that as long as I could keep working, I''d find a way forward.


    The meal wasn''t much¡ªstew made from the kind of cuts you''d normally throw away, thickened with what might have been barley if you were generous. But it was hot, and more importantly, it was filling. I sat at the far end of the tavern''s long table, finishing off the last mouthful as the blacksmith came back in, a small pouch of coins in his hand.


    "Not much," he said, tossing it onto the table. "But you''ve earned it."


    I hefted the pouch and felt the weight. It wasn''t heavy, but it would be enough for a few more days of supplies¡ªbread, dried meat, maybe even a new waterskin. It would also give me a bit of breathing room for my next steps. I nodded my thanks, then rose, Skarnvalk''s haft thudding lightly against my back as I stood.


    Before I left, the blacksmith stepped closer, lowering his voice. "One thing, dwarf. I hear you''re heading east."


    "Word travels fast," I said, tightening my belt.


    "Some of the traders have been talking. That you''re the one cutting through those Path cells."


    I paused, my hand brushing against Skarnvalk''s grip. I hadn''t exactly been subtle, but I hadn''t expected rumours to spread this quickly, especially in a place as remote as this.


    "Why do you care?" I asked.


    "Because if you''re going after the Path, you''re walking into a storm," he said, his tone serious. "You''ve done well so far, but the closer you get to their strongholds, the harder they''ll push back. They''ll send more than fanatics. They''ll send fighters. Professionals."


    "I''ll deal with them when they come," I said, adjusting Skarnvalk. "It''s what I do."


    He shook his head. "What you''ve done is make them mad. And when the Path gets mad, they start breaking things that don''t heal. Just remember that before you go charging into the next ruin."


    I didn''t answer. The blacksmith meant well, but I wasn''t about to turn back now. The Path''s corruption ran deep, and if I stopped now, their work would continue unchecked. I thanked him for the meal and stepped outside into the cool mountain air. The path ahead was still hazy, but at least I wasn''t starving. I had coin, tools, and a bit more food than before. It wasn''t much, but it would get me through the next few days.


    As I set off, the thought lingered¡ªwhat the blacksmith had said about professionals. If the Path was sending trained fighters, I''d need to be ready for them. My time at the forge had reminded me of what I could do, but it wasn''t just about the tools. If they sent swordsmen, if they sent spearmen, I''d need more than just Skarnvalk and a few darts. I''d need to train, to refine my martial skills the same way I refined my weapons. The old man''s teachings came to mind again¡ªsharp, brutal movements, meant to disable opponents quickly. But that was years ago. Could I still match the skill I''d learned under his tutelage?


    I stopped at the edge of a low ridge, looking out over the valley ahead. It was dotted with dark patches of forest, the kind that promised good hunting if you had the patience. Perhaps the next stop would be one of those shadowy groves, where I could practice. Not just with my hammer, but with my balance, my speed. If I had to face hardened warriors, I couldn''t just rely on heavy strikes. I''d have to remember what it meant to move, to strike fast and hard and not get hit.


    The thought was sobering. I had made Skarnvalk a weapon of legend, but a weapon was only as strong as the hand that wielded it. It was time to make sure I wasn''t just swinging blind.


    As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Doran paused at the edge of a ridge. The valley below stretched out before him, a mix of thick forest and rocky crags, with a faint river snaking through the middle. If the trading post was any indication, he wasn''t far from more settled territory, and possibly the kind of supplies and rest he desperately needed. But as he stood there, the weight of what lay ahead began to settle on him more heavily than the hammer at his back.


    Behind him, days off his trail, Lisett knelt beside a brook, filling her waterskin and washing the grime from her face. The forest around her was silent, save for the soft gurgle of the water and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The last village she had passed had been abandoned, the kind of empty that spoke of fear, not disinterest. The Path''s corruption was spreading farther than she''d thought. She tightened her cloak and pressed forward, her pace steady but not hurried. The rumours she''d followed painted a picture of a dwarven forge master¡ªdeadly, driven, and with a hammer that glowed in battle like a shard of the sun itself. She''d picked up traces of his trail from passing travellers¡ªtalk of a dwarf heading east, of dead Path agents left in his wake. He wasn''t far ahead, and every step brought her closer to finding out if the stories were true.


    Further north, Karvek Ironhand stood in a freezing wind atop a narrow pass, his mercenaries lined up behind him. The worn mountain trail stretched before them, leading toward a path cell they''d been hired to scout. The client was nervous, jumpy¡ªclearly worried about what might be lurking ahead. Karvek grunted, tightening the straps on his battered armor. He wasn''t paid enough to care about the politics of the Path or the stories of some forge-wielding dwarf cutting his way through their ranks. But the jobs had grown riskier lately, and the clients were more desperate. Karvek had heard the stories too. If this dwarf was out there, he was shaking the Path hard enough that people thought twice before dealing with them. That made Karvek''s life more complicated, and he wasn''t one for complications.


    He waved his men forward, gruffly reminding them to watch their footing on the narrow trail. As they pressed on, he kept one hand on his sword, the other holding the reins of his mule. The mountain wind bit at his face, but his thoughts stayed sharp. He wasn''t looking for trouble, but if it found him, he''d be ready. One way or another, he knew this story wasn''t over. Whether he met the dwarf himself or just the aftermath, he could feel the ripple spreading through these mountains.


    Doran, meanwhile, took a moment to settle himself on the ridge, pulling out the darts he''d made at the trading post. He still hadn''t had time to properly practice with them. His old mentor had always told him to train with what he made before trusting it in battle. A dwarf''s craft was his word, his bond. But there had been little time to stop and refine his aim. Now, as he looked out over the valley, he realised he couldn''t afford to go into another fight half-prepared.


    He found a sturdy tree at the edge of the ridge, set one of the darts into his hand, and aimed. The balance was close to what he''d intended, but the throw was off¡ªit hit the bark at an angle and bounced off with a dull thud. He frowned, retrieving it and trying again. The second throw was better¡ªcloser to the mark¡ªbut still not true. The third struck solidly, but the weight still didn''t feel quite right. As he kept practicing, adjusting his stance and grip, the memories of his old mentor''s training began to surface.


    The old dwarf had been nothing if not relentless. His training wasn''t just about brute strength¡ªit was about control, efficiency, and precision. Every swing, every throw, every strike had to count. Doran could still hear the gruff voice in his head: "You don''t get second chances in a real fight. If you''re throwing steel, make it stick."


    He trained until the sun dipped below the horizon, his arms aching but his aim improving. When he finally stopped, he felt a little more like the forge master he once was¡ªnot just a wandering dwarf with a big hammer, but someone who could wield more than brute force. It wasn''t perfect, but it was a start.


    And as he packed his things and began to descend the ridge into the valley, a quiet voice in the back of his mind wondered if his old mentor might be out there somewhere¡ªstill alive, still waiting to pass on the rest of his knowledge before it was too late. But that thought was fleeting. For now, he had a valley to cross, a trail to follow, and more work to do before the real fight began.

 Chapter 12

    I hoisted my pack higher onto my shoulders, the leather straps digging into my arms as the weight settled. It wasn''t just supplies¡ªthere was my extra knife, a few smaller pieces of scrap steel I''d picked up at the forge, and now the darts I''d made back at the trading post. I''d wrapped them in a simple cloth to keep them from rattling, but they added a noticeable bulk to my load. Skarnvalk, as always, rested across my back, its haft secured through a pair of reinforced loops on my pack that I''d sewn myself. I''d learned quickly that a dwarf had to carry everything with him¡ªtools, weapons, and whatever food and water he could scrounge. There was no waggon train or beast of burden. Just my legs, my back, and the straps that kept it all from spilling out.


    I had thought about lightening the load. There was a temptation to leave behind the heavier scraps of metal, to trim down the gear to the bare essentials. But I couldn''t shake the feeling that any piece of steel might be the one I''d need in a pinch. If I encountered a proper forge again, I didn''t want to stand there wishing I hadn''t discarded the perfect length of iron just to save a few pounds. So I kept it all. My back ached, my shoulders burned, but the thought of being unprepared was worse. A dwarf knew the value of carrying the tools of his craft, no matter how heavy they might be.


    As I trudged forward, my thoughts lingered on that weight. Not just the physical weight of the pack, but the weight of what lay ahead. The Path wasn''t going to stop. If anything, they''d grow more aggressive. I could feel it in the way their cells had started to dig in harder, their fanatics showing more desperation, more cunning. The next encounter wouldn''t be easy. The old blacksmith''s words stuck with me¡ªthey''ll send fighters.


    And then there was that other lingering thought, the one I tried to push away but couldn''t ignore. How long could I keep this up? Carrying everything I owned, walking the length of entire regions, surviving on scraps and stolen moments of rest. My endurance wasn''t infinite. The old martial lessons my mentor had given me had taught me how to fight smart, how to last in a prolonged struggle, but even the hardest steel wore down eventually. I needed allies, proper food, a stable place to work. And yet I kept moving. Because if I stopped, the Path would fill that void. I wouldn''t let that happen.


    Further north, Karvek crouched behind a jagged boulder, his breath fogging in the cold mountain air. His mercenaries were scattered along the ridge, each one positioned to strike when he gave the signal. Below, the Path''s caravan rolled forward, heavy waggons pulled by thick, muscular beasts that looked as if they''d been bred for this brutal terrain. The waggons themselves were reinforced with metal plating, and the guards walking alongside them were no mere thugs. They were hardened, disciplined fighters, each one carrying weapons marked with faint, sickly green runes.


    Karvek tightened his grip on his sword. He wasn''t interested in the Path''s goals¡ªhe was here for what they carried. His client hadn''t given him many details, just that the caravan''s cargo was "important" and "worth the risk." That suited him fine. Coin was coin. And if his mercenaries could take the waggons, they''d be paid well enough to last through the next harsh winter. But looking down at the Path''s forces, he could tell this wasn''t going to be an easy haul. These weren''t scared farmers or starving bandits. The Path had sent their best to guard whatever they were moving.


    Karvek motioned to his lieutenant, a broad-shouldered man named Eddric who carried a war axe that looked as if it had been forged from old ship anchors. Eddric gave a single nod, hefting the axe silently. The other mercenaries shifted in their positions, their breaths shallow, their eyes fixed on the caravan below.


    When the moment came, it was sudden. Karvek thrust his hand forward, and his men charged from their cover. Eddric let out a guttural roar as he barreled into the first Path guard, his axe cleaving through armor and sending a spray of blood into the frozen air. The other mercenaries followed, their blades and clubs crashing against shields and helms. The sounds of combat echoed through the pass¡ªshouts, steel on steel, the crunch of boots on frosted earth. Karvek himself was in the thick of it, his sword finding its mark in the neck of a guard who''d turned too slow.


    But the Path wasn''t caught off guard. Their fighters regrouped quickly, forming a defensive line in front of the lead waggon. One of them, a tall woman wielding a spear etched with glowing green runes, barked commands in a voice that cut through the chaos. The runes on her spear flared, and Karvek watched as she drove it into one of his mercenaries. The man screamed, his body convulsing as the spear''s glow surged through him. He fell limp to the ground, steam rising from his corpse.


    Karvek swore under his breath, parrying a sword strike and driving his blade into another guard''s gut. This wasn''t going to be as simple as a hit-and-run. They were facing ruin-wielders, the kind who knew how to channel their energy into their weapons. He could see his men faltering, the confidence of the initial charge fading as the Path''s guards held firm. They were outnumbered and outmatched. But Karvek didn''t call the retreat. Not yet. The wagons were close, and whatever was inside them, it was worth the risk.


    One of his men, a wiry thief named Jerrik, darted around the flanks, slipping through the chaos and reaching the side of a waggon. He worked quickly, breaking the crude lock on one of the rear doors. Karvek caught a glimpse of what was inside¡ªa heavy iron chest, secured with multiple bands of enchanted steel. Jerrik tugged at it, but it wouldn''t budge. The thief turned, shouting something Karvek couldn''t hear over the din of battle.


    Before Jerrik could say more, the tall spearmaster spotted him. She thrust her weapon, and a green pulse of ruin energy shot forth, slamming into Jerrik''s chest. The thief crumpled instantly, his body crumpling like a ragdoll. Karvek cursed again, cutting down another guard and making his way toward the waggon. The chest was what they needed. If they could break it free, they''d have what the client wanted. But the Path''s fighters weren''t giving ground, and every second they fought, more of his men fell.


    Blood splattered against the frost-covered stones. Mercenaries and Path guards clashed in brutal, desperate combat, neither side willing to yield. Karvek knew that if they didn''t seize the cargo soon, the Path reinforcements would arrive, and there''d be no escape. It was now or never.


    The frigid air bit at Karvek''s face as he surged forward, his sword meeting the Path spearmaster''s runed weapon with a deafening clash. Sparks flared green and orange as steel and rune clashed. The woman met his blade head-on, her movements precise, almost mechanical, as if the runes were guiding her hands. Karvek adjusted his footing and pressed the attack, sweeping low to force her to retreat. But she was fast¡ªfaster than he anticipated. Her spear danced around his strikes, grazing his armour with a hiss that left scorch marks in its wake.


    Meanwhile, Doran trudged through a narrow wooded path, the sound of distant fighting far beyond his ears, yet an unshakeable tension hung in the air. He hadn''t seen another soul since leaving the trading post, and the sparse forest offered little in the way of food or shelter. His pack carried enough to get him through another few days¡ªmostly hard bread and cured meat¡ªbut his water was running low again. He needed to find a stream or a well before nightfall. The trail ahead sloped downward, and he caught a faint glimmer of sunlight reflecting off a distant surface. A stream, perhaps. If he was lucky, there might be more than just water at the end of this path.


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    But luck hadn''t been on Doran''s side for a long time.


    At the caravan ambush, Karvek was losing men faster than he could rally them. Eddric, the heavy-hitting axe man, had taken two ruin-enhanced arrows to the chest and gone down with a strangled cry. The remaining mercenaries were retreating step by step, bloodied and outnumbered. Karvek knew he couldn''t hold the line much longer. He had underestimated the Path''s resolve¡ªand their strength. The cargo waggon''s enchanted chest was still out of reach, and the Path guards weren''t giving an inch. The tall spearmaster smirked behind her glowing weapon, her movements growing more aggressive as she pushed Karvek back. Her spear grazed his shoulder, the runes burning through the plate and singeing his skin. He bit back a curse and lunged forward, finally managing to lock her weapon aside with a clever twist of his blade.


    Behind her, the cargo waggon''s rear doors swayed slightly open, revealing that heavy iron chest once again. For a split second, Karvek wondered if it was even worth the risk anymore. If they couldn''t move the chest, it was just a deathtrap. But if they could¡­ whatever it was the Path thought valuable enough to protect this fiercely, it had to be worth something.


    The spearmaster''s next strike almost took his head off, and Karvek staggered back, narrowly avoiding a killing blow. He gritted his teeth. He''d die here if he wasn''t careful, and it was looking more likely with each passing moment.


    Doran reached the glimmering stream just as the sun began to sink below the tree line. The water was cold and clear, and he drank deeply, letting the chill refresh him. He refilled his waterskin, then leaned back against a nearby boulder, resting his pack beside him. As he looked out over the slowly darkening woods, his thoughts turned to the forge master who had once trained him. That old dwarf had taught him the basics of fighting¡ªnot just swinging Skarnvalk, but how to shift his weight, anticipate an opponent''s next move, and keep his balance even under heavy assault.


    Those lessons were the only reason Doran had survived this long. And now, with the Path becoming more organised and deadlier with each encounter, he knew he''d need every scrap of that knowledge to keep going. The darts he had forged were just the beginning. He needed to keep honing his skills, refining his weapons and his technique. Each step forward brought him closer to the heart of the Path''s operations, where their ruin masters would be more than just fanatics wielding stolen relics.


    Doran wiped his mouth, picked up one of the darts, and turned it over in his hand. He remembered the old forge master''s voice: "The weapon is only as sharp as the hand that wields it. Don''t waste good steel on poor strikes." That meant practice¡ªlots of it. He''d take the time to train now, even if it cost him precious daylight. If he had to face fighters stronger and more disciplined than the ones before, he''d need every edge he could get.


    And somewhere, not far behind, Lisett continued to follow the trail. She had passed through another hollowed-out village, its burned husks telling the same story as the others. The closer she got, the clearer it became that someone was cutting through the Path''s operations. Survivors, few as they were, spoke of a dwarf with a glowing hammer, fighting as if every swing carried the weight of his ancestors'' forges. She didn''t know what kind of man he was, but she''d soon find out. And if he was anything like the stories, he might be the ally she needed.


    The sound of rushing water began to fade as I left the stream behind, my pack heavier with a freshly filled waterskin and a few smooth stones I''d pocketed for practice throws. The sun was dipping low, shadows stretching long across the forest floor. I kept my pace steady, my boots finding the well-worn grooves of a faint trail cutting through the trees. Though I''d rested briefly by the water, the ache in my legs was growing familiar, almost comfortable¡ªjust another reminder that I was still moving, still alive.


    My mind wandered back to the old forge master, to the lessons he''d drilled into me. Not just about smithing, but about survival. "A blade''s edge and a strong grip won''t help if you''re too weak to hold them," he''d said once, watching me struggle to lift a freshly forged hammer from the anvil. He made me run laps around the forge every morning, practice striking with precision until my muscles ached. Back then, I''d thought it was pointless, that the strength would come naturally with time. But now, out here with nothing but my own two hands and the weight of my gear, I understood what he''d been trying to teach me. There was no glory in a perfect weapon if the smith couldn''t wield it.


    The trail began to climb, leading me toward higher ground. The air grew thinner, colder, and I could feel the weight of my pack pressing more heavily against my shoulders. Skarnvalk''s haft shifted slightly in its strap, a reminder of the power I carried, but also of the responsibility. Every swing of that hammer had a price. Every rune carved into its surface bore the weight of those who had fallen before it. And with each step I took, I knew that I was walking toward another confrontation, another fight where I''d have to prove again and again that I was worthy of the weapon I''d forged.


    Not far behind, Lisett paused at the edge of a narrow ravine. The forest on the other side looked darker, thicker, as though it had been untouched for decades. She hesitated, her eyes scanning the trail for signs of the dwarf she''d been tracking. Though she hadn''t seen him directly, the stories had been consistent¡ªsmall signs of his passing, whispered accounts from frightened villagers. They all pointed in one direction: east. Toward the mountains.


    She adjusted her pack and rubbed her hands together, her fingers still stiff from the morning''s cold. The journey had been longer than she expected, but she couldn''t turn back. Too much had been lost to the Path. She knew their methods, their cruelty. If the dwarf truly was fighting them¡ªand winning¡ªthen he might be the ally she needed. And if he wasn''t, she''d keep going. She had to. There was no other choice.


    Karvek''s mercenaries were in tatters. The ambush hadn''t gone as planned. The Path''s caravan had been more heavily guarded than they''d been led to believe, and the spearmaster''s runed weapon had carved through his men as if they were nothing more than chaff. He sat on the cold ground now, a torn cloak pressed against the gash in his side. The air stung with the coppery tang of blood and frost. Around him, the surviving mercenaries gathered what little they could salvage from their dead. The waggons had been lost¡ªwhatever the Path had been transporting was now out of reach. But the story wasn''t over.


    Karvek tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He thought about the stories he''d heard. The dwarf. The hammer. The way people spoke of him, as if he was some unstoppable force. Karvek had dismissed those stories at first. Just another myth to scare the weak-willed. But after what he''d seen today, after watching his men get cut down by weapons infused with ruin energy, he wasn''t so sure anymore. If the dwarf was real, and if he truly was fighting the Path, then maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªthey weren''t doomed to lose every fight.


    He grimaced, pushing himself to his feet. The wound in his side ached, but he wasn''t ready to give up yet. He''d regroup, find new recruits, and keep moving. If the Path was this strong now, he''d need every advantage he could find. And if that meant tracking down the hammer-wielding dwarf and seeing if he was the real deal, so be it. Karvek wasn''t ready to call it quits. Not yet.


    The path ahead was growing steeper, and the trees began to thin as I climbed higher. The air was colder here, sharper, and the quiet around me felt heavier than usual. It wasn''t just the fading light or the creak of branches in the wind. Something was different¡ªan unease I couldn''t quite place. Skarnvalk''s runes hummed faintly, not in alarm, but as if sensing that something was out there. Watching.


    I tightened my grip on the pack''s straps and kept moving. Whatever lay ahead, I''d face it. I had to.

 Chapter 13

    As I pushed higher into the mountains, I kept my gaze on the peaks ahead. The Path''s corruption was rooted deep, and the further I traveled, the more I came to understand that cutting down a few cells wouldn''t be enough. Their operations were vast¡ªworshipers and ruin-wielders acting as a network, each cell feeding off the next. Taking them down one by one was like carving runes into wet sand. I needed to reach their heart, their leadership. Whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªwas driving their obsession with ruins had to be stopped at the source.


    I didn''t know exactly where that was yet, but I had a direction. East, always east. Every lead I''d uncovered pointed to larger strongholds hidden in the shadow of these mountains, places where the Path gathered their most dangerous relics and their most fanatical warriors. That''s where I was heading. Not just to destroy the outposts along the way, but to rip out the root so nothing could grow back.


    For now, my goal was to reach the next settlement. Not just to restock supplies¡ªthough I was running dangerously low¡ªbut to get information. People in these remote villages had seen the Path''s movements. They might know where the main strongholds were, or at least the paths I should avoid. If I could find someone willing to talk, someone with more than rumors, I''d have the advantage I needed to hit them where it hurt.


    Meanwhile, Lisett reached the trading post Doran had passed through days earlier. The air was brisk, the smell of smoke from the forge still lingering. The blacksmith stood outside, a leather apron tied over his chest, his thick arms crossed. Lisett approached carefully, her steps deliberate. She wasn''t sure how much to reveal, not yet.


    "Afternoon," she said, her voice steady. "I heard there was a dwarf through here recently."


    The blacksmith raised an eyebrow but didn''t respond right away. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "There was. Quiet type. Didn''t stay long."


    "Did he say where he was going?" Lisett pressed.


    "East," the blacksmith said. "Toward the mountains. Seemed like he had a purpose. That''s all I know."


    Lisett thanked him and headed to the small tavern, hoping someone else might know more. The barkeep confirmed what the blacksmith had said. The dwarf had stopped for a short time, crafted something at the forge, and then moved on. No one had seen him since.


    The fact that he was heading toward the mountains wasn''t surprising, but it did give her a clearer direction. She stocked up on supplies¡ªwhat little the trading post could offer¡ªand prepared to continue the journey. It was clear now that she was only a few days behind him. If she pushed harder, she might catch him before he reached whatever dangerous place he was heading.


    Back on the mountainside, I paused at a narrow ledge and looked out over the jagged terrain. The air was thin here, and each breath felt sharp, but I welcomed the discomfort. It kept me focused. Skarnvalk hummed faintly on my back, its runes quiet now. I tightened my grip on my pack''s straps and pressed on, following the faint trail that wound upward. If the stories I''d heard back at the trading post were true, there was a larger Path gathering ahead¡ªa stronghold hidden in the crags. If I could reach it, I could take out another piece of their network.


    My plan was straightforward. I''d hit the stronghold hard, use the skills I''d learned as a forge master and a fighter, and dismantle whatever operation they had going there. They relied too much on their ruin-enhanced warriors and their corrupted relics. If I could disrupt their source of power, scatter their forces, and destroy their supplies, it would leave a gap in their structure¡ªone they''d struggle to fill. And each time they scrambled to recover, I''d be there to hit them again.


    It wasn''t a strategy born of arrogance. It was necessity. I wasn''t building an army; I wasn''t forming alliances. All I had was Skarnvalk, my training, and the iron will to keep moving forward. If I didn''t make each strike count, if I didn''t hit them where it hurt the most, I''d just be another wanderer lost to the mountains. But I wasn''t planning to be forgotten. Not yet.


    The gap in the ruined wall yawned ahead, half-hidden by the creeping vines and moss that clung to the stone. I crouched low, one hand steadying myself on the damp ground as I moved closer. The mist hung thick here, pooling against the crumbled edges of the old structure. It muted the sounds of my approach, which was both a blessing and a curse¡ªwhatever was inside wouldn''t hear me coming, but I also wouldn''t hear them until it was too late.


    I reached the gap and pressed my back against the cold stone, peering through. The supply camp was set up inside what must have once been the tower''s central hall. Crates were stacked in haphazard piles, with canvas tarps stretched over the larger stacks to keep the rain off. There were four figures moving among the supplies. One was seated on a low bench, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Two others sorted through crates, muttering to each other in a language I didn''t recognize. The fourth stood near the far side of the hall, leaning on a spear as they watched the others.


    I stayed still, taking it all in. The camp wasn''t large¡ªnothing like the full cells I''d encountered before¡ªbut it was organized. These weren''t random thugs. Their movements were efficient, their gear maintained. The crates were marked with a symbol I didn''t recognize, a crude sigil burned into the wood. If this was a supply camp, it wasn''t just for their local operations. It looked like they were staging for something bigger. If I left it intact, those supplies would go directly to their more fortified strongholds¡ªand their leaders. I couldn''t allow that.


    But a direct charge would be suicide. Four against one weren''t odds I''d back away from, but these weren''t just four raiders. They were armed, alert, and likely ready for trouble. If I was going to dismantle this camp, I needed to be smart about it. I reached into the pocket of my pack, pulling out one of the darts I''d made at the trading post. It was small, barely more than a sharpened length of steel, but it was enough to create an opportunity if I used it right.


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    I shifted my position, staying low, and scanned the camp for anything flammable. The crates were covered, but there were a few smaller barrels tucked against one of the walls. If they were carrying pitch or oil¡ªand they probably were, given the size of the barrels¡ªthen I had my opening. I carefully stepped around the gap, keeping to the shadows as I moved closer. The mist swirled around my boots, covering the sound of my steps.


    When I was close enough, I crouched behind a piece of broken stone and took aim at one of the barrels. It wasn''t the kind of throw I was trained for¡ªthis was no battle swing, no practiced strike. But I''d been working on my aim, and at this range, it didn''t need to be perfect. I threw the dart. It struck the barrel with a dull thud, puncturing the wood. A thin, dark trickle of liquid ran down the side, confirming my suspicion. It wasn''t water.


    I waited a moment, watching the guards. The one with the spear glanced in the barrel''s direction but didn''t move. The others kept working. I''d need a distraction, something to get them closer to the barrels. I glanced around and saw a loose piece of rubble nearby¡ªsmall enough to toss, big enough to make noise. Picking it up, I lobbed it into the far corner of the room, where it clattered against the stone with a sharp crack. The reaction was immediate. The seated guard stood, drawing his blade. The two near the crates stopped what they were doing and turned toward the sound.


    "What was that?" one of them muttered, stepping closer to investigate. The spearman moved as well, leaving his post to see what the noise was. I kept low, counting the seconds as they walked toward the far corner.


    Then, in the silence that followed, I moved fast. Skarnvalk''s weight was a comfort as I stepped into the hall, my eyes fixed on the barrels. I didn''t swing yet. Instead, I brought the hammer''s blade down hard on the punctured barrel''s side, splitting it open. The oil poured out, dark and slick, pooling on the floor and spreading toward the nearest stack of crates. The guards turned at the sound, their voices sharp with alarm. But I was already stepping back, gripping Skarnvalk tightly as the room erupted into chaos.


    One of the guards shouted an order¡ªsharp, clipped, and in a language I couldn''t place. They moved quickly, their training evident as they spread out, two of them rushing toward me with weapons raised. I backed away just as my heel caught the edge of the pooling oil. With a curse, I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk, its runes flaring faintly in the dim light.


    The first guard lunged, their sword striking toward my midsection. I turned my body and brought the haft of the hammer up to deflect the blow. The clang of metal on metal reverberated through the hall, echoing off the old stone walls. Before the second guard could flank me, I shifted my weight and drove the butt of the hammer into the first attacker''s chest. The force of it sent them stumbling back, their boots sliding across the oil-slicked ground.


    The second guard came at me next, their axe cutting in a wide arc. I twisted, narrowly avoiding the blade, and swung Skarnvalk in a tight, upward strike. The curved blade at the top of the hammer caught their axe handle, splitting it in two with a crack of wood and a spray of splinters. Before they could recover, I brought the hammer''s head down, sending them crumpling to the ground.


    The remaining two guards were closing in, one keeping their distance with a spear, the other pulling a knife from their belt as they circled around. The air was tense, heavy with the scent of oil and the metallic tang of blood. I could feel the uneven stones beneath my boots, the slick patches threatening to throw me off balance. Skarnvalk felt steady in my hands, a constant against the chaos.


    I stepped back further, drawing them into the oil-soaked section of the hall. If they wanted to corner me, I''d make them fight me on treacherous ground. The spearman lunged, thrusting their weapon toward my chest. I sidestepped and brought Skarnvalk down in a wide arc, forcing them to leap back to avoid the blow. The knife-wielder tried to come at me from the side, but their footing gave way on the slick surface. They staggered, and I took the opportunity to swing the hammer into their midsection, sending them sprawling.


    The spearman was the last one standing. They hesitated, their eyes darting between me and their fallen comrades. For a moment, I thought they might run. But then they steadied their grip, shifted their stance, and started forward.


    The fight wasn''t over.


    The spearman moved with purpose, each step deliberate, as if trying to gauge the slickness of the oil-covered ground. The runes etched into their weapon began to glimmer faintly, casting a sickly green light that made the shadows of the ruined hall dance on the crumbling walls. It wasn''t the first time I''d seen their rune-carved tools in action, and I knew enough to be wary. Those runes weren''t for show¡ªthey had a way of channeling energy that could cut deeper than steel.


    From the corner of my eye, I saw the guard I''d knocked down with the knife start to stir, clutching their side and trying to rise. I couldn''t let them recover enough to flank me, but the spearman was the more immediate threat. The other two I''d already dealt with¡ªone downed with a strike to the chest, the other with their axe shattered and their body slumped near the far wall. Two still breathing, two still moving. And all it would take was one mistake on my part to shift the odds back in their favor.


    The spearman feinted a thrust, trying to get me to commit to a block. I didn''t take the bait. Instead, I stepped into their space before they could fully retract the spear, catching the haft of their weapon on Skarnvalk''s curved blade. With a sharp twist, I wrenched it downward, the runes flashing brightly for an instant before the spear''s shaft splintered under the force. The spearman stumbled, off balance, and I brought the flat side of the hammer''s head across their face. They crumpled to the floor, their weapon rolling away as its glow dimmed and faded.


    No time to breathe. The knife-wielder was up again, albeit shakily, blood dripping from the corner of their mouth. Their movements were slower now, more cautious, as they circled to my left. But their eyes¡ªsharp and focused¡ªtold me they weren''t finished. This wasn''t a wild charge; this was calculated, a deliberate attempt to find a weak spot. Their blade, a long, thin dagger etched with faint, barely glowing runes, twitched in their hand like a viper ready to strike.


    The standoff lasted only seconds. When they finally lunged, I stepped aside, catching their wrist with my free hand and twisting hard. The knife clattered to the ground, and I shoved them backward. Their boots slipped on the oil, and they went down again. This time, I didn''t give them the chance to rise. I drove Skarnvalk''s haft into their shoulder, pinning them to the ground with enough force to knock the fight out of them. They lay there, groaning, the runes on their dagger fading to dull scratches as the room fell silent.


    I stood over them, breathing heavily, my arms trembling slightly from the exertion. The hall smelled of smoke, blood, and the sharp, bitter tang of runic energy that still clung to the air. My eyes swept the room, confirming that all four were either down or too injured to get back up. The two near the far wall¡ªone with a shattered axe and the other with broken ribs¡ªwere unconscious. The spearman was unconscious, their ruined weapon discarded at their side. And the knife-wielder was pinned under my hammer, groaning but alive.


    The camp wasn''t secure yet, but I''d bought myself enough time to figure out what they''d been protecting. I dragged the remaining guard to the side, away from their weapon, and let Skarnvalk''s head rest heavily on the floor. The rune-light had dimmed, but I could still feel the hammer''s faint hum in my hands, steady and reassuring. Whatever they''d been storing here, it was time to find it, destroy it or collect any "useful " Items.

 Chapter 14

    Doran stood over the smoldering remains of the Path''s supply cache, his breath steaming in the cold air. Skarnvalk''s runes still glowed faintly, their light casting jagged shadows on the stone walls of the ruined tower. The bodies of the guards lay scattered across the ground, their rune-inscribed weapons now lifeless, their blood pooling on the cracked flagstones. He couldn''t afford to leave anything usable behind. One by one, he shoved the remaining crates into the flames, watching them crackle and burn. The sickly green hue of the Path''s ruined energy finally faded, reduced to ash and embers.


    His gaze drifted to the pile of supplies he''d set aside¡ªraw materials that caught his eye during the fight. Most of it was standard fare: iron ingots, leather straps, a few serviceable tools. But among the mess, one item stood out: a bundle of faintly glowing metal bars, their surfaces marked with patterns that seemed both natural and deliberate, like veins of silver running through volcanic rock. He crouched, running a hand over one of the bars. It was warm, as if it still held the heat of its forging, and he could feel a faint vibration under his fingertips, almost like a heartbeat.


    "Skycinder steel," he murmured to himself, the name surfacing from memory. His old forge master had spoken of it once¡ªa rare material formed when ore was exposed to the intense heat and pressure of a volcanic eruption, combined with trace amounts of aetherstone, a crystalline substance known for its reactive properties. It was said to be lighter than steel yet stronger, and its natural conductivity made it ideal for holding runes without shattering under stress. It wasn''t some mystical, unattainable material¡ªit was simply rare, difficult to obtain, and even more difficult to work. But Doran knew its worth. With enough of it, he could forge armor that wouldn''t hinder his movements, armor that could actually turn the blade of a ruin-carved weapon.


    The idea began to take shape in his mind as he sorted through what he''d found. The skycinder steel would form the base. A simple cuirass, reinforced gauntlets, and greaves¡ªnothing too bulky, but enough to cover his vitals. Practical and efficient. As he thought it over, the runes began to take form in his mind. He wouldn''t cover the armor in glowing sigils like some overzealous runemaster. No, he''d carve only a few, each one with a clear purpose:


    Rune of Holding: Carved over the heart, it would help anchor his movements, preventing him from losing his footing in battle. Not enough to root him completely, but just enough to stabilize a blow or keep him steady on uneven terrain.Rune of Absorption: Set along the shoulders, this rune wouldn''t make him invincible¡ªit would simply dampen the first impact, spreading the force evenly across the armor''s surface. A sword strike might still bruise, but it wouldn''t cleave through.Rune of Endurance: Engraved into the gauntlets, it would subtly strengthen his grip, allowing him to maintain hold of Skarnvalk even when sweat or blood made the haft slippery. Not magic that would give him superhuman strength, but a practical enhancement to keep his weapon steady in the heat of battle.


    Doran knew these runes wouldn''t make him invincible, and that was fine. He wasn''t looking for invincibility. He just needed an edge, something that would keep him in the fight a little longer. The challenge now was getting all of this back to a forge. He had enough rope and straps to lash the materials together into a manageable bundle, though it wouldn''t be light. But that was nothing new¡ªhe''d carried heavier loads in the past. He set to work, tying the skycinder steel, the tools, and the other ingots into a secure pack that he could haul without too much trouble.


    As he worked, he heard footsteps behind him¡ªlight, cautious, and deliberate. He stood, Skarnvalk''s haft already in hand, and turned to face whoever was approaching.


    It was a woman, cloaked against the chill, with a staff strapped across her back. Her steps slowed as she saw him, her expression wary but not hostile. Her gaze flicked to the hammer, then to the smoldering remains of the camp.


    "You''re him," she said, her voice steady. "The forge master. The one they call the Hammer of Karaz Tarul."


    Her words caught him off guard. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. He eyed her warily, shifting his grip on Skarnvalk. "Who''s asking?"


    "Lisett," she said. "I''ve been looking for you."


    "Looking for me?" Doran frowned. "You with the Path?"


    She shook her head quickly. "No. Quite the opposite. I''m here to help. If you''ll let me."


    Doran didn''t lower the hammer. "Help me? Why?"


    "The Path took everything from me. My family, my home¡­" She trailed off, then squared her shoulders. "I''ve been tracking their movements, following their supply lines. And then I heard about you¡ªwhat you''ve been doing. The cells you''ve destroyed. The weapons you''ve forged. You''re the only one who''s been able to fight them and win."


    He studied her carefully, his blue eyes sharp. "You think you can fight?"


    "I can heal," she said simply. "And I know how to keep someone alive long enough to win the next fight. I think that''s worth something."


    Doran didn''t respond immediately. He''d traveled alone for so long that the thought of taking on an ally felt foreign, almost reckless. But as he looked at the steel he''d gathered, the armor he planned to forge, he knew the road ahead wasn''t going to get any easier. The Path''s next cell would be more fortified, more dangerous. And as much as he hated to admit it, having someone to watch his back¡ªeven someone he didn''t fully trust yet¡ªmight keep him alive long enough to finish the job.


    Finally, he nodded. "Fine. But if you''re coming with me, you''d better keep up. I don''t have time to babysit."


    Lisett nodded in return. "I won''t slow you down."


    "We''ll see," Doran muttered. He turned back to the smoldering remains of the camp, picked up the makeshift bundle of supplies, and started toward the nearest mountain pass. He didn''t say anything else as they walked. It wasn''t trust¡ªtrust didn''t come easy. But for now, it was enough that she was here, and that the fire of the burning camp lit their path forward.


    The trail ahead twisted sharply as the ground steepened, loose gravel crunching underfoot. The wind carried the faint scent of pine mixed with old stone, a reminder that the mountains weren''t just jagged peaks¡ªthey were the remains of something far older. Dwarves had once carved great cities and outposts into these cliffs, and some ruins still lingered, swallowed by time and overrun by the dark things that festered where dwarves no longer walked. Doran''s mind drifted to a handful of names from his old maps, places that had been spoken of when he was an apprentice but rarely visited: Barak-Khald, a once-prosperous outpost that now crawled with goblins and worse; Kramtharn''s Anvil, which legend claimed still held a working forge, though the price of reclaiming it would be steep; and Mundvar''s Hollow, a smaller hold lost to the shadow-spawn centuries ago.


    As he walked, the rare bundle of skycinder steel weighing heavy in his pack, he weighed his options. Barak-Khald was the closest¡ªno more than two days'' travel northeast¡ªbut it was swarming with goblins. Not just the small, screeching ones he''d fought in his youth, either. From what travelers said, their war bands were growing more organized, with warg-mounted scouts and crude but dangerous siege gear. Spears of black iron, shields hammered from stolen dwarven steel, and even the occasional looted crossbow that could punch through lighter armor. Clearing it out wouldn''t just be a quick scuffle¡ªit would be a drawn-out battle against creatures that had grown stronger on the bones of his ancestors'' halls.


    Kramtharn''s Anvil was farther south, a detour of at least four days. It was deeper into the mountains and more isolated, which meant he''d have to deal with trolls and possibly worse. Trolls weren''t just brutes¡ªthey were clever when it came to their lairs, and their weapons, while crude, were massive. Clubs made from the limbs of ancient trees, jagged blades stolen from travelers, and the kind of armor that was less armor and more slabs of scavenged steel chained to their torsos. Fighting trolls wouldn''t just test his endurance; it would test his patience, his ability to outmaneuver and outthink creatures that could crush him with one blow.


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    Mundvar''s Hollow¡­ that one was a gamble. Rumors said it still held the remnants of an old forge, but no one had set foot inside for generations. If it still stood, it was likely overrun with the darkspawn¡ªshadowy, twisted creatures that bled a black ichor, armed with jagged blades that seemed to hum with corruption. Doran had heard tales of entire companies of warriors being broken against those halls. If he went there, he''d have to clear every last corner before he could even think of lighting the forge''s fires.


    Doran adjusted the strap on his pack and glanced at Lisett, who was walking a few steps behind. She moved quietly, her staff tucked under one arm, her eyes scanning the trail ahead. She wasn''t a fighter¡ªthat much was clear¡ªbut she carried herself with a calm determination that was hard to ignore. As they climbed, she stopped briefly, adjusting her own pack, which now held a few items Doran had handed off to lighten his own load. It wasn''t much¡ªa hammer, a bundle of rope, a small pouch of spare rivets¡ªbut it made a difference.


    "Where are we heading exactly?" she asked, breaking the silence.


    "Not sure yet," Doran admitted, his voice gruff. "Thinking over a few options."


    "Options," she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That sounds reassuring."


    "It''s not about reassurance," he said flatly. "It''s about choosing which fight to pick first. There''s a forge in Barak-Khald, another in Kramtharn''s Anvil, maybe one in Mundvar''s Hollow if I''m lucky. All of them are nasty in their own way. Goblins, trolls, darkspawn¡ªtake your pick."


    "Lovely," she said, her tone dry. "And these aren''t just rumors?"


    "Some of it is," Doran admitted. "But I know enough to trust my instincts. Those old dwarven holds didn''t just disappear. They fell for a reason."


    Lisett adjusted her pack again, her expression thoughtful. "If they''re all that dangerous, is it worth the risk? You could just keep moving, take the fight straight to the Path without getting bogged down."


    Doran stopped walking and turned to face her. His sharp, blue eyes met hers. "You think I can fight them bare-chested? You think I can keep hacking away without better armor, without the right tools? That skycinder steel isn''t going to turn itself into a breastplate. I need a forge. A proper one. And if that means clearing out a few nasties, so be it."


    She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Fair point. But you''ll need to be smart about it. Even you can''t take them all on at once."


    "Didn''t say I would," he grumbled, turning back to the trail. "That''s why I''m thinking."


    Meanwhile, in another part of the mountains, Karvek Ironhand and his surviving mercenaries trudged through a narrow pass, the wind howling around them. Their earlier attempt to ambush the Path''s caravan had left them bloodied and demoralized, but Karvek wasn''t ready to give up. He still had leads to follow¡ªrumors of a dwarf cutting through the Path''s operations, disrupting their supply lines. If that dwarf was heading into the mountains, Karvek intended to find him. Whether to fight him, trade information, or strike an uneasy alliance depended on what he found. But one way or another, the name "Doran Thargrimm" was starting to feel less like a rumor and more like a shadow on his trail.


    Doran''s thoughts shifted back to the task at hand. Barak-Khald was the closest forge, but it was also the most dangerous. If he made the detour, he''d have to pause his assault on the Path¡ªdelay the destruction of their supply lines, give them time to regroup. But the armor he could forge there, the runes he could carve, would make him stronger for the battles to come. He was no stranger to hard choices, but this one weighed heavier than most. Survival meant taking the long view. Even if it meant losing some time now, the armor would ensure he lived long enough to finish the job.


    "Barak-Khald it is," he muttered, his grip tightening on Skarnvalk.


    The air grew colder as we ascended, the path to Barak-Khald twisting ever upward. Each step brought us closer to the jagged peaks that loomed ahead, their edges sharp against the pale morning sky. The ruins of the old dwarven hold lay somewhere beyond those ridges, hidden from view but not from memory. I''d never seen it myself, but the stories were enough¡ªan ancient outpost once bustling with the sound of hammers on steel, now silent except for the chittering of goblins and worse.


    Lisett walked a few paces behind me, her staff clinking softly against the rocks as she leaned on it for balance. She didn''t complain, but I could tell the climb was wearing on her. Every so often, I''d glance back to see if she was still keeping up. She always was.


    The path narrowed, forcing us to move single file. I thought about the last map I''d seen of Barak-Khald, a sketch drawn on brittle parchment by some long-dead cartographer. It had shown the outpost nestled in a high valley, accessible only by a single main road that had long since crumbled into a series of precarious switchbacks. I knew what to expect when we reached the outer wall¡ªcollapsed gates, broken ramparts, and goblins lurking in every shadowed corner.


    But getting there was only half the battle. The real fight would come when I tried to claim the forge. Goblins were scavengers, sure, but they weren''t stupid. They''d fortified the place with whatever they could scrounge¡ªmakeshift barricades, tripwires, and crude but effective traps. Their weapons were as much a threat as their numbers: jagged swords forged from stolen iron, spears tipped with sharpened bone, and crossbows cobbled together from scavenged dwarven parts. I could imagine the hiss of arrows flying through the dark corridors, the clang of their blades against Skarnvalk as they swarmed. It wouldn''t be a clean fight. It never was.


    I tightened the straps on my pack, feeling the weight of the skycinder steel pressing against my back. Every step brought the thought closer to the surface: Is it worth it? The goblins would fight tooth and nail to keep their nest. Clearing them out would cost blood¡ªmy own, Lisett''s if she didn''t keep her head down. But the forge would be mine once it was done, and I could work the steel into armor that might just keep me alive long enough to finish what I''d started.


    "Looks like it''s getting steeper," Lisett said, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, though her breath came heavier now.


    "Barak-Khald''s just over this ridge," I said, not turning. "We''ll rest once we can see it."


    Elsewhere, Karvek stood with what was left of his mercenaries. Four men, not counting himself, sat huddled around a dwindling fire. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes sunken, and their gear patched and stained with blood. The failed ambush had left them broken, and Karvek could feel the weight of their stares whenever he turned his back. He''d dragged them this far, promising pay and a chance at revenge, but now they were starting to question if it was worth it.


    Karvek looked down at his own sword, its edge chipped and dull from too many fights and too little time to repair it. He thought about the stories he''d heard, the ones that spoke of a dwarf cutting through the Path like a storm. If those stories were true, that dwarf wasn''t far ahead. The mountains narrowed here, the trails converging. It wasn''t a question of if their paths would cross, but when.


    "Where to now?" one of his men asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.


    "Up," Karvek said. "We keep moving. That dwarf¡­ he''s heading into goblin country. If he''s really as good as they say, he''ll be clearing a path we can follow. If not, then we''ll take what''s left of him."


    "And if we get caught between him and the Path?" another man asked, his tone sharper. "We''re not exactly equipped for that kind of fight."


    "We''re equipped enough," Karvek said, though he knew it was a lie. They didn''t have the numbers or the supplies for another pitched battle. But he wasn''t about to turn back. Not now. If the dwarf truly was a forge master, there might be something to gain from meeting him face-to-face. Karvek wasn''t above cutting a deal if it meant his crew survived the mountains. And if it came to a fight¡­ well, he''d cross that bridge when he reached it.


    He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and kicked dirt over the fire. "We move at dawn."


    The ridge gave way to a wide plateau, and there it was: Barak-Khald. The outpost stood in ruin, its walls crumbled and its towers leaning like old men too tired to hold themselves upright. The main gate was long gone, replaced by a haphazard barricade of splintered wood and rusted metal. Smoke rose from small cooking fires within, and I could just make out the shapes of goblins scurrying between the rubble.


    I set down my pack and crouched, gesturing for Lisett to do the same. She followed, her breathing still heavy from the climb. We sat there in the cold, looking down at what lay ahead.


    "This is it," I said quietly.


    "How many do you think?" she asked, peering through the mist.


    "Enough to make us regret it if we''re not careful."


    She nodded, pulling her cloak tighter. "And the forge?"


    "Somewhere in the center, most likely. We''ll need to cut through them to reach it."


    She looked at me, her expression unreadable. "And then what?"


    "Then I start forging," I said simply. "But first, we clear the way."


    It wasn''t a question of if we''d fight. The only question was whether I''d come out the other side with enough strength to lift a hammer. The forge was there, waiting. Now it was up to me to claim it.

 Chapter 15

    The forge chamber echoed with every strike of the hammer. The sound cut through the oppressive silence of Barak-Khald, loud and harsh against the cold stone walls. Each blow sent a vibration through my arms, down into my legs, and into the floor itself. The skycinder steel glowed faintly on the anvil, its strange, silver-veined surface reacting to the heat with a soft shimmer, as if it carried the fire inside it. I wiped the back of my hand across my brow, smearing soot and sweat together. The air here was thick¡ªwarm from the forge fire, but heavy with something else. Something wrong.


    I kept my focus on the metal. Each strike had to be deliberate. You didn''t waste skycinder. The old forge master''s words ran through my mind: "Every swing counts. Every cut, every bend, every etching¡ªit''s all part of the story you''re telling the steel." I pictured his grizzled face, his scarred hands as he showed me how to draw out the metal, how to let the hammer guide you. The steel was no ordinary material, and the armour it would become was no ordinary protection. It wasn''t just about covering my body¡ªit was about survival. My survival. The kind that lets you stand toe-to-toe with ruin-wielders and live to tell the tale.


    The runes would come later, once the plates were shaped. They''d be subtle, practical. No glowing showpieces. Each rune would have a purpose: one to spread the force of a blow, another to keep the joints moving freely. Simple, efficient, and just enough to give me the edge. I knew I''d never be invincible, but with this armour, I might last long enough to finish what I''d started.


    Behind me, Lisett was sitting cross-legged by the wall, her staff resting across her knees. She was quiet¡ªwatching, but not intruding. I hadn''t asked for her opinion, and she hadn''t offered it. That suited me fine. Her presence was odd, though. I wasn''t used to company, especially not someone who didn''t seem scared off by the things that moved in the shadows. And they were moving. I could feel them, even if I couldn''t see them.


    The chamber was dark beyond the forge''s glow. The runes that had once illuminated the walls were faded, their power long gone. That left the edges of the room veiled in a deep, shifting blackness. Every now and then, the firelight would flicker just so, casting strange shapes that made my eyes dart to the corners. I caught myself turning my head too quickly, feeling the tendons in my neck tighten. It wasn''t my imagination. Something was out there.


    The air seemed colder now, despite the heat of the forge. I set the hammer down on the anvil, letting it rest against the unfinished plate of armour. My hand hovered near Skarnvalk, which leaned against the anvil block within easy reach. Its runes were faint, not yet glowing, but the hammer felt alive nonetheless. I''d made it that way. And if something in the dark thought it could challenge me, I''d let Skarnvalk remind it why the forges of Karaz Tarul were feared.


    "Lisett," I said without turning. "Do you see it?"


    Her voice was steady, but quiet. "I''ve felt it since we got here."


    I glanced over my shoulder. She was still sitting, still calm, though her grip on the staff had tightened. She wasn''t just a wandering healer¡ªshe knew things, saw things that most people wouldn''t have. I hadn''t asked her about it. I wasn''t sure I wanted to know.


    "It''s staying in the shadows," she said. "Waiting."


    "Waiting for what?"


    She didn''t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the far corner of the room, where the darkness seemed deeper than it should have been.


    I straightened, wiping my hands on my apron. My pulse was steady, my breathing controlled. Years at the forge had taught me patience, precision, and how to trust my instincts. The thing in the shadows wasn''t going to jump at me yet. It was testing us. Watching.


    "Stay here," I said, grabbing Skarnvalk. The runes flared faintly, their silver light pushing back the edge of the dark. "If it moves, call out."


    I didn''t wait for a reply. I stepped into the shadows, the hammer ready in my hands. The heat of the forge faded as I moved away from it, replaced by a cool, almost damp chill. My boots scuffed on the stone floor, each step sending a faint echo that seemed to stretch too far, as if the chamber was larger than it had looked. The walls loomed high, the carvings on them now barely visible in the dim light. I saw shapes¡ªgouges, claw marks, and something that might have been a twisted rune. Whatever had been here before the goblins, it had left its mark.


    The sound of breathing reached my ears. Not mine. Not Lisett''s. It was low, rasping, coming from ahead and to the left. I stopped, listening, letting my eyes adjust. The dark wasn''t total. There was a faint glimmer¡ªreflected light on something wet. I shifted Skarnvalk''s weight in my hands and took another step closer.


    The breath quickened, and the glimmer moved. It wasn''t a reflection. It was eyes. Large, too close together, too bright. They blinked once, then twice, and the rasping grew louder. I felt the air change, a ripple that moved past me like a cold draft. Whatever it was, it was bigger than a goblin. And it wasn''t hiding anymore.


    I gripped Skarnvalk tighter, its runes now glowing brighter as if sensing my readiness. "Come on, then," I muttered. "Let''s see what you''re made of."


    The glowing eyes narrowed as I stepped closer, the cool air pressing against my skin in waves. Skarnvalk''s runes shone with cold silver light, illuminating the rough-hewn stone around me. The outline of the creature emerged slowly from the shadows¡ªfirst a long, serpentine neck that curled like a river''s bend, then the massive body, its dark scales shimmering faintly. The creature''s chest heaved, each breath rolling out a low, reverberating growl that rumbled through the chamber. It wasn''t a goblin. It wasn''t even something goblins would dare to approach. No wonder the little bastards had all cleared out. They knew what I was just realising now.


    A dragon.


    I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk, though the weight of it seemed heavier now. Dragons weren''t like goblins or trolls. You couldn''t outsmart them with simple tricks. You couldn''t outlast them, either. If this one had been slumbering here, then the sound of my hammer on the anvil had done what no scavenger or ruin-dweller had managed to do¡ªit had woken the beast. And now it was looking at me. Not just looking¡ªstudying me. Its eyes didn''t dart around the room or flicker with nervous energy. They were fixed, unblinking. Calculating.


    The dragon shifted slightly, its wings tucked tightly against its body. The scales on its shoulders caught the forge''s dim light and refracted it in faint streaks of green and blue. It lowered its head, bringing it level with mine, and I felt a sharp pressure in my chest. Not fear¡ªthough there was plenty of that¡ªbut something heavier. A weight that came with the realisation that I wasn''t the only ancient thing in this hall. The forge wasn''t just a dwarven relic. It was part of the dragon''s domain. I had stepped into something much older, much deeper than I''d understood.


    "Dwarf," the dragon said. Its voice was deep and rich, each word rumbling like a landslide. "It''s been some time since I heard the ring of a hammer here."


    I didn''t answer immediately. My mind raced. If it had wanted me dead, it could have taken me by now. That didn''t mean it wouldn''t try later. I lowered Skarnvalk slightly¡ªnot much, just enough to show I wasn''t going to swing first. My voice came out steady, though my throat was dry. "Didn''t mean to disturb your nap."


    "Nap," it repeated, as if tasting the word. "I''ve been listening, dwarf. Listening to the silence for so long that I thought it might never end. Then you came. The sound of iron on iron. The heat of the forge. It''s been centuries since the mountain has felt such life." It shifted again, a ripple of muscle and scale that made the chamber seem smaller. "And yet you''re no great company of dwarves. No bustling clan come to reclaim what was lost. Just you. And a human."


    I glanced back at Lisett, who was standing at the edge of the forge''s light, her staff raised slightly. She was watching, waiting, probably trying not to run. Smart. But this wasn''t her fight. It was mine.


    The dragon''s gaze turned toward the half-forged plate on the anvil. "You''ve come to build, haven''t you? To carve something out of the remnants left behind." Its head tilted slightly, like it was examining a broken tool. "What makes you think you deserve it?"


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    I frowned. "Deserve?" The word left a bitter taste in my mouth. "I don''t care about deserving. I need it. I''ve fought my way through ruins, through goblins, through¡­ things that don''t have names anymore, just to reach this forge. To take what''s here and turn it into something I can use. Something that keeps me alive. If that''s not enough, you''re welcome to try and stop me."


    The dragon made a sound¡ªa deep, vibrating rumble that might have been a laugh. "Bold. And foolish. But not without merit." Its eyes flicked back to the armour, then to Skarnvalk, and then to me. "You speak of survival. Of need. Not glory, not legacy. You don''t care about songs or statues. You''re not like the dwarves I remember."


    "No," I said. "I''m not."


    It shifted again, coiling its tail around one of the broken columns. For a moment, I thought it might spring at me, that its claws or teeth would come down and end it all before I could blink. Instead, it sighed, a great, rumbling exhalation that stirred the dust in the air.


    "You''ve roused me from a long slumber, dwarf. I don''t know whether to kill you for that or thank you." Its head dipped lower, its glowing eyes just feet from mine. "Perhaps I''ll watch. See what you can craft in this forgotten forge. See if it''s worth my time. But if you fail¡­" It left the sentence hanging, a low growl rolling through the chamber. "If you fail, you''ll feed the fire."


    With that, the dragon shifted back, its body retreating into the shadows once more. The glow of its eyes remained, watching, waiting. I let out a slow breath and lowered Skarnvalk, though my grip didn''t loosen.


    "Doran," Lisett''s voice came quietly from the edge of the forge. "Is it¡­ leaving?"


    "No," I said. "It''s watching." I turned back to the anvil, to the plate of skycinder steel I''d been working. The forge was still mine. For now. But I could feel the dragon''s gaze on my back, and I knew it wasn''t going anywhere. If I was going to prove myself¡ªif I was going to survive¡ªI''d have to finish what I''d started, and I''d have to do it knowing that every strike of the hammer was being judged by an ancient, deadly presence that wouldn''t hesitate to end me if I faltered.


    The forge''s heat burned against my face, and I raised the hammer again. "Let''s see what you think of this, then," I muttered under my breath, before bringing the hammer down and filling the chamber with the sound of steel.


    The hammer rose and fell, each blow ringing out like a deep bell tolling in the dark. The skycinder steel glowed molten on the anvil, its silver-veined surface shimmering in the forge''s heat. I leaned into the rhythm of it, the steady strike, the hiss of metal meeting the air, the rasp of the tongs as I turned the half-formed piece. The dragon''s presence in the shadows was a constant weight behind me, but I didn''t let it break my focus. If it wanted to judge, let it judge. I''d spent my life hammering steel into submission. This would be no different.


    The gauntlets came first. Articulated pieces, forged from smaller plates to give the fingers their range of motion while still providing protection. The steel cooled quickly as I worked it, the veins in the metal catching the dim light and glowing faintly even when the heat faded. I took my time with the joints, carving the edges so they''d lock cleanly into place without pinching. I couldn''t afford sloppiness. A gauntlet that caught at the wrong moment in battle could mean a broken finger or a shattered wrist. I etched subtle runes along the inner plates¡ªmarks of endurance, simple but effective, to keep the grip steady and the joints from freezing up in the cold. I flexed my hands as I shaped them, testing the weight, the balance. Each movement sent a faint, satisfying creak through the cooling metal. These weren''t gauntlets meant for show; they were weapons in their own right.


    Next came the breastplate. A single, sweeping curve of steel, broad and slightly flared at the shoulders, with a defined ridge running down the centre. The shape had to balance function with mobility¡ªbroad enough to deflect blows, narrow enough not to hinder movement. I hammered out the curve carefully, letting the steel find its own flow under the heat. As I worked, the forge''s light danced across the surface, bringing out the silver veins that seemed to pulse with life. The runes here were small, tucked into the edges where they wouldn''t be seen but could be felt. One to spread the force of a blow across the plate, another to keep the steel from warping under repeated strikes. Practical, quiet magic¡ªnothing flashy, nothing to draw attention. Just enough to keep me alive a little longer.


    The shoulder plates followed¡ªbroad, curved pieces that would lock into the upper edges of the breastplate. They had to move smoothly with my arms, turning without catching, rising and falling as I lifted Skarnvalk or braced against an attack. I shaped them to taper slightly toward the back, giving them a natural flow. The edges were reinforced with a thicker lip of steel, folded and hammered until they could take a glancing blow without curling. Each one bore a simple rune of deflection along its inner curve, a quiet charm to help guide blades away rather than straight in.


    The gorget for my neck was a smaller piece but just as critical. Too tight, and it would choke me when I turned my head. Too loose, and a blade might slip under it. I cut the steel carefully, bending it in a shallow curve that would sit comfortably over my collarbones and rise just high enough to protect my throat. I added an engraved line of runes along the inside edge, subtle patterns meant to keep the metal from biting into my skin. As I held the finished piece up to the light, the dragon shifted in the shadows, its glowing eyes narrowing. I didn''t turn to meet its gaze. Instead, I placed the gorget with the other completed pieces and reached for the next piece of skycinder steel.


    The shin and knee guards came last. I forged them from slightly thicker stock, knowing the lower legs were more likely to take direct hits¡ªkicks, glancing blows from swords, even the occasional strike from a well-placed arrow. The shin guards had a pronounced ridge down the centre, a reinforcement that would guide strikes away rather than absorb them head-on. The knee guards were made to overlap, hinged with small rivets so they''d move with me as I bent or knelt. I tested them constantly, crouching and rising, adjusting the curve until they felt natural. The runes here were simple protections: one to lessen impact, another to keep the joints flexible. When I was done, they gleamed faintly in the dim light, a muted silver sheen over deep, textured steel.


    By the time I finished, my arms felt like lead and my shoulders ached from the constant hammering. I straightened slowly, stretching out the muscles in my back. The forge''s glow was dimming, the firebank low after hours of work. The pieces lay spread out before me: the articulated gauntlets, the broad breastplate, the curved shoulder plates, the tight-fitting gorget, and the reinforced shin and knee guards. It wasn''t a full suit, but it didn''t need to be. It was enough to protect the vitals, enough to let me move freely and strike hard. It was armor that wouldn''t slow me down.


    I took a step back, looking over the set. My eyes lingered on the runes etched into the steel¡ªsmall, practical, and unassuming. They wouldn''t glow like torchlight or hum with magic, but they''d hold. They''d do the job they were meant to do, just like the dwarf who''d made them.


    Behind me, the dragon''s voice rumbled softly from the shadows. "Impressive," it said, and I could hear a hint of amusement in its tone. "You forge like one who''s seen death up close."


    I turned, my breathing steady despite the weight in my chest. "You don''t make things pretty when you''ve got death breathing down your neck," I said. "You make them work."


    The dragon''s glowing eyes narrowed, and it tilted its head. "And will they work, dwarf?"


    I set Skarnvalk''s haft against the ground and rested both hands on it, meeting the dragon''s gaze. "They''ll work. Because if they don''t, I won''t be around to try again."

 Chapter 16

    As I stood there, the freshly forged armour gleaming faintly in the firelight, I could feel the dragon''s gaze bearing down on me like the weight of the mountain itself. The glowing eyes shifted slightly, narrowing, and I caught a low, rumbling sound that was almost too deep to be a laugh.


    "This forge has been silent for a long time," the dragon said, its voice curling through the chamber like smoke. "And now, here you are. Hammering away, shaping steel, breathing life back into these walls. I never thought I''d see it again."


    "I didn''t come here to entertain you," I said, leaning Skarnvalk against the anvil. My voice was steady, but I could still feel the tension in my shoulders, the way my muscles hadn''t quite relaxed since I''d seen it stir from the shadows. "This place might mean something to you. To me, it''s just a forge. A means to an end."


    "Perhaps," it said, its massive head shifting closer. The scales along its neck caught the forge''s faint light, rippling with greens and blues. "But not every end is yours to choose. You''ve awoken something more than a forge. This place¡­ it remembers. Just as I do."


    I didn''t like the way it said that. The dragon wasn''t just speaking about Barak-Khald. It was speaking about itself, about the centuries it had watched, waited, and dreamed. It wasn''t anger I heard in its voice, though. Not yet. It was curiosity, tempered by something sharper¡ªcaution. Maybe even a hint of admiration. The same way I might look at a particularly well-made blade and wonder about the smith who''d shaped it.


    "You''ve proven yourself a craftsman," it continued, its voice dropping to a rumble that shook the air. "And a warrior, too, if those goblins outside are any measure. But what will you do now, I wonder? Now that you have what you came for. Will you leave this place as it is, or will you bring it back to life? Will you leave behind ruin, or will you shape something greater?"


    Its words hung heavy in the air, and I knew better than to answer right away. The dragon wasn''t asking because it wanted a fight¡ªat least not yet. It was asking because it saw something in me. What exactly that was, I couldn''t be sure. But I wasn''t going to let it decide my path for me.


    Far below, Karvek trudged through the snow-laden pass, his boots crunching over frozen earth. His cloak was threadbare, the edges stiff with frost. He wasn''t sure how much longer he could push his men before they turned on him. There were only three left now¡ªhard-faced killers who''d followed him for the promise of coin and vengeance. After their failed ambush on the Path''s caravan, they had little of either. Supplies were running thin, tempers thinner. The only thing keeping them moving was the hope of finding that damned dwarf.


    "We''re close," Karvek muttered, more to himself than the others. He''d heard stories from travellers coming down from the higher passes¡ªrumours of goblins fleeing their nests, of strange lights flickering in old dwarven ruins. The kind of rumours that sounded too specific to be chance. Doran Thargrimm wasn''t just a name in the wind anymore. He was up there, somewhere, and Karvek intended to find him.


    One of his men spat into the snow. "You''ve been saying that for days. You sure we''re not just chasing ghosts?"


    "Keep your mouth shut, Torv," Karvek snapped. His voice carried the rough edge of someone who''d led men into battle and seen them die. "You think I like dragging you lot through the mountains for the fun of it? That dwarf''s up there. And when we find him, we''ll have the leverage we need."


    "And what if he kills us, same as those goblins?" Torv said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "He''s not just some blacksmith. They say he''s dangerous."


    Karvek stopped, turning to face the man. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. "Then he kills us. But if you want to turn back, you can try explaining that to the Path when they catch up to us. We''ve already made enemies of them. Our only chance is to find him first. Now shut up and move."


    The men fell silent after that, trudging on through the snow. Karvek''s mind raced as he replayed the rumors, the whispered tales of a lone dwarf carving his way through Path cells and leaving only broken steel and bloody corpses behind. He didn''t know if Doran would be an ally, an enemy, or something in between. But one thing was clear: if Karvek wanted any chance of survival, he needed to find him before anyone else did.


    Back in the forge, I ran my hand along the edge of the newly-forged breastplate, feeling the smooth curve of the steel and the faint ridges of the runes. The armor was complete, each piece fitted and ready. But it wasn''t just the dragon watching me now. It was the mountain itself, the weight of history pressing down from all sides. I could feel it in the stone walls, in the faint hum of the air around the forge. Barak-Khald wasn''t just a place¡ªit was a test. And I wasn''t sure yet if I''d passed.


    The dragon shifted again, its glowing eyes narrowing. "You carry the weight of survival like a forge master carries his hammer. It''s heavy, isn''t it?"


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    "Better than the alternative," I said, straightening. "If you''re waiting for me to crumble, you''ll be here a long time."


    It let out a low, rumbling chuckle, and I felt the stones beneath my feet tremble. "I hope so, dwarf. Because if you fail, the mountain will bury you."


    The sun had barely begun its climb over the snow-draped peaks when Doran stepped out of the ruined halls of Barak-Khald. The bite of the cold air struck him immediately, a welcome change from the heavy heat of the forge''s belly. The fresh armour¡ªskycinder steel hammered into form¡ªfelt solid on his shoulders, though the straps still needed adjusting. He stretched, rolling his arms and shoulders, and heard the faint creak of the articulated plates as they settled into place. The morning light gleamed off the breastplate''s surface, highlighting the veins of silver that ran like rivers across the dark steel. Practical, strong, but not invincible. He knew better than to think anything made him invincible.


    Lisett followed close behind, her breath visible in the chill air. She had a weary look, though she tried to hide it. The dragon emerged last, its enormous form casting a long shadow over the broken steps. It moved slowly, deliberately, its scaled body glinting faintly with hues of green and blue. The creature''s presence radiated a heat that seemed to melt the snow beneath its claws, steam rising around it like a living furnace. Its eyes scanned the surrounding mountainside, taking in the scene with a calm, predatory intelligence.


    The goblins hadn''t given up. They never did. Across the field of shattered stone and snow, dozens of them had regrouped during the night. There were more now¡ªragged warriors bearing spears tipped with black iron, shields hammered out of stolen dwarven steel. Some crouched behind makeshift barricades of ice and stone, while others stood in loose clusters, their yipping cries piercing the still air. And at the rear, hulking shapes moved slowly into position. Trolls. Two of them, their massive forms barely restrained by the ropes and prodding spears of their goblin handlers.


    Doran planted his feet and gripped Skarnvalk with both hands. The hammer felt natural, its weight balanced by years of use and the new armour''s subtle runic reinforcement. He glanced at Lisett. "Stay behind me," he said. "You see anything that doesn''t look like it wants to kill us, let me know."


    She gave a faint smile. "What, like your dragon?"


    Doran looked back at the massive beast, who seemed more interested in the gathering goblin horde than the small, pale human beside him. The dragon''s eyes narrowed, its nostrils flaring as it exhaled a puff of smoke. "It''s not my dragon," Doran muttered. "It just decided not to eat me."


    "Comforting," Lisett said, but she readied her staff anyway, her knuckles pale as she gripped it tightly.


    Doran turned his attention back to the goblins. They were fanning out, their numbers steadily increasing as more poured in from hidden tunnels and rocky crevices. The trolls hung back, their handlers barking sharp commands, prodding them toward the front lines. The goblins were bold now, watching Doran and Lisett and the dragon like they''d just found the feast they''d been waiting for.


    Let them come, Doran thought. The armour shifted with him as he raised Skarnvalk, its curved blade catching the sunlight. The runes engraved into the steel hummed faintly, not enough to glow, but enough for Doran to feel their presence. He stepped forward, planting himself in the open, and let out a sharp, wordless roar that echoed across the mountainside. The goblins froze for a heartbeat, then surged forward as one, howling like wolves let off their chains.


    Karvek crested the ridge with his three remaining men, each one looking more ragged than the last. Their faces were hollow, their breaths shallow. They''d run out of food two days ago, and the last of their water had been gone since yesterday. Frost rimmed their cloaks and beards, and Karvek''s sword felt heavier with each step.


    "Captain," one of the men rasped. "Look."


    Karvek followed the man''s pointing hand and saw the battle unfolding below. A dwarf stood in gleaming armour, swinging a massive hammer into the tide of goblins that poured toward him. Behind him, a human woman and¡ªKarvek blinked¡ªa dragon stood watching. The dragon was shifting its weight, coiling its tail as though deciding when to strike. The goblins surged, their numbers overwhelming. The dwarf didn''t fall back. He met them head-on, his hammer sending bodies flying, his armour deflecting spear thrusts and arrows. He took blows, too¡ªslashed arms, a pierced thigh where the armour didn''t quite cover. But he fought on.


    "Is that him?" one of Karvek''s men asked, awe creeping into his voice. "The dwarf we''ve been hearing about?"


    Karvek narrowed his eyes, gripping the hilt of his sword. "It must be."


    "We''re not in shape to fight," another man muttered. "Not in this condition."


    "Doesn''t mean we can''t be smart about it," Karvek said. He watched as one of the trolls lumbered forward, swinging a massive club. The dwarf rolled aside, striking the troll''s knee and sending it howling to the ground. The dragon moved then, stepping forward and opening its jaws. A roar tore through the air, followed by a torrent of fire that engulfed the goblins closest to the dwarf. The heat was palpable even from where Karvek stood. The goblins screeched and scattered, their formation breaking as flames consumed them.


    "By the gods¡­" one of Karvek''s men whispered.


    The other troll made its move, charging the dwarf with a guttural roar. This time, the dwarf''s hammer met the troll''s chest with a sickening crack, the runes flaring faintly as the impact drove the troll backward. The armor was doing its work¡ªdeflecting blows, absorbing impact¡ªbut Karvek could see the strain in the dwarf''s movements. He wasn''t invincible. He bled. He staggered. He kept fighting.


    "Captain?" one of the men prompted.


    Karvek watched a moment longer. The dwarf wasn''t retreating. The dragon was holding back again, its glowing eyes watching as the dwarf and the human woman fought on. The goblins kept coming, though their numbers were thinning. The trolls were wounded but still dangerous.


    "Get your weapons," Karvek said at last. "If we''re going to die in these mountains, we''ll do it on our feet. Fighting alongside the bastard who''s giving us a chance."


    His men hesitated, then nodded. They drew their blades, battered as they were, and followed him down the slope toward the fray.

 Chapter 17

    The battlefield was chaos. Goblin bodies lay in smoking heaps, their shrill cries fading into the icy mountain air. The dragon prowled through the carnage, its jaws snapping down on anything that moved. Each time it exhaled, a wave of searing flame swept across the ground, incinerating goblins by the dozen. The stench of burnt hair and charred flesh filled my nose, but I barely noticed it anymore. I''d been at this for too long, every muscle in my body burning, the edges of my vision growing darker with every swing.


    My armor had held so far, the skycinder steel turning blade after blade. But even the best metal couldn''t cover everything. Blood ran down my forearm from a gap between the gauntlet and my sleeve, a shallow spear wound that had caught me when I was too slow to twist away. My thigh ached from a deep cut where a goblin''s black-iron sword had slipped through a chink in the plates. The breastplate had taken a direct hit from a troll''s club and held, but the impact still left me breathless, my ribs singing in protest every time I drew air. Skarnvalk felt heavier with every swing, but I kept going, because stopping wasn''t an option.


    Lisett was doing her part, jabbing her staff into the goblins that got too close, holding them at bay just long enough for me to put them down. She wasn''t a fighter¡ªnot in the traditional sense¡ªbut she knew how to keep herself alive. A sharp jab to the throat, a quick blow to the temple. Nothing fancy, but enough to buy us a few more breaths. Her face was pale, her movements growing sluggish. I could tell she was running on fumes.


    The dragon, on the other hand, looked as though it was just getting started. Its scales gleamed in the morning light, steam rising from its body as the snow around it melted into pools. It moved with deliberate, almost languid grace, each swipe of its claws raking through goblin ranks like a farmer cutting wheat. When the trolls lumbered forward, their handlers shouting guttural commands, the dragon shifted its attention. It reared back, its chest expanding as it sucked in air, and then unleashed a torrent of fire that turned one troll into a screaming, blackened skeleton in seconds. The other troll roared in defiance, charging the beast with its massive club. The dragon met it head-on, its jaws snapping down on the troll''s arm, tearing it clean off. The troll fell to its knees, and the dragon crushed its head with a single, brutal bite.


    Despite the dragon''s ferocity, the goblins kept coming. They knew no fear, or maybe they simply didn''t care. They swarmed around me in a tide of shrieking bodies, their weapons flashing in the sunlight. I was drowning in them. A spear jabbed at my side, glancing off the breastplate, but the force of it made me stumble. I swung Skarnvalk in a wide arc, the hammer''s curved blade catching a goblin in the neck and sending it spinning away, blood spraying from the wound. Another came at me from the right, and I drove the hammer''s haft into its gut, doubling it over before crushing its skull with a downward blow. My chest heaved, every breath coming harder than the last.


    And then, through the din of battle, I heard it¡ªa shout. Not a goblin''s screech or a troll''s roar. A human voice, strong and clear. I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw them.


    Four figures, staggering down the slope toward us. One in the lead, a battered sword in hand, his face drawn and gaunt but his posture resolute. Behind him, three others followed, their weapons dull, their armor in tatters. They looked half-dead, their movements slow and unsteady, but their eyes burned with grim determination. They weren''t running away. They were running toward the fight.


    Karvek.


    I didn''t know his name yet, but I knew what he was. Another survivor. A man who had been through hell and come out the other side, barely breathing but still standing. I could see it in the way he carried himself, in the way he held his sword. This wasn''t a hero''s charge. It was desperation. The last, mad swing of someone who had nothing left to lose.


    The dragon saw them too. Its eyes flicked to the newcomers, its nostrils flaring. For a moment, I thought it might attack them, but it didn''t. Instead, it turned its attention back to the goblins, as if acknowledging that this fight belonged to all of us now.


    Karvek and his men reached the fray, throwing themselves into the melee with reckless abandon. The first goblin that came at Karvek was cut down with a single, brutal swing. Another leapt at him, and he drove his shoulder into it, sending it sprawling before plunging his blade into its chest. His men were no less fierce, hacking and stabbing with everything they had left. They didn''t fight like soldiers. They fought like men who knew they were already dead but refused to lie down.


    The sight of them reinvigorated me, though I wouldn''t have admitted it. I clenched my teeth, raised Skarnvalk, and threw myself back into the fight. The hammer''s runes flickered faintly as I brought it down on a goblin''s skull, the curved blade slicing through flesh and bone. Another swing, another goblin down. My arms screamed in protest, but I ignored them. This was the moment that mattered.


    The tide turned slowly, then all at once. The goblins'' numbers dwindled, their formation breaking apart as the dragon tore through their ranks. When the last troll fell¡ªits neck snapped by the dragon''s jaws¡ªthe remaining goblins faltered. The few that didn''t run were cut down, their bodies joining the growing pile of the dead.


    When the dust finally settled, the battlefield was silent except for the ragged breathing of the survivors. Karvek leaned on his sword, his shoulders rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. His men stood around him, their weapons slick with black goblin blood. Lisett sank to her knees, her staff still clutched in one hand. The dragon stood in the center of it all, its head held high, smoke curling from its nostrils. It was bloodied, its scales marked with cuts and burns, but its eyes were sharp, almost triumphant.


    I dropped Skarnvalk to the ground and straightened, wincing as my ribs protested the movement. My armor had held, but I hadn''t come through unscathed. I limped toward Karvek, sizing him up as he wiped the blood from his blade. When our eyes met, he nodded faintly, the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.


    "Not bad," he said, his voice hoarse. "For a dwarf."


    "Not bad yourself," I replied, though the words came grudgingly. I didn''t know who he was yet, or what he wanted, but in that moment, we were just two warriors who''d survived the impossible.


    The dragon shifted behind me, its massive body settling into the snow with a deep rumble. I could feel its presence like a storm cloud at my back. This wasn''t over. Not by a long shot. But for now, the field was ours.


    The blood hadn''t even dried on the snow when Lisett set about her work. Her hands moved quickly, pulling linen wraps and small vials from her pack. She muttered to herself as she went, counting out supplies, glancing at the wounded men, and then starting with the most critical. Karvek''s companions were slumped against the cold stone of Barak-Khald''s outer wall, their faces pale, their breaths shallow. One of them held a makeshift bandage over a gash in his side, the fabric already dark with blood. Another had an arm that dangled unnaturally, the bone clearly shattered under the weight of a troll''s club. The third stared blankly ahead, his helmet split open, his scalp a red mess beneath.


    Lisett crouched beside the one with the broken arm, her fingers brushing his brow. "You''re not going to die from this," she said sharply, as though willing it to be true. Her voice had no warmth, only the cold efficiency of someone who''d done this far too many times. She pulled a small knife from her belt and began cutting away the ruined sleeve of his tunic. The man winced, muttering something unintelligible, but she paid him no mind. "Hold still. This is going to hurt."


    Doran leaned Skarnvalk against a broken pillar and sank down to the ground nearby, his back against the wall. His new armor was streaked with blood¡ªmost of it goblin, though not all. The plates had held up better than he could have hoped, but his ribs still ached from where a spear had struck just under the breastplate''s edge. He touched the spot gingerly, wincing as his fingers came away red. Nothing fatal, but it would slow him down.


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    He glanced at Karvek, who was sitting a few feet away, hunched over and clutching his sword. The blade was a mess¡ªnicked and bent from the battle, the edge dull and useless. Karvek''s knuckles were raw, his face pale under the grime. He''d fought like a man possessed, hacking through goblins with a desperation that had almost matched Doran''s own fury. Now he looked more like a man who''d barely survived, his breaths labored, his shoulders slumping.


    Lisett moved on to him next. She grabbed his arm without a word and began wiping away the blood, checking for deeper wounds. "This one''s worse," she muttered, glancing at Doran. "He''s got cracked ribs, a gash in his thigh, and he''s lucky he didn''t lose that hand. You going to sit there or help me hold him still?"


    Doran grunted, pushing himself to his feet. He stepped over to Karvek and placed a steadying hand on the man''s shoulder. "Keep still," he said.


    Karvek''s head lolled back, and his eyes met Doran''s. For a moment, they stared at each other. Neither spoke, but there was an unspoken understanding in that gaze¡ªan acknowledgment of shared suffering, of battles fought and won by the skin of their teeth. Karvek gave a weak nod, and Doran returned it.


    As Lisett worked, Doran let his mind drift to the forge inside Barak-Khald. He''d barely finished his armor before the goblins regrouped, and he hadn''t had time to think about anything else. Now, with the battle over and the dead scattered across the field, his thoughts turned to the weapons they''d used¡ªthe swords, the spears, the axes. Karvek''s sword in particular stood out. It was garbage now, bent nearly in half, the hilt wrapped in what looked like strips of old canvas. The thing wouldn''t last another swing.


    He considered his supplies. He had skycinder steel left¡ªenough for a new blade if he stretched it. There were also the weapons he''d salvaged from the goblins. Most of it was junk, rusted iron and brittle steel, but there were a few pieces that could be reforged. A goblin cleaver, its edge chipped but the core metal still sound. A dwarven axe that had been taken and ruined, its head dull and covered in nicks, but with a sturdy haft that could be repurposed. And in the ruins, there were still scraps of dwarven metal left behind¡ªsmall ingots tucked away in forgotten corners, waiting for a smith who knew what to look for.


    As Lisett tied off Karvek''s bandages, Doran tapped the man''s shoulder again. "You going to live?"


    Karvek gave a grim smile, his teeth bloodstained. "As long as they don''t come back for another round."


    "They won''t," Doran said. "Not after that." He gestured at the dragon, which was perched on a rocky ledge above them, its claws digging into the stone. The beast was watching them still, its eyes half-lidded, smoke curling from its nostrils. It had taken hits, too¡ªits scales were scorched and cracked in places, its wings dotted with arrow shafts. But it hadn''t fallen. Not even close.


    "Your sword''s a piece of shit," Doran said bluntly, looking back at Karvek. "Can''t have you fighting with that if we''re going to survive the next fight."


    Karvek raised an eyebrow. "And what, you''re going to hand me a new one out of thin air?"


    Doran snorted. "No. But there''s a forge inside, and I''ve got metal. You''ll have a blade by morning. Better than the one you walked in here with."


    Karvek''s expression shifted, skepticism giving way to something that almost looked like gratitude. He nodded slowly. "If you can make me a blade that doesn''t snap in two the first time I swing it, I''ll owe you."


    Doran didn''t reply. He was already thinking of the steel he''d use, the shape of the blade, the runes he''d carve into it. This wasn''t about making Karvek feel indebted. It was about surviving the next fight, because there would be another fight. There always was.


    Lisett grumbled under her breath as she worked, tearing off strips of cloth and pressing them firmly against my side. Her fingers, despite being steady, carried a roughness to them that said she''d done this before¡ªmore times than she wanted to remember. The sting of some concoction she poured on my wounds made me hiss, but I kept still, letting her do her job.


    "Bloody dwarf," she muttered. "You''re lucky you''ve got that thick hide of yours. Half these gashes would have gutted someone else."


    I gave her a faint grin, though it felt more like a grimace. "It''s the armor. Good steel keeps the worst of it out."


    "Not all of it," she shot back, wrapping a bandage around my ribs. "Try not to burst these stitches the second I''m done with them."


    "I''ll do my best," I said, wincing as she pulled the cloth tight. "But no promises."


    She finished securing the bandage and leaned back, brushing her hands off on her tunic. "There. You''ll live. Not that you deserve it, mind."


    I chuckled, though it turned into a cough halfway through. "You''re all heart, Lisett."


    "Don''t push your luck." She grabbed her bag and moved on to one of Karvek''s men, who was still clutching his side like he thought his guts might spill out at any moment.


    As she tended to the others, I flexed my fingers and tested my shoulder. The armor had done its job, but I''d been too slow in a few places. That goblin spear had caught me just right under the arm, and my side felt like it had been stomped on by a troll. Nothing I couldn''t work through, though. I''d had worse.


    Karvek was sitting nearby, his sword resting across his knees. The thing was in sorry shape, its edge so jagged it looked more like a saw than a blade. He glanced up at me as I stood, his expression half-curious, half-skeptical.


    "You really planning to make me a new blade?" he asked, his voice low and rough.


    "Something better than that piece of scrap," I replied. I looked down at his sword and shook my head. "If it''s going to keep you alive, it needs to hold an edge. Needs to last."


    Karvek smirked faintly, his beard twitching. "I''ll believe it when I see it."


    "Then watch closely," I said, turning toward the forge. "I''ve got enough steel left, and the fire''s still hot. By the time you''ve had a proper rest, you''ll have a sword worth swinging."


    Behind me, Lisett''s voice rose sharply. "You''re joking, right? You can barely stand."


    I glanced over my shoulder. She had her hands on her hips now, her expression a mix of irritation and genuine concern. "I''ve stitched you up, but you''re in no shape to work a forge."


    "I''ve worked worse off," I said. "I''ll be fine."


    "Doran¡ª"


    "I''m fine, Lisett," I said, my tone firm enough to cut her off. "A sword doesn''t make itself. And if we run into another fight without it, someone''s going to die."


    She threw her hands up in exasperation. "If you keel over at the anvil, don''t expect me to patch you up again."


    I didn''t bother replying. I''d said my piece, and she knew better than to waste her breath on someone as stubborn as me.


    I sat before the forge, the firelight reflecting off the blackened walls of Barak-Khald. The anvil waited, its surface still warm from my last work. I laid out the materials: the remains of Karvek''s sword, a bar of skycinder steel, and a few scraps of dwarven iron I''d scavenged from the ruins. The goblin cleaver I''d picked up earlier rested nearby, its edge chipped and dull, but the core metal was strong enough to be reforged.


    I stared at the pile of steel for a long moment, letting the weight of the task settle over me. This sword wasn''t going to be just another blade. It needed to be something that fit Karvek¡ªsomething balanced, reliable, and lethal. But it also needed to be more than that. A warrior''s weapon. Not flashy or ostentatious, but a piece of steel that spoke to the man who wielded it. It needed to last through battles, through blood and fire, through the kind of fights that left lesser blades in pieces.


    I picked up the skycinder steel and laid it on the anvil. The veins of silver running through it caught the forge''s glow, and I could almost feel the metal humming under my fingertips. It was a material that demanded respect. I''d worked it before and knew its quirks¡ªhow it cooled faster than normal steel, how it needed just the right heat to stay pliable. I struck the bar once, then twice, the hammer''s blows ringing out through the chamber. I felt the familiar rhythm settle into my arms, the way the steel bent and stretched under the weight of the hammer.


    The sword I envisioned was simple in form: a broad, slightly curved blade with a strong, reinforced spine. The edge would be razor-sharp, but not brittle¡ªsomething that could cut through armor without chipping. The hilt would be sturdy, wrapped in leather for a solid grip, and the guard would be a simple crosspiece of polished iron. I''d carve a single rune into the base of the blade, near the hilt¡ªnothing flashy, just a subtle mark of durability, a charm that would help the steel resist corrosion and wear. Practical magic, not the kind that glowed or shone like a beacon, but the kind you felt in the heft of the blade when you swung it.


    I worked steadily, the hours blending together. The hammer''s rhythm never wavered, the sound filling the chamber as I shaped the steel. The dragon was still somewhere in the ruins, its presence a quiet reminder that I wasn''t alone, though it kept to the shadows for now. Lisett muttered occasionally, glancing my way as if expecting me to collapse, but I didn''t give her the satisfaction.


    By the time I was done, the sword was everything I''d imagined. A weapon of pure function¡ªbalanced, deadly, and built to last. I held it up to the forge''s light, the faint rune near the base catching a hint of the glow. It wasn''t a showpiece. It wasn''t meant to draw attention. But it was a blade that would cut cleanly, strike true, and hold its edge through hell and back.


    Karvek would have no excuses now. If he died with this in his hand, it wouldn''t be because the blade had failed him. It would be because the man holding it wasn''t worthy. And as I set the finished sword on the anvil to cool, I couldn''t help but smirk. I''d made sure that wouldn''t be the case.

 Chapter 18

    As the sword cooled on the anvil, I leaned back on my stool and rubbed my forearms. The muscles burned from hours of hammering and shaping, and the skin under my gauntlets stung where Lisett had stitched me up. She''d done good work, as usual, though I wasn''t about to admit it to her face. The ache in my ribs reminded me of what she''d said: Rest before you fall apart.


    But rest didn''t come easy. Not for me. My hands still itched for something to do, some piece of metal to shape or a tool to sharpen. Instead, I stayed seated, letting the dull throb of my wounds and the heat of the forge lull me into something close to stillness.


    Lisett was off in the corner, fussing over her supplies. Her pack was open, bandages and vials laid out in neat rows. She worked methodically, the way a smith sets his tools in order before a long day at the anvil. I watched her for a moment, noting the way her fingers moved, the precision in every motion. She didn''t waste a single movement. It reminded me of the old forge master back home, the way he''d plan every strike before his hammer ever touched the steel. Seeing her now, I realized she wasn''t just a healer. She was a craftsman in her own way.


    Karvek was sitting near the entrance, the sword I''d forged propped against his knee. He hadn''t said much since I handed it over, but his eyes kept straying to the blade. I caught the faint gleam of admiration in his gaze¡ªsubtle, but it was there. He turned it over slowly, letting the firelight play across the steel. The weapon wasn''t flashy, but it had a presence. You could feel it just looking at it. He tested the balance, holding it lightly in his hand, and nodded to himself.


    "Not bad," he said finally.


    "Better than that bent scrap you were carrying," I replied, though my voice lacked the usual edge. I was too tired to needle him, and he looked just as worn out as I felt.


    He glanced up at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I''ve seen masterwork swords that didn''t feel half this good in the hand."


    "High praise from a man who''s clearly got no taste."


    Karvek chuckled, shaking his head. He set the sword down carefully beside him, then leaned back against the cold stone wall. "You''re an interesting one, Doran. I''ve heard plenty of stories about you, but none of them quite match the man in front of me."


    "Most stories are shite," I said. "They get bigger and dumber every time someone tells ''em."


    "Maybe. But there''s truth in them, too. You''ve done things no one else could¡ªor would. That much is clear." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the forge. "And you''re still alive. That counts for a lot in my book."


    I grunted, not quite sure how to respond. It wasn''t often I heard something like that from anyone, much less a man who looked like he''d rather spit than offer a compliment. I busied myself with cleaning the tools, wiping down the hammer and setting the tongs back in their place. The routine helped settle my mind, kept me from dwelling on things I didn''t have words for.


    Lisett finally spoke up, her voice cutting through the quiet. "You''re both idiots."


    We both turned to look at her. She was wrapping a bandage around her own hand now, her expression set in a scowl. "Doran, you''re half-dead, and instead of resting, you push yourself to make a sword for someone you just met. And Karvek¡ª" she jabbed a finger in his direction "¡ªyou''re sitting there admiring your shiny new toy when you should be eating, drinking, or sleeping. None of you have a lick of sense."


    Karvek raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "And what about you? You''ve been working nonstop since we got here."


    "I''m not the one who gets into the middle of every damn fight," she shot back. "You two act like you''re made of iron. I''m the one who has to put you back together when you''re proven wrong."


    I chuckled despite myself. "Someone''s got to do it."


    She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath. "I''m surrounded by lunatics."


    Karvek and I exchanged a glance. For a moment, there was no rivalry, no suspicion¡ªjust a shared recognition that Lisett, for all her complaints, was the only reason either of us was still breathing. I nodded toward her. "She''s not wrong. You should get some rest."


    Karvek sighed, stretching out his legs. "I suppose you''re right. But that sword¡ª" he tapped the blade with a calloused finger "¡ªmakes me feel like I can keep going. Like maybe we''ll make it through the next fight."


    "You better," I said. "I didn''t put that much work into it just so you could keel over in the first scrap."


    He chuckled, shaking his head again. "Fair enough."


    We settled into silence after that. Lisett continued her work, Karvek leaned back with his eyes half-closed, and I sat quietly at the forge, staring into the embers. The dragon''s shadow loomed faintly at the edge of the chamber, watching, waiting. For what, I couldn''t say. But for now, there was a rare moment of peace¡ªjust the sound of the fire, the clink of tools being set down, and the slow, steady rhythm of our breathing.


    The fire in the forge crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of iron and smoke, a scent that clung to my skin, my clothes, and even the wounds Lisett had patched up. Karvek leaned against a cracked pillar, the sword I''d forged resting across his lap. Lisett sat cross-legged on the ground, her back to the forge, rolling a small bandage between her fingers as she watched us with a faint smirk.


    "You know," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet, "if someone had told me I''d end up sitting in a half-ruined forge, patching up a half-dead dwarf and a half-starved human while a dragon sleeps upstairs, I''d have called them insane."


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    Karvek chuckled, a low, dry sound. "And yet, here we are."


    "Here we are," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. The ache in my ribs was duller now, but it was still there, a reminder of how close I''d come to eating steel earlier. "Not how I planned it, either."


    Karvek ran a hand over the flat of his blade, his fingers tracing the runes I''d etched into the steel. "So, what''s next, then?" he asked, not looking up. "We''ve got a forge, we''ve got weapons. What''s the plan?"


    I shrugged, though the motion pulled at my stitches. "Same as before. Keep moving, keep fighting. The Path''s not going to stop because we''ve holed up here for a night."


    "And if they come looking for us?" Lisett asked, her tone sharp. "If they find us before we find them?"


    "They won''t." My voice was firm, though I wasn''t sure I believed it. "Not here. They''ve got no reason to come sniffing around Barak-Khald."


    "Unless they do," Karvek said, his eyes finally meeting mine. "They''re not stupid, Doran. They''ll hear about what happened to their cells, what you''ve been doing. They''ll send someone. And when they do, this little hideaway of yours won''t hold."


    I didn''t answer right away. He wasn''t wrong. The Path wasn''t made up of simple raiders and fools. They had ruin masters, tacticians, people who could track us down if they wanted to. I could already see it¡ªanother battle, another tide of enemies swarming the forge. Even with the dragon''s help, there was only so much we could hold off.


    "Then we move before they find us," I said finally, my voice low. "We rest, we rearm, and then we go."


    Lisett snorted. "Rest, huh? You might actually listen to your own advice for once."


    "I''m sitting, aren''t I?"


    She raised an eyebrow. "You''re sitting because you can''t stand."


    I grunted, leaning back against the wall and closing my eyes. The warmth from the forge washed over me, soothing the worst of the aches. For a moment, I let myself believe it might be enough. That maybe, just maybe, we could catch our breath before the next storm hit.


    "Alright, dwarf," Karvek said, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "You''ve got a forge. You''ve got your armor. You''ve got me, apparently." He smirked, his expression as dry as the mountain air. "What''s the big plan?"


    "Big plan?" I opened one eye and glanced at him. "You think I''ve got a big plan?"


    He shrugged. "Most people don''t keep carving a path through the Path unless they''ve got a reason. You''ve got a reason, don''t you?"


    I didn''t answer right away. The truth was, I wasn''t entirely sure what my reason was anymore. Revenge? Survival? Maybe it was just that I couldn''t stop. The hammer always had to come down again, the next weapon always needed forging. Maybe that was my reason. Or maybe it was something I didn''t want to admit.


    "Big plan or not," I said after a moment, "the Path needs to be stopped. They keep tearing through villages, taking what they want, killing whoever gets in their way. Someone has to stand in their way."


    "And that someone''s you?" Karvek asked, his tone light but his gaze steady.


    I met his eyes. "That someone''s us."


    He nodded slowly, as if weighing my words. Then he leaned back against the pillar, his fingers still tracing the runes on his sword. Lisett said nothing, just watched us both with that faint, knowing smile of hers. The fire crackled on, and for a little while, the silence felt almost comfortable. Almost.


    As the fire burned low, casting long shadows against the stone walls, I rolled the strap of my pack tighter and cinched it shut. The forge had served its purpose¡ªmy armor held, and Karvek had a proper blade again¡ªbut I knew we couldn''t stay. The Path wouldn''t ignore what I''d done. Every cell I''d crushed was a step closer to them noticing. If we lingered, they''d send something worse than goblins or trolls. They''d send ruin masters, tacticians, killers who wouldn''t stop until the halls of Barak-Khald were silent once more.


    Lisett finished cleaning her supplies, her hands methodical and quick. She glanced up at me, her brow furrowed. "You''re planning to leave."


    I nodded. "No reason to stick around. We''ve got what we came for."


    "You came for the forge," she said, gesturing to the glowing coals behind me. "You said you needed it to survive. And now you''re just going to leave it behind?"


    "What do you expect me to do? Carry it on my back?" My voice came out harsher than I meant. The aches from the battle were still fresh, and I wasn''t in the mood for a debate. "It''s not like the forge is going anywhere. If I need it again, I know where it is. But staying here? That''s a death sentence."


    Karvek, still seated on a chunk of fallen stone, ran a whetstone along the edge of his new sword. His movements were slow, deliberate, his expression thoughtful. "The Path''s not coming for the forge," he said. "They''re coming for you."


    I shot him a sharp look. "What do you know about what they''re coming for?"


    "I''ve seen it," he said, his voice calm. He turned the sword in his hands, inspecting the edge before looking back at me. "That caravan my men and I ambushed¡ªit wasn''t just supplies. They were moving something. Something important. We never saw what was in the chest, not fully, but the way they guarded it¡­ it wasn''t ordinary."


    "Maybe they''re just paranoid," I said, though the words felt hollow even as they left my mouth. I''d heard enough about the Path''s operations to know they weren''t careless. If they''d guarded that chest with their lives, it meant something.


    Karvek shrugged. "Maybe. But I''ve been a mercenary long enough to know when someone''s moving gold and when they''re moving something dangerous. Whatever was in that chest, it wasn''t meant for trading. It was meant for war."


    Lisett looked between the two of us, her gaze sharp. "And you think chasing after them is going to help us?"


    "It''s not about chasing them," I said. "It''s about cutting them off. The Path''s been growing stronger, spreading into places they don''t belong. If we don''t stop them, no one will."


    Karvek snorted, though there was no humor in it. "You think this small group can take them on?"


    "Maybe not all at once," I admitted. "But we''ve hurt them. They''ll be looking over their shoulders now. That''s a start."


    The dragon stirred in the shadows, a low rumble shaking the air. Its massive form moved closer, its glowing eyes narrowing as it regarded us. "You speak of war," it said, its voice deep and resonant. "Do you truly believe you can stop them?"


    I met its gaze, though the weight of it pressed against me like a heavy smith''s hammer. "If we don''t try, who will?"


    The dragon''s nostrils flared, a puff of smoke escaping as it exhaled slowly. "You have courage, dwarf. But courage alone is not enough. I will not leave this place. I have slept long, and I have no desire to wander the world again. But if you return here, if you survive, I may consider lending my fire once more."


    I inclined my head slightly¡ªa small show of respect, though I wasn''t entirely sure how much I trusted the creature. "Fair enough."


    "And your men?" Lisett asked Karvek. "Do they want to keep fighting?"


    Karvek glanced toward his remaining companions. They sat slumped near the forge''s edge, their faces hollowed by exhaustion and loss. "They''ve been through hell," he said quietly. "We all have. But I think they know as well as I do that there''s no running from this. The Path''s not just going to forget about us because we tried and failed. If we''re going to survive, we have to keep fighting."


    "They have to want it," Lisett pressed. "Not because you say so, but because they believe it."


    Karvek gave a faint nod. "I''ll talk to them. I''ll make sure they''re in it for the right reasons."


    Lisett let out a small huff. "Good. Because we can''t carry dead weight."


    I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of my pack. "We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we move. The Path doesn''t wait, and neither do we."


    No one argued. The fire continued to crackle, the dragon''s shadow stretched long against the walls, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to hope that maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªwe were ready for what came next.

 Chapter 19

    The next morning, we shouldered our packs and made our way out of Barak-Khald. The chill of the mountain air bit at my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the forge''s embrace. The dragon hadn''t stirred as we''d prepared to leave, only watched from its perch in the shadows. Its glowing eyes followed us to the exit, but it made no sound, no movement. Just that low, lingering gaze. I glanced back at it one last time, my thoughts a mess of uncertainty. Part of me wanted to stay¡ªwanted to dig in and turn Barak-Khald into something more than a forgotten ruin. But that would mean relying on the dragon, and I wasn''t keen on putting my life in the claws of something I barely understood.


    "It''s not the last we''ll see of it," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than anyone else.


    Lisett gave me a sideways look. "Talking to yourself now?"


    "Just thinking," I said. "It''s not like it''s coming with us. That thing''s got its own reasons for staying put. Probably just as well."


    "I wouldn''t count on it staying put forever," she said. "Dragons don''t sit still without a reason."


    Karvek, walking a few paces ahead, grunted in agreement. "If it follows us, it''ll make its intentions clear. I''m more concerned about where we''re headed."


    He was right, of course. The Path wouldn''t be far behind us. They''d know what happened at Barak-Khald soon enough, and when they did, they''d send something worse than goblins. Something stronger, smarter. I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk''s haft, the hammer a comforting weight in my hand.


    We descended through the jagged mountain trails, the path twisting and crumbling beneath our boots. The wind howled through the peaks, carrying with it the faint echo of distant avalanches. Every step was a reminder of how far we were from safety. Karvek had mentioned a settlement at the base of the range, a place where dwarves and mountainfolk lived side by side. He claimed to know someone there¡ªa trader or a contact of some sort¡ªbut he hadn''t gone into much detail. I didn''t push. If it meant shelter and information, I''d take it.


    When we finally reached the edge of the mountains, the settlement came into view. It clung to the mountainside, its structures carved into the stone itself. The lower half of the town was more traditional¡ªwooden lodges and slate-roofed buildings, smoke curling from chimneys. But higher up, where the cliffs rose sheer and steep, the architecture changed. Massive stone pillars supported balconies that jutted out over the abyss. Bridges of black granite spanned narrow chasms, connecting towers that climbed toward the sky. The upper levels were unmistakably dwarven¡ªangular, sturdy, and ornate. Even from a distance, I could see the runes etched into the stone, their meanings lost to time but their craftsmanship evident.


    As we approached the gates, I felt the familiar weight of eyes on me. The guards, a mix of mountainfolk clad in heavy furs and dwarves in polished steel, sized us up with suspicion. I could feel the tension in their stances, the unspoken questions hanging in the air. Who were we? Why were we here? And more importantly, were we trouble?


    I stepped forward, my posture stiff but not aggressive. "We''re just passing through," I said. "Looking for a place to rest. Nothing more."


    One of the dwarven guards¡ªa broad-shouldered man with a braided beard and a shield slung across his back¡ªnarrowed his eyes. "You look like you''ve been through a war."


    "Close enough," I replied. "We''re not here to cause trouble."


    The guard glanced at Karvek, who met his gaze without flinching. Then his eyes moved to Lisett, who stood quietly at my side. Finally, he nodded. "You can enter, but keep to the lower quarter. Don''t go wandering where you''re not wanted."


    "Fair enough," I said.


    We passed through the gates, and the settlement opened up before us. The streets were bustling with activity¡ªdwarves hauling carts of ore, mountainfolk carrying bundles of firewood, traders shouting over each other in a jumble of accents. The air smelled of stone and soot, mixed with the faint aroma of smoked meat and ale. The lower quarter was noisy, alive, and unrelentingly practical. Every building had a purpose, every path a function. Above us, the upper levels loomed, quieter and more imposing. It was clear where the power lay¡ªup there, among the carved stone halls and runed archways.


    The others stayed close as we moved through the crowd. I kept my head down, trying not to draw attention. It wasn''t often I found myself among other dwarves, and the last thing I wanted was a reunion with someone who might know my past. The thought of running into an old acquaintance made my chest tighten. I didn''t have time for that kind of distraction.


    "Where are we headed?" Lisett asked.


    Karvek gestured toward a large building near the center of the lower quarter. A heavy wooden sign swung above the door, the image of a frothing mug carved into the wood. "The tavern," he said. "It''s where people talk. If there''s information to be had, that''s where we''ll find it."


    "And your contact?" I asked.


    He shrugged. "If he''s still here, we''ll know soon enough."


    The tavern was noisy and dim, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale and roasted meat. The crowd was a mix of dwarves and mountainfolk, their conversations a jumble of languages and dialects. Karvek scanned the room, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded toward a corner booth, where a man sat hunched over a tankard. He was older, his beard streaked with grey, and his clothes were simple but well-made. His eyes flicked toward us as we approached, and I saw a glint of recognition in them.


    "Karvek," the man said, his voice low and gravelly. "Didn''t think I''d see you again."


    "Neither did I," Karvek replied. "But I''m here. And I need your help."


    The man''s gaze moved to me, then to Lisett. "This your crew?"


    "Something like that."


    The man leaned back, his tankard in hand, and let out a slow breath. "Alright. Let''s hear what you need."


    The dim light of the tavern made the shadows seem deeper than they were, casting the worn wooden beams and patched tables in a haze of grey and brown. The air reeked of spilled ale, sour wine, and the faint tang of sweat soaked into the floorboards over decades. I kept my back straight and my hammer close, my fingers brushing Skarnvalk''s haft where it rested against my chair. The noise of conversation filled the room, but none of it carried any particular warmth. It wasn''t the kind of place people came to laugh. It was the kind of place they came to drink because they didn''t have anywhere better.


    Karvek''s contact leaned back in the booth, his grizzled face catching the orange glow of the firelight. He looked older than he probably was¡ªyears on the road, in the cold and the dark, had carved lines into his skin like a smith''s chisel on steel. His hand rested on the table, fingers brushing the rim of his tankard, but his eyes were sharp. Not the dulled, bored look of someone who''d been drinking too long, but the focused gaze of a man always aware of his surroundings.


    "So," the contact said, his voice a low rumble, "what''s brought you back into my life, Karvek?"


    Karvek didn''t waste time. "The Path. We hit one of their caravans a while back. Got hit harder in return. Now we need information¡ªanything that can help us get ahead of them. You still have your ears to the ground?"


    The older man chuckled, though it was a sound without humor. "I hear things, sure. Doesn''t mean I like what I hear. The Path''s been moving fast, pulling more resources into the mountains. Word is they''ve taken over a mine on the eastern slopes¡ªusing it as a staging ground. Supplies, weapons, maybe worse."


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    "And the chest?" I asked, cutting in. "Karvek said they were transporting something. Something important. Any idea what that might be?"


    The man''s gaze flicked to me, his lips tightening for a moment before he shrugged. "I''ve heard whispers. People talk about artifacts, ancient things pulled from ruins older than even these walls. Could be a weapon, could be something else entirely. Whatever it is, they''re willing to spill a lot of blood to keep it under wraps."


    The words settled heavily between us. Lisett leaned forward, her hands clasped in front of her. "And the mine? What''s it called?"


    "Brugath''s Hollow," the man said. "Used to be a dwarven mine. Long abandoned, though¡ªcollapsed in on itself a few decades ago. Now the Path''s got their claws in it. Reopened some of the old tunnels, brought in workers, but it''s not just ore they''re pulling out of the ground."


    "What then?" Karvek pressed.


    The man hesitated, his fingers tightening around the tankard. "I don''t know. Just heard it''s¡­ unnatural. Whatever they''re digging for, it''s not gold or iron. And if the Path''s involved, you can bet it''s not good."


    We left the tavern shortly after, the contact''s words still ringing in my ears. Brugath''s Hollow. An old mine turned into a fortress of sorts. It wasn''t much of a lead, but it was more than we had before. If the Path was staging out of there, it meant a concentration of resources. Supplies, weapons, maybe even answers. But it also meant danger. If they were holding something important, they''d have it heavily guarded. We''d be walking into another fight, one that might be worse than anything we''d seen so far.


    As we stepped out into the cold night air, I found myself glancing up at the higher levels of the settlement. The carved stone towers loomed above us, their runes faintly glimmering in the moonlight. Dwarves still worked up there, I knew. Stonecutters, smiths, the kind of craftsmen who kept the settlement alive. My own kin, though I felt no kinship. The thought of speaking to them, of asking for their help, turned my stomach. I''d left that life behind for a reason.


    "Something on your mind?" Lisett asked, her voice cutting through my thoughts.


    "Just wondering if they''d even remember me up there," I said, nodding toward the dwarven levels.


    "Would it matter if they did?"


    I didn''t answer. I wasn''t sure if I had an answer.


    Karvek, walking ahead of us, slowed his pace. He glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. "We need supplies. If we''re going to Brugath''s Hollow, we''ll need more than what we''ve got."


    "And where do you suggest we get them?" I asked. "Not like we''re welcome everywhere."


    "I know a trader," Karvek said. "Not far from here. She''s cautious, but if we play it right, we can get what we need without too many questions. Might cost more than we''d like, though."


    "Better than walking into a fight empty-handed," Lisett said. "What''s the alternative?"


    "There''s always the dwarves," Karvek said, his tone pointed. "They might not welcome you with open arms, but they might have what we need. Could be worth asking."


    I clenched my jaw, my gaze fixed on the darkened path ahead. The thought of walking into a dwarven hall, of facing that kind of scrutiny, made my skin crawl. But he was right. If it came to survival, I''d swallow my pride. I always had.


    The decision weighed heavily on me as we made our way toward the lower quarter''s edges, where the trader Karvek mentioned kept her shop. The air grew colder, the streets quieter. The settlement seemed to settle into a restless slumber, though I knew it never truly slept. There were always eyes watching, always whispers in the dark.


    And as we walked, I couldn''t shake the thought of Brugath''s Hollow. What would we find there? More blood, more death, more questions without answers. But we had no choice. The Path was growing stronger. If we didn''t push back now, it would be too late.


    We huddled around a low-burning brazier in the corner of the market square. The sun hadn''t yet risen, but the settlement was already stirring. Merchants shuffled out of their lodges, hauling crates of iron and timber, stacking them by the makeshift stalls. A few dwarves sat on the stone steps, gnawing at strips of dried meat, while others quietly argued over the day''s workload. The mood here was practical, if not particularly friendly.


    Karvek stood a few paces away, speaking quietly with one of his men. The three who''d survived the ambush were a hard lot, but they were clearly hanging by a thread. Their clothes were torn, their boots patched and re-patched until it was a miracle they still held together. One of them¡ªthe wiry, pale one¡ªclutched his coat tighter around himself, shivering despite the brazier''s heat. Another, broader and older, leaned heavily on a spear that had seen better days. None of them looked like they had more than a few coppers to rub together.


    "Are they going to make it?" Lisett asked quietly beside me. She had her hood pulled up, her face shadowed but her sharp eyes fixed on Karvek''s group. "They''re half-starved and running on fumes."


    "They''re tough," I said, though my tone wasn''t as certain as I would''ve liked. "Tough enough to keep going. And if they''re not, they can rest when we reach Brugath''s Hollow. No point in babying them now."


    She gave me a sidelong glance, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You''re heartless, you know that?"


    "I''m realistic." I reached down and adjusted my pack, feeling the weight of the tools and supplies inside. I''d scavenged most of what I could from the goblins at Barak-Khald¡ªsmall scraps of iron, a few usable rivets, a handful of dull blades I might repurpose later. Not much, but enough to keep me busy if I needed to work the metal into something useful.


    Lisett wasn''t wrong about Karvek''s men. They didn''t look like they had the strength to keep marching, let alone fight. But we didn''t have the luxury of waiting. If we stopped too long, the Path would find us, and it wouldn''t matter how well-fed or rested we were. This wasn''t about comfort. It was about staying one step ahead.


    Karvek returned, his expression grim. "We need to hit the trader now. Can''t risk waiting too long."


    "Your men have anything to trade?" I asked, gesturing toward the three huddled figures. "Doesn''t look like they''re carrying much."


    Karvek shook his head. "We''ve got a few coins between us, enough to pick up the bare essentials. Weapons, maybe a little food. But if we''re buying from Hryna, we''ll need more."


    "Hryna?" Lisett tilted her head. "You trust her?"


    "Trust isn''t the word I''d use," Karvek said. "She''s careful. Keeps her business quiet, doesn''t ask questions. But she won''t give us anything for free. If we don''t have the coin, she''ll turn us away."


    I frowned, considering the situation. My own purse wasn''t exactly full, and most of what I had left had come from scavenging or barter. The goblins hadn''t carried anything worth selling, just scraps of steel and a few battered coins. Between the five of us, we could probably scrape together enough to buy a handful of rations and maybe one or two decent weapons. But if we wanted to outfit everyone¡ªKarvek''s men included¡ªwe''d need more.


    "We could sell something," Lisett said, her voice hesitant.


    I looked at her sharply. "Sell what?"


    She gestured toward my pack. "You''ve got weapons, tools. Maybe¡ª"


    "Not happening." I cut her off before she could finish. "Anything I''ve got is worth more than the few coppers we''d get from a trader. I''m not selling my tools. Not unless you want me useless the next time we need gear."


    "Fine," she said, holding up her hands. "It was just a thought."


    Karvek rubbed his temples, clearly tired of the discussion. "Hryna doesn''t just deal in coin. She''ll take goods, if they''re worth her time. If you''re so sure about those tools of yours, maybe you could trade some of your skills. A quick job, something simple. Give her something she can sell, and she might cut us a deal."


    I didn''t like the idea of wasting time on side work, but Karvek had a point. If it meant getting what we needed to survive, I could spare a few hours. As long as it didn''t pull me too far from the group''s main goal.


    The trader''s stall was tucked in a narrow alley, half-hidden by crates of coal and bundles of firewood. Hryna herself was a stout woman with sharp eyes and a scar running down her cheek. She looked us over as we approached, her expression hard as stone.


    "You''ve got coin?" she asked bluntly.


    "Some," Karvek said. "But we might have something better."


    Hryna''s gaze shifted to me. "You''re the smith?"


    I nodded. "Doran."


    She didn''t offer her own name. Instead, she crossed her arms and gave me a once-over. "What can you make, dwarf?"


    "Depends what you need," I said, keeping my tone even. "Got steel and tools, and I can work fast if you''ve got the right materials."


    She tilted her head, considering. "I''ve got some scraps from a shipment that never sold. Odds and ends. You can work with that?"


    "Show me."


    Hryna led me to the back of her stall, where a pile of mismatched steel bars and warped blades sat gathering dust. It wasn''t much, but I''d seen worse. I picked up a rusted knife and turned it over in my hands. The metal was soft, pitted with corrosion, but it could be reforged into something usable.


    "I''ll need a small forge," I said. "And coal."


    "You''ve got the forge," she replied. "Coal''s extra."


    I snorted. "You want me to make something out of scrap, and you''re going to charge me for coal?"


    "Take it or leave it, dwarf."


    I sighed, setting the knife back down. "Fine. I''ll make you a blade. You give us enough coin and supplies to keep moving."


    "Deal." Hryna held out her hand, and I shook it.


    The forge Hryna provided was little more than a small stone furnace set in the corner of her shop. The bellows were stiff, and the anvil was pitted, but it would do. I set to work, heating the metal until it glowed a dull orange. The blade began to take shape under my hammer, each strike sending sparks into the air. The steel resisted at first, but as it softened, I could feel the old flaws giving way to something stronger. It wouldn''t be a masterpiece, but it would be sharp, durable, and worth every coin we needed.


    As I worked, Karvek and his men huddled outside, their eyes wary. Lisett watched me from the doorway, her arms crossed. For once, she said nothing, just kept an eye on the street, her expression unreadable.


    When I finished, I held up the blade¡ªa simple short sword, its edge clean and its balance true. Hryna inspected it with a critical eye, then nodded.


    "Not bad," she said. "You''ll get your coin."


    It wasn''t much, but it was enough to get us through the next leg of the journey. As we packed our supplies and left Hryna''s stall, I couldn''t shake the feeling that we were still woefully unprepared. The Path wasn''t just a nuisance anymore. They were a storm on the horizon, and we were just five worn-out souls trudging toward the center of it.

 Chapter 20

    We huddled around a low-burning brazier in the corner of the market square. The sun hadn''t yet risen, but the settlement was already stirring. Merchants shuffled out of their lodges, hauling crates of iron and timber, stacking them by the makeshift stalls. A few dwarves sat on the stone steps, gnawing at strips of dried meat, while others quietly argued over the day''s workload. The mood here was practical, if not particularly friendly.


    Karvek stood a few paces away, speaking quietly with one of his men. The three who''d survived the ambush were a hard lot, but they were clearly hanging by a thread. Their clothes were torn, their boots patched and re-patched until it was a miracle they still held together. One of them¡ªthe wiry, pale one¡ªclutched his coat tighter around himself, shivering despite the brazier''s heat. Another, broader and older, leaned heavily on a spear that had seen better days. None of them looked like they had more than a few coppers to rub together.


    "Are they going to make it?" Lisett asked quietly beside me. She had her hood pulled up, her face shadowed but her sharp eyes fixed on Karvek''s group. "They''re half-starved and running on fumes."


    "They''re tough," I said, though my tone wasn''t as certain as I would''ve liked. "Tough enough to keep going. And if they''re not, they can rest when we reach Brugath''s Hollow. No point in babying them now."


    She gave me a sidelong glance, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You''re heartless, you know that?"


    "I''m realistic." I reached down and adjusted my pack, feeling the weight of the tools and supplies inside. I''d scavenged most of what I could from the goblins at Barak-Khald¡ªsmall scraps of iron, a few usable rivets, a handful of dull blades I might repurpose later. Not much, but enough to keep me busy if I needed to work the metal into something useful.


    Lisett wasn''t wrong about Karvek''s men. They didn''t look like they had the strength to keep marching, let alone fight. But we didn''t have the luxury of waiting. If we stopped too long, the Path would find us, and it wouldn''t matter how well-fed or rested we were. This wasn''t about comfort. It was about staying one step ahead.


    Karvek returned, his expression grim. "We need to hit the trader now. Can''t risk waiting too long."


    "Your men have anything to trade?" I asked, gesturing toward the three huddled figures. "Doesn''t look like they''re carrying much."


    Karvek shook his head. "We''ve got a few coins between us, enough to pick up the bare essentials. Weapons, maybe a little food. But if we''re buying from Hryna, we''ll need more."


    "Hryna?" Lisett tilted her head. "You trust her?"


    "Trust isn''t the word I''d use," Karvek said. "She''s careful. Keeps her business quiet, doesn''t ask questions. But she won''t give us anything for free. If we don''t have the coin, she''ll turn us away."


    I frowned, considering the situation. My own purse wasn''t exactly full, and most of what I had left had come from scavenging or barter. The goblins hadn''t carried anything worth selling, just scraps of steel and a few battered coins. Between the five of us, we could probably scrape together enough to buy a handful of rations and maybe one or two decent weapons. But if we wanted to outfit everyone¡ªKarvek''s men included¡ªwe''d need more.


    "We could sell something," Lisett said, her voice hesitant.


    I looked at her sharply. "Sell what?"


    She gestured toward my pack. "You''ve got weapons, tools. Maybe¡ª"


    "Not happening." I cut her off before she could finish. "Anything I''ve got is worth more than the few coppers we''d get from a trader. I''m not selling my tools. Not unless you want me useless the next time we need gear."


    "Fine," she said, holding up her hands. "It was just a thought."


    Karvek rubbed his temples, clearly tired of the discussion. "Hryna doesn''t just deal in coin. She''ll take goods, if they''re worth her time. If you''re so sure about those tools of yours, maybe you could trade some of your skills. A quick job, something simple. Give her something she can sell, and she might cut us a deal."


    I didn''t like the idea of wasting time on side work, but Karvek had a point. If it meant getting what we needed to survive, I could spare a few hours. As long as it didn''t pull me too far from the group''s main goal.


    The trader''s stall was tucked in a narrow alley, half-hidden by crates of coal and bundles of firewood. Hryna herself was a stout woman with sharp eyes and a scar running down her cheek. She looked us over as we approached, her expression hard as stone.


    "You''ve got coin?" she asked bluntly.


    "Some," Karvek said. "But we might have something better."


    Hryna''s gaze shifted to me. "You''re the smith?"


    I nodded. "Doran."


    She didn''t offer her own name. Instead, she crossed her arms and gave me a once-over. "What can you make, dwarf?"


    "Depends what you need," I said, keeping my tone even. "Got steel and tools, and I can work fast if you''ve got the right materials."


    She tilted her head, considering. "I''ve got some scraps from a shipment that never sold. Odds and ends. You can work with that?"


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "Show me."


    Hryna led me to the back of her stall, where a pile of mismatched steel bars and warped blades sat gathering dust. It wasn''t much, but I''d seen worse. I picked up a rusted knife and turned it over in my hands. The metal was soft, pitted with corrosion, but it could be reforged into something usable.


    "I''ll need a small forge," I said. "And coal."


    "You''ve got the forge," she replied. "Coal''s extra."


    I snorted. "You want me to make something out of scrap, and you''re going to charge me for coal?"


    "Take it or leave it, dwarf."


    I sighed, setting the knife back down. "Fine. I''ll make you a blade. You give us enough coin and supplies to keep moving."


    "Deal." Hryna held out her hand, and I shook it.


    The forge Hryna provided was little more than a small stone furnace set in the corner of her shop. The bellows were stiff, and the anvil was pitted, but it would do. I set to work, heating the metal until it glowed a dull orange. The blade began to take shape under my hammer, each strike sending sparks into the air. The steel resisted at first, but as it softened, I could feel the old flaws giving way to something stronger. It wouldn''t be a masterpiece, but it would be sharp, durable, and worth every coin we needed.


    As I worked, Karvek and his men huddled outside, their eyes wary. Lisett watched me from the doorway, her arms crossed. For once, she said nothing, just kept an eye on the street, her expression unreadable.


    When I finished, I held up the blade¡ªa simple short sword, its edge clean and its balance true. Hryna inspected it with a critical eye, then nodded.


    "Not bad," she said. "You''ll get your coin."


    It wasn''t much, but it was enough to get us through the next leg of the journey. As we packed our supplies and left Hryna''s stall, I couldn''t shake the feeling that we were still woefully unprepared. The Path wasn''t just a nuisance anymore. They were a storm on the horizon, and we were just six worn-out souls trudging toward the centre of it.


    The weather turned sour as we left the settlement''s gates behind us. A cold drizzle began to fall, turning the narrow, rock-strewn paths into slick, treacherous tracks. Above us, low clouds clung to the mountainside, blotting out the rising sun and wrapping the peaks in a grey shroud. The wind came in sharp gusts, sending icy tendrils through my hair and down my neck. Each step was a careful negotiation with the terrain¡ªwet stone and patches of loose gravel threatened to send us tumbling if we lost focus.


    I adjusted my pack, feeling the familiar weight of tools and scavenged metal inside. The armor I''d forged at Barak-Khald was strapped tightly to the outside of the pack, the various plates bundled with cloth to keep them from clanging together. It wasn''t practical to wear the full set while hiking. The breastplate would chafe my shoulders after only an hour of walking, and the gauntlets would have shredded my hands by now. The armor was built for combat, not travel. For now, I carried only my hammer and my knife on my belt, and wore a simple leather jerkin over my tunic to ward off the worst of the rain. My boots, at least, were solid¡ªdwarven craftsmanship, built to endure long marches over uneven ground.


    The others were less fortunate. Karvek''s men moved slowly, their heads down against the wind. Their coats and cloaks were threadbare, offering little protection from the cold. They clutched their weapons like talismans, as though the steel might keep them warm. Lisett had her hood pulled low, her arms crossed as she walked beside me. Her boots squelched in the mud, and I could tell she was keeping an eye on the others, watching for any sign that they might collapse.


    The trail wound through a shallow ravine, the rocky walls closing in on either side. The ground here was firmer, but the shadows were deeper. The rain eased to a light mist, clinging to our hair and beards, but the chill remained. My breath misted in the air, each exhale a reminder of how far we were from warmth and safety. The ravine floor was littered with debris¡ªbroken branches, loose stones, the occasional glint of iron or steel half-buried in the muck. I kept an eye out for anything useful, but most of it was rusted beyond salvage.


    Karvek broke the silence, his voice low and rough. "It''ll get worse before it gets better."


    I glanced at him. "You mean the weather, or the Path?"


    "Both," he said. "These mountains are unforgiving. I''ve seen men die out here just from a bad storm."


    "I''m a dwarf," I replied. "I''ve been through worse."


    "Maybe. But my men¡­" He didn''t finish the thought, just looked back over his shoulder at the three stragglers following us. One of them stumbled on a loose rock, catching himself on the shaft of his spear before he fell.


    "They need food and rest," Lisett said, her tone sharp. "If we don''t stop soon, they''re going to drop."


    "We can''t stop yet," Karvek said, his voice hardening. "Not until we''re clear of these hills."


    "Pushing them until they collapse isn''t going to help anyone," she shot back.


    I raised a hand, silencing the argument before it could get worse. "We''ll stop once we find proper shelter. No point in breaking our backs out here if it kills us. But if we stop now, we''ll lose what little ground we''ve gained."


    Lisett muttered something under her breath but didn''t argue further. Karvek gave me a curt nod, his expression grim. He knew I was right, but it didn''t make the march any easier.


    We pressed on through the ravine until it opened into a small, rocky basin. A cluster of large boulders formed a natural alcove on one side, offering some protection from the wind and rain. It wasn''t much, but it was enough. I called for a halt, and the group collapsed onto the wet ground, too tired to care about the mud. Karvek''s men huddled together, pulling what little they had from their packs¡ªsmall scraps of dried meat, a handful of hard biscuits. Lisett dug into her own supplies, handing out strips of jerky and a few strips of cloth to dry their faces.


    I found a spot near the edge of the alcove, where a flat stone served as a makeshift seat. I laid my pack down carefully, keeping the armor plates bundled and out of the wettest patches. I''d need to oil them soon, to keep the rust at bay. Skarnvalk leaned against the boulder next to me, the hammer''s head resting on the ground. It was a reassuring weight, its runes faintly visible in the dim light. I didn''t believe in magic, not fully, but there was something about the hammer that made me feel a little less exposed. Like it was watching my back, even when I wasn''t.


    The wind howled through the basin, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and wet earth. My fingers worked at the straps of my boots, adjusting them for the march ahead. Every move was deliberate, focused. Survival wasn''t just about fighting. It was about making the right choices, the small decisions that kept you alive another day. Tighten your boots before they rub your feet raw. Keep your armor clean and your tools sharp. Don''t waste energy on unnecessary arguments.


    As I worked, my mind wandered to Brugath''s Hollow. I''d heard of it in passing years ago¡ªa dwarven mine that had collapsed under its own ambition. If the Path had taken it, it meant there was something valuable in those tunnels. Something worth digging for. The thought made my hands itch for a forge, for the solid strike of hammer on steel. Whatever they were after, it was bound to be trouble. But trouble was something I''d learned to deal with. One step, one swing, one blow at a time.


    The wind picked up again, sending a fresh spray of rain across the basin. I pulled my cloak tighter around me and leaned back against the rock, my thoughts turning to the next stretch of the journey. There was no turning back now. The storm wasn''t just behind us¡ªit was waiting ahead.

 Chapter 21

    After several grueling hours of trudging through the rain-soaked wilderness, we finally found something resembling shelter¡ªa narrow cave mouth tucked into the rocky side of a ravine. It wasn''t much, just a black maw in the cliff face barely wide enough for us to squeeze through. The wind whipped past us, rattling through the trees and carrying the cold spray of rain. Karvek''s men were shivering violently now, their cloaks plastered to their backs, and even Lisett''s usually steady steps were dragging. I led the way in, holding Skarnvalk at the ready in case something nasty had decided to make the cave its den.


    The air inside was sharp and cool, with the faint metallic tang of wet stone. My boots echoed faintly as I stepped further into the dark, my fingers brushing the damp walls. "No tracks," I muttered over my shoulder. "Doesn''t look like anything''s been in here for a long time."


    Lisett ducked under the low entrance and cast a wary glance around. "You''d know if there were goblins or worse in here?"


    I grunted. "I''ve got a nose for it."


    Karvek followed, his sword out and his eyes narrowed. "Better to be sure. Could be something deeper in."


    "Could be," I said. "But for now, it''s out of the rain."


    The others shuffled in, one by one. Karvek''s men looked like half-drowned rats, their faces pale and their clothes hanging off them in wet, heavy folds. They dropped their packs and weapons onto the rocky floor with soft clatters, their movements slow and weary. No one said much as they huddled close to the wall, trying to wring water from their cloaks. Lisett pulled off her gloves and inspected her hands, her fingers red and raw from the cold. "We need a fire," she said quietly.


    "No dry wood," I replied, gesturing around. The cave was bare stone, no signs of vegetation or anything we could use for fuel.


    Karvek lowered himself onto a flat slab of rock near the entrance. "We''ll dry out as best we can, but we should stay quiet. No telling who or what might be close by."


    The thought of remaining in damp clothes made my skin crawl. There was nothing worse than cold and wet¡ªtwo things that could sap your strength faster than a blade to the gut. I shrugged off my pack, carefully unbuckling the straps that held my armor plates. Each piece was wrapped in rough cloth, keeping the worst of the rain off. I laid them out on the ground, inspecting them closely. The forge-work from Barak-Khald still held strong¡ªno rust, no warping¡ªbut they''d need oil before long. I kept a small jar tucked away in the pack, just enough to coat the edges and joints.


    Lisett knelt beside me, rummaging through her bag. "You''re just going to sit in wet clothes all night?"


    "What else would you suggest?" I muttered, not looking up. "Strip naked and run laps around the cave?"


    Her lips quirked in a faint smirk. "Might get your blood flowing, at least."


    I let out a low chuckle, despite myself. "I''ll pass."


    We settled into an uneasy stillness. The sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deeper in the cave, a soft, rhythmic plinking that set my teeth on edge. Karvek''s men shifted against the wall, muttering quietly amongst themselves. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. They were tough bastards, but they weren''t indestructible. If we didn''t give them time to recover, they''d drop in the next fight. And if that happened, we''d be down three blades when we needed them most.


    After a while, I stood and stretched my legs. "I''m going to take a look around," I said. "See how deep this place goes."


    "Alone?" Lisett asked, raising an eyebrow.


    "Not planning on getting lost," I said. "If it''s just a small cavern, we''ll know. If it opens up into something bigger, better to find out now than later."


    "I''ll go with you," Karvek said, pushing himself up. He winced as he stood, one hand going to his side. "I could use a walk."


    "Fine," I said. "Lisett, keep an eye on the others. If we''re not back soon, start worrying."


    She rolled her eyes. "I''m always worrying. Go on, then."


    Karvek and I ventured deeper into the cave, stepping carefully over uneven ground. The air grew cooler the further we went, the dampness clinging to my skin. The narrow tunnel began to widen, the walls spreading out until we were walking through a larger chamber. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, their tips glinting faintly in the low light. I ran my fingers along the stone, feeling grooves and striations that spoke of ancient movements¡ªgeological shifts, long-forgotten water flows. But something else caught my attention as well. Faint marks on the floor, not natural, not random. Tracks.


    "Someone''s been here," I said, my voice low. "Long time ago, maybe, but these aren''t just cracks in the stone."


    Karvek squinted at the ground. "Dwarves?"


    "Could be," I said, though I wasn''t sure. The patterns were faint, worn down by time, but they reminded me of old mine carts, the kind we used to haul ore back home. I crouched and ran my fingers over a faint groove. "This could''ve been a rail. Tracks leading deeper into the mountain."


    Karvek frowned. "Could it lead to Brugath''s Hollow?"


    I straightened, my mind racing. The directions we''d been given to the mine suggested it wasn''t far, and these tracks seemed to head in that direction. "It''s possible," I said. "If we follow these, we might find our way there faster than we thought."


    "Or stumble right into their guards," Karvek said, his hand resting on his sword hilt.


    "Could happen," I admitted. "But either way, we''ll know what we''re dealing with."


    He nodded grimly. "Then let''s keep moving. Quietly."


    We pushed on, the damp air growing colder as we descended. The faint echoes of water dripping turned to a low, distant rumble, like a hidden underground river. The walls closed in briefly, forcing us to squeeze through a narrow passage before opening into another wide chamber. And there, in the faint light, I saw it¡ªa massive, ancient door carved into the stone, its surface etched with runes so worn they were almost illegible.


    Brugath''s Hollow.


    I let out a slow breath. The dwarves hadn''t abandoned this place on a whim. Whatever lay inside had driven them out. And now it belonged to the Path.


    The ancient door loomed before us, its worn runes faintly visible in the dim, wet gloom. I could barely make them out, but what I could see set my teeth on edge. These weren''t the ornate, celebratory carvings you''d find in a stronghold meant to endure for centuries. They were warnings¡ªsimple, direct, and carved with a trembling hand. Whatever the dwarves had once unearthed here wasn''t meant to see the light of day.


    "Brugath''s Hollow," Karvek muttered, his breath visible in the chill air. He ran a hand over the grooves in the stone. "Looks like it''s seen better days."


    "No kidding," I replied, keeping my voice low. The air had a strange weight to it, thick and damp, clinging to my skin. "You feel that?"


    Karvek nodded. "Feels¡­ wrong. Like the air''s too heavy."


    "Something here didn''t want to be dug up," I said. "And we''re standing right at its doorstep."


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    "Or inside it," he pointed out. "If these tracks lead straight into the mine."


    I stared at the door, my mind racing. The Path wasn''t just using Brugath''s Hollow for convenience. They''d chosen it for a reason. Maybe they didn''t understand the danger, or maybe they thought they could control it. Either way, they weren''t here for iron or gold. They were after whatever it was the dwarves had left behind, and that thought chilled me more than the air in the cave.


    We made our way back to the others, our footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls. Karvek kept his hand on his sword hilt the entire time, his eyes darting to every shadow and crevice. I wasn''t much better. Even with Skarnvalk in hand, I felt the cold fingers of unease crawling up my back. It wasn''t just the thought of what lay beyond that door. It was the sense that something was watching us¡ªsomething that knew we didn''t belong here.


    The mercenaries were huddled together against the cave wall, still shivering despite their best efforts. Lisett glanced up as we approached, her expression guarded. "Well?"


    "It''s not just a cave," Karvek said grimly. "This leads straight into Brugath''s Hollow."


    Lisett straightened, her brow furrowing. "Then we''re already there?"


    "Close," I said. "Too close."


    Her gaze darted between the two of us. "So what''s the plan? Go in? See what the Path''s doing?"


    "Not yet," I said. "We need to think this through. Whatever drove the dwarves out of that mine wasn''t something small. If we rush in without a plan, we''ll end up just like them."


    "Dead," Karvek said flatly.


    Lisett nodded slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Then we wait. Rest, get our strength back. But we need to keep moving soon."


    "We''ll rest," I said. "But keep an eye on that door. I don''t want any surprises."


    She gave me a small, grim smile. "I''m always watching."


    The hours that followed were slow and heavy. The cold seeped into everything¡ªour clothes, our bones, even the food we managed to scrounge from our packs. The mercenaries barely spoke, their exhaustion so deep that they fell asleep sitting up against the rock wall. Lisett tended to her supplies, carefully re-wrapping her bandages and checking her few remaining vials of medicine. She didn''t say much to me, and I didn''t push her. We both needed the silence to think.


    I ran my hand over the plates of my armor, checking each joint, each rune. They still held strong, but I''d need to oil them soon. A few more days of this damp and they''d start to pit, no matter how well I''d forged them. Skarnvalk rested at my side, its runes faintly gleaming in the dim light. I didn''t trust the hammer''s seeming eagerness¡ªit always felt too alive, too watchful¡ªbut I couldn''t deny that it had saved my skin more times than I could count. If whatever was in Brugath''s Hollow decided to show its face, I''d be glad to have it in hand.


    The next morning¡ªor what passed for morning in that damp, sunless hole¡ªI woke to the sound of Karvek''s men stirring. They looked no better than the day before. One was trying to shake the stiffness from his legs, his face pale and drawn. Another was picking at a small scrap of dried meat, chewing so slowly it was like he hoped to make it last longer. The third sat motionless, his spear resting across his lap, staring blankly at the cave wall. It wasn''t just hunger or exhaustion. They were breaking.


    "They''re not going to make it much longer," Lisett said quietly, sitting beside me. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but her tone was sharp. "If we don''t do something soon¡­"


    "I know," I said. I glanced over at Karvek, who was checking his gear with mechanical precision. "He knows it too."


    "So what''s the plan?"


    I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the ache of days without proper rest. "We need to find out what''s inside Brugath''s Hollow. Figure out what the Path''s doing. But we can''t just charge in. If we''re going to survive this, we need to play it smart."


    Lisett gave me a sidelong look. "You mean not hitting them head-on and hoping for the best?"


    I snorted. "That''s exactly what I mean. We need to scout, find their weak points. And if there''s something in there that drove the dwarves out, we need to know what it is before we walk into it blind."


    "And if it''s something we can''t handle?"


    I didn''t answer right away. My hand tightened on Skarnvalk''s grip, the weight of the hammer reassuring. "If it''s something we can''t handle, we do what we can to bring it down. And if that fails, we run."


    Lisett nodded slowly. "And then what?"


    "Then we find another way to fight the Path." I looked at her, my expression hard. "One way or another, we don''t stop."


    Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn''t argue. She just nodded and turned back to her pack, leaving me with my thoughts.


    As I sat there, the faint echo of dripping water and the oppressive silence of the cave pressing down on me, I couldn''t shake the feeling that we were on the edge of something far bigger than any of us had imagined. The Path wasn''t just mining ore or searching for treasure. They were playing with something dangerous, something old. And whether we liked it or not, we were the ones who had to deal with it.


    No turning back now.


    The ancient stone door stood silent, its worn runes faintly visible in the dim, shifting light of our torches. Karvek''s men had said little, their faces drawn and pale as they adjusted their straps and tightened their cloaks. Lisett''s eyes lingered on the carvings, her brow furrowed. She had patched up the worst of their wounds, but nothing she carried could fix exhaustion that ran this deep. I watched as she tied off the last of her medical supplies, shaking her head at the sorry state of things.


    "Looks like we''re doing this," Karvek said. His voice was steady, but I caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes as he ran a hand down the grip of his sword. It was still battered, its edge nicked and dull. He''d been through worse, I knew, but this time felt different. This time, he wasn''t just leading a mercenary band on a simple contract. He was walking into something far older, far darker.


    I grunted, adjusting the straps of my pack and cinching them tight. The weight of my armor pressed against my back, the cold steel wrapped in rough cloth to keep it quiet. My hammer, Skarnvalk, rested in my hand, its heft familiar and solid. The runes etched along its surface seemed to flicker in the low light, though I knew it was just my mind playing tricks. Still, I couldn''t help feeling that the hammer knew what lay ahead, and that it wasn''t looking forward to it any more than I was.


    Lisett glanced at me, her expression half curiosity, half frustration. "What''s your plan?"


    I met her gaze. "We go in slow. Quiet. If something''s waiting on the other side of this door, I''d rather know about it before it knows about us."


    Karvek nodded. "Fair enough. And if we run into a fight?"


    "We make it fast," I said. "No drawn-out battles. We don''t have the strength for that."


    The door''s surface was cold to the touch as I pressed my palm against it. The stone was worn smooth in places, but I could still feel the faint grooves of the carvings beneath my fingers. My gut told me this wasn''t just a barrier. It was a threshold, a point of no return. On the other side was something the dwarves hadn''t wanted to face, something they''d rather abandon than confront. But we didn''t have the luxury of turning back.


    I took a breath, steadying myself. "Karvek, help me push."


    Together, we leaned into the door. It didn''t move at first, the weight of centuries holding it in place. But with a low groan, the stone began to shift. Dust rained down from the frame, and a faint, stale breeze wafted through the opening as it widened. The smell hit us next¡ªearth and rot, a deep, sour scent that made my nose twitch. It wasn''t just the smell of an abandoned mine. It was something else. Something older.


    The door scraped open enough for us to slip through, and I took the first step inside. The others followed in silence, their boots crunching on loose stones and scattered debris. The passage beyond was narrow, the walls close and the ceiling lower than I liked. Our torches threw long shadows against the rough stone, and every sound seemed amplified, echoing down the dark corridor.


    "Stay close," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "We don''t want to lose each other in here."


    Lisett fell in behind me, her steps quiet but steady. I could hear Karvek''s men breathing heavily as they brought up the rear. They didn''t complain, though. They knew better than to waste energy on words. The only sound was the faint drip of water from somewhere deeper in the mine, each drop echoing like a heartbeat.


    As we moved further, I kept my eyes on the walls, looking for anything out of place. The faint tracks we''d seen earlier grew more defined¡ªold grooves worn into the stone floor, likely from mine carts that had once hauled ore to the surface. But there were other marks too. Scratches that didn''t look natural. Claw marks? I wasn''t sure, but they made my grip on Skarnvalk tighten.


    The air grew colder the deeper we went. I could feel it through my gloves, a chill that wasn''t just the temperature. It seeped into my skin, into my bones. Lisett muttered something under her breath, too quiet to hear, but I saw her glance at me and then at the walls, her eyes wide. She felt it too.


    "What the hell happened here?" Karvek asked, his voice low.


    "Something the dwarves didn''t want to face," I said. "They left for a reason. Let''s hope we don''t find out what it was."


    The passage opened into a larger chamber, the ceiling disappearing into darkness above. Our torchlight couldn''t reach the top, and the flickering glow barely touched the edges of the space. Scattered around the floor were broken beams, rusted chains, and piles of crumbled stone. I could see where the tracks branched off, disappearing into smaller tunnels that led who knew where.


    "This is the main hub," I said. "Tracks lead off in all directions. If the Path''s been using this place, we''ll find signs of them here."


    Lisett crouched by a pile of debris, her hand brushing over something metallic. "Looks like a weapon," she said, holding it up. It was a pickaxe, its head rusted and its wooden shaft splintered. Not something you''d want to rely on in a fight, but definitely dwarven craftsmanship.


    "We''re on the right track," I said. "Stay sharp."


    Karvek gestured to his men, and they fanned out slightly, checking the edges of the chamber. No one spoke. The air was too heavy, the sense of unease too strong. Every step felt like it might wake something, something that had been waiting in the dark for far too long.

 Chapter 22

    We packed our gear in silence, the weight of the decision hanging over us. The dim light of the cave did nothing to ease the tension. The mercenaries moved slowly, stiff from the cold and damp, their faces grim as they rolled up their blankets and tightened the straps on their battered packs. Karvek gave them quiet orders, his voice barely carrying above the faint drip of water echoing through the tunnel.


    I strapped on my armor piece by piece, feeling the familiar pressure of the plates settle over my shoulders and chest. It wasn''t full plate, but it was enough to protect my vitals. The runes I''d carved into the metal glimmered faintly in the gloom, their meaning a reminder of the work I''d put into every curve, every seam. I tightened the straps on my gauntlets and adjusted the fit of the gorget around my neck. My knees creaked as I stood, but the armor held true, the weight steady and reassuring.


    Lisett was checking her gear, too, though her eyes kept darting toward the mercenaries. "They''re in no shape to fight," she said quietly, her tone even. "If we run into trouble on the other side, they''ll be dead weight."


    "They''re still breathing," I replied. "That''s enough for now."


    She gave me a sharp look. "Is it?"


    I didn''t answer right away. Instead, I leaned Skarnvalk against the stone wall and knelt down to adjust the straps on my pack. The hammer seemed to hum faintly, its runes pulsing in the low light. I felt its weight even when it wasn''t in my hands, a constant reminder that we were walking into something unknown. "They''ll fight if they have to," I said at last. "If they can''t¡­ we''ll deal with that when the time comes."


    When we were ready, we gathered at the great stone door. Karvek stood on one side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Lisett was on the other, her staff held loosely but her stance alert. The mercenaries stayed back, their faces pale and drawn. I stepped forward, Skarnvalk in one hand, the other brushing over the runes carved into the door''s surface.


    The air was colder here, heavier. My breath clouded in front of me as I studied the carvings. The runes were old, older than any I''d worked with before. I could make out pieces of their meaning¡ªwarnings, maybe prayers, etched by dwarves who had known what they were up against. They weren''t meant to keep people out. They were meant to keep something in.


    "This isn''t just a mine," I said quietly. "It''s a tomb."


    Lisett frowned. "A tomb for what?"


    "Don''t know," I admitted. "But whatever it is, the dwarves wanted it sealed. The Path broke that seal."


    "Then we should leave it sealed," one of the mercenaries muttered. His voice was shaky, almost pleading. "This place isn''t natural. We don''t belong here."


    "We don''t," I agreed, turning to face the group. "But we don''t have a choice. Whatever the Path is doing here, they''re not leaving on their own. If we walk away now, they''ll only grow stronger. We have to know what we''re dealing with. And if it''s something that shouldn''t be let loose¡­" I gripped Skarnvalk tighter, the runes flaring faintly. "Then we''ll make sure it stays buried."


    Karvek nodded, his expression hard. "Then let''s get on with it."


    Pushing the door open wasn''t easy. The stone was heavy, the mechanism stiff from centuries of disuse. It groaned as it moved, the sound echoing down the tunnel behind us. I braced myself, half-expecting something to come rushing out¡ªan ambush, a trap, a flood of creatures. But nothing came. The door shifted just enough to allow us through, and the air that rushed out was stale and frigid, carrying with it the scent of old stone and something faintly metallic.


    We stepped through one by one, the mercenaries dragging their feet but following all the same. The chamber beyond the door was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow. Columns of stone rose from the floor like the trunks of ancient trees, their surfaces etched with faded carvings. The tracks we''d seen earlier continued into the darkness, curving out of sight. The floor was uneven, patches of gravel and old wooden beams scattered among the rocks.


    I motioned for the group to stay close, my eyes scanning the shadows. The faint light from Skarnvalk''s runes cast eerie patterns on the walls, but it wasn''t enough to pierce the gloom. I could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken fear hanging over us. Every step felt heavier, every sound sharper. I kept my hammer raised, ready for whatever might come next.


    As we moved deeper into the chamber, the carvings on the columns grew more detailed. I could make out figures¡ªdwarves, their beards flowing, their hammers raised. Some stood in battle poses, others appeared to be kneeling, their heads bowed. The runes accompanying the figures were faint, but I could still pick out fragments: words for danger, words for binding, words for something greater than any of us had ever seen.


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    "What happened here?" Lisett whispered, her voice barely audible.


    "The same thing that always happens," I said. "Greed. Curiosity. They dug too deep, and they found something they couldn''t control."


    "And the Path thinks they can control it," Karvek said.


    I nodded. "Which means it''s our problem now."


    We moved carefully, every sound amplified in the stillness. The air grew colder, the weight in my chest heavier. Whatever was waiting for us in Brugath''s Hollow wasn''t just an enemy. It was something ancient, something the dwarves had tried to forget. And now, step by step, we were walking straight into its lair.


    The chamber opened into a long, sloping passageway that burrowed deeper into the mountain. The cold was sharper now, biting through our damp clothes and gnawing at our fingers and toes. Every step echoed faintly off the stone walls, but there was no other sound¡ªno dripping water, no scurrying of vermin. Just silence. It was the kind of quiet that put your nerves on edge, the kind that made you wonder what was listening in the dark.


    I held Skarnvalk in both hands, its runes casting a dim, bluish light that barely reached the floor in front of me. Karvek and Lisett followed close behind, their expressions grim. The mercenaries brought up the rear, their breathing labored. They were struggling, and it showed in their uneven steps and the way their weapons hung loose in their hands. It wouldn''t take much to break them.


    The air was heavy, tinged with something metallic that I couldn''t place. It reminded me of the old forges back home after a long day of smelting¡ªhot, raw, with a faint bitterness that clung to the back of your throat. Only here, the air was cold. Ice-cold. The contrast gnawed at me. Whatever this place was, it wasn''t just abandoned. It was suffocating in its stillness.


    We reached a widening in the passage where the walls flared out into a circular chamber. Columns rose from the floor, their surfaces worn smooth. They looked older than the carvings outside¡ªrougher, more primitive. The stone here felt different underfoot, as if we were stepping into something that predated even dwarven craftsmanship.


    Karvek moved up beside me, his voice low. "What do you think this was?"


    "Not sure," I replied. "Could''ve been a storage chamber. Could''ve been a meeting hall. Or a place of worship. Dwarves like to leave marks, though. The fact that there''s nothing carved here¡­"


    "Means they didn''t want anyone knowing what this was."


    "Or they didn''t have time."


    Lisett stepped closer, her staff tapping lightly against the stone floor. "The air feels wrong," she said. "It''s like it''s too¡­ thick."


    I nodded. "You''re not imagining it. It''s like being back at Barak-Khald, only worse."


    Karvek''s hand rested on his sword hilt. "You think the Path set up camp down here?"


    "They''re here," I said. "I don''t know how far, but they''re here. This place isn''t empty."


    We moved cautiously through the chamber, our footsteps slow and deliberate. I kept Skarnvalk raised, its faint light flickering against the walls. The runes on the hammer pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, though I couldn''t tell if it was responding to the environment or my own nerves. The mercenaries trailed behind us, their breathing louder than it should''ve been. I kept glancing back, watching them. If something hit us now, I wasn''t sure they''d have the strength to swing their blades, let alone fight.


    The passage narrowed again, forcing us into a single file. The air grew colder still, until my breath came out in thick plumes. My armor felt like ice against my skin, the metal plates clinging to the chill like they''d been left in the snow for days. I felt the sting of it in my joints, the ache that came from pushing your body too far for too long. But we couldn''t stop now. We were close¡ªtoo close to turn back.


    Eventually, the passage opened into another chamber, this one larger and more elaborate. Rows of stone pillars lined the walls, each one etched with strange symbols I didn''t recognize. The floor was cracked in places, as if the mountain itself had tried to swallow this place whole. At the far end of the room, a series of heavy, iron-bound doors stood ajar, their hinges bent and broken.


    Karvek approached one of the pillars, running his fingers over the symbols. "You seen anything like this before?"


    "Not in any forge I''ve worked," I said. "Could be older than the mine itself. Something the dwarves found when they dug too deep."


    "Found, or disturbed," Lisett said quietly.


    The thought lingered in the cold air. The dwarves hadn''t built this. They''d stumbled upon it. And whatever was here¡ªwhatever had driven them out¡ªwas still waiting.


    I stepped up to the iron doors, the smell of rust and decay hitting me like a wave. The metallic tang I''d noticed earlier was stronger here, almost overwhelming. The doors looked as if they''d been forced open from the inside, the hinges twisted and the stone around them crumbled. Skarnvalk''s runes flared brighter as I stood before the threshold, casting a pale glow into the darkness beyond.


    "Doran," Lisett said behind me, her voice low but firm. "You''re sure about this?"


    "No," I admitted. "But I''m not turning back."


    I pushed the door open with Skarnvalk''s haft, the iron groaning in protest. The light from the hammer spilled into the room beyond, revealing a vast, open cavern. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, and the floor was scattered with ancient tools, broken carts, and the skeletal remains of mining equipment. In the center of the cavern stood a massive stone altar, its surface carved with deep, angular runes that glowed faintly in the gloom. Around it, I could see shapes¡ªcrude tents, stacks of supplies, and the faint flicker of distant torchlight.


    "They''re here," Karvek muttered.


    "They are," I said. "And they''re up to something."


    Lisett''s grip on her staff tightened. "What now?"


    "Now," I said, stepping forward, "we find out what they''ve dug up. And if it shouldn''t be let out, we send it back to the dark."


    The air in the cavern was cold enough to sting my lungs. My breath clouded in front of me, mingling with the faint wisps of mist rising from the stone altar. Skarnvalk''s runes flared brighter still, as if the hammer was reacting to whatever lay ahead. I could feel it in my bones: we were close to something ancient, something dangerous. And whatever it was, the Path thought they could control it.


    They were wrong.

 Chapter 23

    The cavern swallowed us whole.


    Beyond the shattered iron doors, the space stretched into a vast hollow of jagged stone and timeworn ruins. Stalactites hung like the fangs of some slumbering beast, their tips wet with condensation, while the uneven floor was littered with broken mining tools and rusted chains. The air smelled of damp earth and something else¡ªsomething older. Beneath the usual scents of decay and dust, there was a faint, metallic tang, like blood left too long in the cold.


    Skarnvalk''s runes pulsed faintly in my grip, the hammer''s light swallowed by the oppressive darkness beyond. My breath curled in the frozen air as I scanned the cavern, my mind sharpening, cataloging. The Path was here, had been here for some time. That much was obvious.


    But something else had been here long before them.


    I stepped forward, boots crunching against loose gravel. Karvek flanked me, his grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his newly-forged sword, his eyes darting to every shadow. Lisett moved with the careful grace of a woman who understood all too well what kind of things liked to hide in places like this. And behind us, Karvek''s men limped along, their breath labored, their bodies barely holding together.


    We were running out of time. If the Path didn''t kill them, the cold and exhaustion would.


    "Look there," Lisett murmured, her voice barely louder than a breath. She pointed past a collapsed support beam toward the far end of the cavern.


    Torchlight flickered between the ruins.


    Figures moved through the gloom, distorted by distance and shadow. The Path. They were deep in their work, hauling crates, shifting rubble, and dragging chains. But what caught my eye wasn''t the labor¡ªit was the altar.


    It loomed at the center of the cavern, a slab of black stone streaked with veins of silver that pulsed faintly, as though light lived inside them. The surface was scarred with ancient runes, deep carvings filled with something dark and viscous, something that shimmered unnaturally even in the dim torchlight. I didn''t recognize the language, but the meaning was clear.


    Containment. Suppression. Sealing.


    And the Path was trying to break it.


    I exhaled through my nose, the sound lost beneath the cavern''s stillness. The hair on my arms prickled under my armor. I''d seen old things, cursed things. I''d worked metal so ancient it resisted even the hottest flames. But this¡ªthis felt different.


    This felt alive.


    Karvek shifted beside me. "They don''t look like they''re expecting company."


    "They wouldn''t," I muttered. "They think they''re alone down here. That whatever the dwarves left behind is too dead or too broken to stop them."


    Lisett''s fingers tightened around her staff. "Are they wrong?"


    I didn''t answer.


    Instead, I crouched lower, keeping my steps light as I moved toward the crumbling edge of a mining cart rail. From this vantage, I could see them more clearly¡ªseven, maybe eight Path operatives. Not just foot soldiers. These weren''t the usual brigands and mercenaries they threw at their problems. These were ruin scholars, alchemists, handlers of things that should''ve been left in the ground.


    And they were close. Too close.


    I felt Skarnvalk hum in my grip, its weight shifting subtly as if it, too, knew the balance was about to tip. Whatever the Path was after, they were almost done unearthing it. And if they succeeded, we wouldn''t be dealing with just another faction war.


    We''d be dealing with something worse.


    Karvek''s voice was low, urgent. "We take them now, while they''re focused."


    "We don''t know what they''re dealing with," Lisett hissed.


    "Doesn''t matter," I said, straightening. "If we wait, they''ll finish their work. And I''m not keen on finding out what happens when they do."


    Karvek nodded once. "Then we hit hard, fast, and leave nothing standing."


    Lisett let out a slow, controlled breath, shaking her head. "I swear, you dwarves and your need to hammer everything into the ground."


    "It works," I muttered.


    And then I moved.


    The first guard never saw me coming.


    Skarnvalk''s head crunched into his ribs, the force lifting him off his feet before slamming him into the cavern floor. A sickening crack echoed through the hollow, and his torch spun wildly before extinguishing in the dirt.


    Before the others could react, Karvek and his men were on them, blades flashing in the dim light. The clash of steel rang through the cavern as the Path scrambled, caught between fight and flight. But they weren''t soldiers. Not these ones. They were scholars and handlers, people who dug up power and expected others to wield it.


    That made them easy prey.


    I swung Skarnvalk in a brutal arc, the hammer''s runes flaring as it connected with another operative''s skull. Bone crunched. He dropped like a sack of ore.


    Lisett moved with purpose, her staff jabbing hard into a third man''s throat before he could finish drawing his weapon. He collapsed, choking, his fingers clawing at his crushed windpipe.


    But the moment of control didn''t last.


    From the far side of the altar, a figure emerged¡ªa woman clad in heavy robes, her face obscured by an iron mask carved with intricate, angular runes. The moment I saw her, I knew.


    Ruin master.


    She didn''t flinch at the sight of her men dying. She didn''t call for reinforcements. She simply raised one hand, fingers curling into a fist.


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    The altar pulsed.


    And the world shifted.


    A wave of force slammed into my chest, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me skidding backward across the stone. My head rang, and my vision blurred as I struggled to push myself upright.


    Karvek swore, barely keeping his footing. One of his men wasn''t so lucky¡ªhe flew backward, smashing against a pillar with a sickening crack.


    Lisett had her hands up, her expression one of fierce concentration. Whatever magic the ruin master was wielding, she was fighting it, barely keeping it at bay.


    And then I saw the cracks.


    The altar was breaking.


    Whatever the Path had been trying to unearth, they had just succeeded.


    The woman turned her masked face toward me, and though I couldn''t see her expression, I could feel her satisfaction.


    "You are too late, dwarf," she said, her voice smooth, almost amused. "The seal is broken. The Hollow wakes."


    The ground beneath us trembled.


    From within the cracks in the altar, something stirred. Something deep. Something hungry.


    A sound rumbled up from the earth¡ªnot a roar, not a voice, but something between them. It was a presence, thick and suffocating, as though the cavern itself had drawn breath for the first time in an age.


    I forced myself to my feet, shaking off the lingering ache in my chest. "I''ve spent my whole damn life sealing cracks," I growled, rolling my shoulders. "I can seal this one, too."


    The ruin master tilted her head. "You truly don''t understand, do you?"


    A fissure split open beneath the altar.


    And from the darkness below, something began to rise.


    The cavern shook, a deep, resonant tremor that rattled through my bones. Dust rained from the jagged ceiling, and the cracked altar pulsed like a dying heart. The ruin master''s masked face remained impassive, but I could feel her satisfaction, radiating through the thick, metallic air.


    I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk, my knuckles whitening. My hammer hummed, its runes flaring in warning, reacting to the ancient force clawing its way up from beneath the stone.


    Then the fissure yawned wide, and something¡ªsomething vast¡ªbegan to rise.


    I didn''t hesitate. I moved.


    My boots pounded against the shifting ground as I surged toward the ruin master. If she was leading this ritual, if she was the one breaking whatever seal the dwarves had placed here, then she was my first target.


    Karvek was already in motion, his blade flashing in the flickering torchlight, cutting down the last of the Path''s handlers. One of his men had fallen, motionless against a pillar, but he didn''t stop. He knew¡ªwe all knew¡ªthat if this thing fully woke, the battle wouldn''t just be against the Path.


    It would be against whatever they had just set free.


    Lisett had her staff raised, her mouth moving in a rapid, whispered incantation. Her fingers trembled as she tried to counteract the ruin master''s influence, to hold back the unraveling force before it collapsed in on itself.


    But the ruin master was waiting for me.


    She turned, her iron-carved mask tilting ever so slightly as I lunged toward her. She didn''t flinch. Instead, she lifted one palm and made a slow, deliberate gesture.


    The world lurched.


    An invisible force slammed into me mid-stride, an impact like a hammer to the gut. I barely had time to twist my body before I was flung backward, my spine crashing against a broken stone column. My breath ripped from my lungs as pain exploded through my ribs.


    "Predictable," the ruin master murmured.


    I growled, forcing myself upright, muscles screaming in protest. My vision blurred for a second before sharpening. Skarnvalk''s runes burned, the hammer shivering in my hands like a caged beast.


    "You talk too much," I spat, shaking off the impact.


    She moved this time, her cloak billowing as she strode forward. Her fingers twisted in the air, weaving unseen patterns, pulling at the very foundation of the Hollow itself.


    Beneath us, the fissure split further.


    A grotesque limb¡ªscaled, massive, and wreathed in black mist¡ªemerged from the depths.


    It clawed at the edges of the broken altar, digging into the stone with talons that hissed and sizzled like molten iron meeting ice. The cavern''s temperature plummeted, and the air grew thick with something ancient, something wrong.


    Karvek cursed, staggering back from the chasm. "What in the hells is that?!"


    Lisett''s face paled. "Something that should have stayed buried."


    The ruin master''s voice was calm, almost reverent. "The Hollow does not forget. The Hollow does not forgive. It only devours."


    She lifted both hands.


    The creature surged upward.


    Chaos.


    The force of its emergence ripped the cavern apart. Stone cracked, pillars crumbled, and debris rained down like shattered teeth. The massive entity¡ªhalf-shadow, half-scaled horror¡ªwrithed free of the altar''s remains.


    Its head¡ªif you could call it that¡ªwas a twisting mass of blackened bone, hollow-eyed, its jawless maw opening and unfolding like a broken machine. Tendrils of darkness curled around its limbs, pulsing with unnatural energy.


    It wasn''t just a monster. It was a hunger given form.


    And it was awakening.


    I moved.


    Skarnvalk sang through the air as I lunged for the ruin master again, trying to end this before she could finish the summoning.


    But she was faster this time.


    She flicked her wrist, and the very air around her warped.


    The ground cracked, and I felt my footing give way. The space around me bent, like reality itself had just been thrown into a forge and beaten out of shape.


    And then¡ªI was somewhere else.


    For half a breath, everything was silent.


    Darkness surrounded me¡ªnot just the absence of light, but the feeling of something watching from beyond it. Something coiling around the edges of my mind, pulling at me.


    A voice whispered, curling through my bones.


    "Thargrimm''s blood¡­ you are not welcome here¡­"


    I felt ice wrap around my heart.


    And then¡ªI was back.


    Reality slammed into me like a hammerblow, and I hit the cavern floor hard, my vision swaying, my mind reeling from the thing I had just felt.


    Lisett was shouting something. Karvek was dragging one of his men to his feet, his face set in grim determination.


    The ruin master stood at the center of the destruction, watching me with unreadable eyes. "It knows you now," she said, almost amused. "You carry the old blood. It remembers."


    I spat blood onto the stone, forcing my legs under me. "Yeah? Then let it remember how hard I hit."


    And I charged.


    The fight blurred into a brutal mess of motion and pain.


    I was faster this time, learning her tricks, predicting her patterns. She was strong¡ªstronger than anyone I''d fought before¡ªbut she wasn''t invincible.


    The cavern continued to collapse as we clashed, the Hollow rising, its presence warping the air.


    Karvek and Lisett had their hands full dealing with the Path''s remaining forces. One of Karvek''s men went down, his throat opened by a curved dagger. Lisett barely managed to dodge a ruin handler''s incantation, fire licking at her cloak as she twisted away.


    And me? I kept swinging.


    Skarnvalk crashed against the ruin master''s defenses, its runes screaming with energy. Sparks flew, and I felt the force of every impact shudder through my bones.


    She was strong. But I was stronger.


    Then I saw my opening.


    She stepped back¡ªone misstep. Just enough.


    I surged forward, Skarnvalk arcing high¡ª


    ¡ªand I brought it down.


    The impact rippled through the cavern, a deafening boom shaking the very foundations of the Hollow.


    The ruin master staggered, her balance breaking for the first time.


    And at the same moment, Lisett finished her spell.


    A shockwave erupted through the space¡ªan old binding incantation, meant for breaking curses, meant for sealing things.


    It hit the altar, and for a single, terrible second¡ªeverything froze.


    The Hollow''s tendrils recoiled, its wailing, empty mouth snapping shut.


    I felt it.


    It was weakening.


    I had one shot.


    With a roar, I swung Skarnvalk in a final, crushing blow.


    The hammer met the altar''s heart.


    And the world exploded.


    When the dust settled, I was on my knees.


    The ruin master was gone¡ªvanished, her form disintegrated into black mist.


    The Hollow? Collapsing. Its form fading, unraveling, sucked back into the depths from which it came. The fissure began to close, sealing itself as if it had never existed.


    Lisett swayed, exhaustion evident in every movement. Karvek wiped blood from his brow, his breathing ragged.


    The Path''s forces were broken. Scattered. The survivors fled into the tunnels, leaving their dead behind.


    I exhaled slowly, planting Skarnvalk against the ground to steady myself.


    We''d won.


    But as I looked at the fading remains of the Hollow, I knew this wasn''t over.


    Something had seen me in the dark.


    And whatever it was, it was still waiting.

 Chapter 24

    The echoes of battle had faded, leaving only the low creak of settling stone and the ragged breathing of the survivors. The Hollow was still¡ªa yawning cavern of destruction and death¡ªbut we were alive. That counted for something.


    Karvek sat against a cracked column, his head tilted back, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Blood streaked his temple, half-masked by grime and sweat, but he wasn''t dead. That put him ahead of one of his men.


    Torv lay motionless near the ruin of the altar, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. I had seen enough dead men to know he wasn''t getting back up.


    Bren was alive, but barely. His left arm was limp at his side, a deep gash running from his shoulder to his wrist. Even in the dim torchlight, I could see the pallor of his skin, the way his fingers twitched involuntarily. The wound would fester if it wasn''t seen to.


    Orrin was worse off. He knelt in the dirt, his face empty. He wasn''t injured¡ªat least, not in a way I could see¡ªbut he stared blankly at the chasm where the Hollow had opened and then closed again. He didn''t blink. Didn''t speak. He just knelt there, eyes locked on nothing, like he was listening to something I couldn''t hear.


    Lisett wiped sweat from her brow, her hands shaking as she packed away the remnants of her bandages and vials. She had pushed herself too far with that last spell, and it showed.


    And me? My ribs ached. My knuckles were split open. The forge-wrought armor I''d so carefully crafted bore deep scrapes where I''d taken blows I should have dodged. But I was standing. That was enough.


    Now came the part I was good at¡ªfiguring out what we had left.


    I pushed myself up, scanning the ruins of the Path''s encampment. Scattered among the wreckage were supply crates, bedrolls, and half-burned parchments pinned to what remained of a shattered worktable. A few torches still flickered in rusted sconces, their light casting long, twisted shadows against the cavern walls.


    And there, near the remnants of the altar, half-buried beneath debris, was the chest.


    My stomach tightened.


    Karvek saw it the same moment I did. He dragged himself upright, his expression unreadable. "That''s it," he muttered. "The one from the caravan."


    Lisett, who had just been tending to Bren''s wounds, looked up sharply. "Are you sure?"


    Karvek wiped at his face, smearing blood across his cheek. "I''d bet my damn life on it."


    I frowned, stepping closer. The chest was reinforced ironwood, banded with black steel. Its surface was scratched, dented from its rough handling, but the runes carved into the bands were still visible. They weren''t decorative¡ªthey were a form of old dwarven warding script.


    And they had been broken.


    I knelt, tracing my fingers over the shattered marks. The Path hadn''t just stolen this. They''d forced it open.


    Lisett crouched beside me. "You recognize the script?"


    I exhaled, trying to piece it together. "Old dwarven. Not forge markings, though¡ªthis is something else. A containment glyph, maybe?" I looked up at her. "Whatever was in here wasn''t meant to be taken out."


    Karvek took a slow, measured step forward. "Then we need to find out what it was."


    I nodded and reached for the lid. It opened easily now, the hinges slightly warped from misuse. Inside, lined with black velvet, was a single iron-bound book.


    I stared at it.


    It wasn''t what I expected. Gold, weapons, relics¡ªthose were the things men stole and killed for. Not books.


    Lisett reached out hesitantly, then stopped. "There''s no magic on it. Not anymore."


    "How do you know?" I asked.


    She gave me a tired, knowing look. "Because if there was, we''d already be dead."


    Fair enough.


    I picked up the book carefully. The leather was cracked and worn, the iron bindings rusted in places. The cover bore no title, no author, just a single, deep engraving of a spiral within a circle¡ªa symbol I didn''t recognize.


    Karvek crossed his arms. "Any idea what it says?"


    I ran my thumb along the edge of the pages. "Not yet. But I''ll figure it out."


    "We don''t have time for riddles," Karvek growled. "If the Path wanted that thing badly enough to protect it with a ruin master, then whatever''s inside is worth more than we know."


    "Which means we don''t burn it," I snapped. "We learn from it. Otherwise, we''re fighting blind."


    Karvek scowled but didn''t argue.


    I tucked the book into my pack, securing it between layers of cloth to keep it from getting jostled. Then I turned my attention back to the Path''s remaining supplies.


    Weapons¡ªmostly standard issue. Crude iron swords, daggers, a few crossbows with spent bolts. Not much worth salvaging.


    Rations¡ªmoldy bread, dried meat, and a few bags of grain. Better than nothing.


    Alchemy supplies¡ªLisett picked through the shattered glass and spilled powders, salvaging what she could. Some of it might still be useful.


    Then I found something different.


    Beneath one of the overturned tables was a small, metal container, its surface smooth and unmarked. Unlike the other objects, this one wasn''t damaged¡ªas if the Hollow''s collapse hadn''t touched it at all.


    I held it up. "What do you make of this?"


    Lisett took it carefully, turning it in her hands. "It''s¡­warm?"


    That made me frown. The air was still ice-cold.


    She set it down and tapped at the latch. With a faint click, the container opened, revealing its contents.


    Inside was a single piece of obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, with veins of silver threading through it like trapped lightning.


    None of us spoke.


    Finally, Karvek broke the silence. "I don''t like that thing."


    Lisett, however, looked fascinated. "I''ve seen something like this before. In a ruin far to the south¡ªan artifact tied to some old magic." She glanced at me. "You ever work with a material like this?"


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    I shook my head. "No. But I know someone who might have."


    Karvek exhaled sharply. "Then we take it and get the hell out of here before more Path reinforcements show up."


    I agreed.


    But as I lifted the obsidian piece to examine it, something shifted in its reflection.


    Not my face.


    Something else.


    Something watching.


    I clenched my teeth and snapped the container shut.


    I''d figure it out later.


    For now, we had too many questions and not enough answers.


    And the only way forward was through.


    The air in Brugath''s Hollow was still thick with the metallic scent of old blood and damp stone as we made our way out of the ruined Path encampment. The obsidian artifact rested in my pack, wrapped tightly in cloth, but I could still feel it¡ªlike a coal left smoldering in the dark. The broken iron-bound book sat beside it, its pages still unread. Too many unknowns, too many questions hanging over us like a blade waiting to drop.


    Karvek''s men were battered but alive. Torv was dead, and they had nothing left but the rags on their backs and the weapons in their hands. They wouldn''t last long if we didn''t find a real safe place to recover.


    Lisett was quiet, her sharp eyes flicking to me more than once. She had felt it too¡ªthe wrongness of that obsidian stone, the way its reflection had moved when it shouldn''t have. But we didn''t speak about it. Not yet.


    We climbed carefully back up through the collapsed tunnels, retracing our steps toward the surface. Every few moments, I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting something to follow. Nothing did.


    For now.


    Elsewhere, in the City of Varngard. The rain fell in steady sheets, hissing against the rooftops and turning the narrow streets into sluggish rivers of filth. The city of Varngard never slept, not truly. It lived in the corners of shadows, in the flickering lamplight outside brothels and gambling dens, in the hushed conversations that took place over half-empty mugs.


    And in a quiet, candlelit chamber, a man known only as Tavren Coil turned the pages of an old, weathered journal.


    He read with the patience of a man who had spent years hunting answers. His dark, calloused fingers traced over the ink-stained pages, lips pressed into a thin line. The handwriting was old, rushed in places, controlled in others. A mixture of dwarven and common, the entries scrawled by hands that had long since turned to dust.


    But it wasn''t the words that interested him.


    It was the symbol that had been carefully inked into the margins of every third page.


    A spiral within a circle.


    Tavren had seen it before¡ªon ruined tablets pried from the wreckage of long-forgotten vaults, on the rings of dead men who had delved too deep into knowledge best left buried.


    And now, it was in this book.


    A book that had disappeared months ago, stolen from the hands of a ruin scholar whose throat had been slit in an alley not far from here. A book that was supposed to be lost forever.


    But it wasn''t.


    It had reappeared. And with it, so had the hunt.


    Tavren leaned back in his chair, the candlelight casting jagged shadows across his scarred features. He was no scholar¡ªhe was a tracker, a man who dealt in secrets the same way merchants dealt in coin.


    And someone had this book now.


    Someone who didn''t understand what they held.


    His mind flicked through the names of those who could have stolen it, but none of them fit. This wasn''t the work of some lowly smuggler or black-market peddler. This was something else. Something bigger.


    Tavren exhaled slowly, the flickering candle throwing uneasy light across the damp walls of his room. The rain outside grew heavier, hammering against the shutters like impatient fingers drumming on a table.


    Whoever had stolen the book from the Path''s caravan, whoever had dug their hands into this mess, they had no idea what they''d uncovered.


    But they would soon.


    And when they did, he would be there to claim it.


    Tavren Coil didn''t believe in destiny.


    But he did believe in tracking things to the end.


    The climb back to the surface was slow, exhausting. Every step felt like pulling against a tide, the weight of battle still pressing on my limbs. My hands ached from gripping Skarnvalk too tight, and my ribs throbbed with every breath.


    Karvek''s men were near their breaking point.


    Bren barely spoke, his wound still wrapped in a makeshift bandage that Lisett had tightened again just before we started moving. Orrin walked, but his mind was still in that Hollow, his gaze distant, his movements sluggish. Karvek didn''t push them. He knew they were running on fumes.


    Neither of us said it, but we both knew it¡ªthey wouldn''t make another battle. Not like this.


    We reached the tunnel''s entrance just before dawn. Pale light filtered through the jagged rocks above, and the cold mountain wind hit us like a hammer. The air was crisp, clean, untouched by the Hollow''s stagnant rot. I breathed it in deeply, trying to chase away the lingering weight of what we''d seen below.


    But something was wrong.


    The moment I stepped out, I felt it¡ªa stillness that didn''t belong. The way the wind didn''t quite carry sound the way it should.


    Lisett must have felt it too, because she stopped beside me, her hand drifting toward her staff.


    Karvek caught my eye. "We''re not alone."


    I slowly shifted Skarnvalk into a ready grip.


    Then I saw them.


    Figures at the edge of the ridge, half-shrouded in the mist of morning. Five of them. Cloaked, armored, standing in silence.


    Watching.


    My gut tightened.


    I had seen enough killers in my life to know when I was looking at one. And these men¡ªthey weren''t just scouts. They weren''t lost travelers.


    They were here for a reason.


    Lisett exhaled sharply. "Path?"


    "No," I said quietly. "Not this time."


    Because if they were Path, they would have attacked already.


    Karvek''s grip tightened on his sword. "Then who the hell are they?"


    The lead figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His hood was down, revealing a face lined with age but hard as forged steel.


    His eyes locked onto mine.


    And when he spoke, his voice was like gravel grinding over stone.


    "Doran Thargrimm."


    He knew my name.


    That was never good.


    I didn''t lower my hammer.


    "That''s me," I said. "What''s it to you?"


    The man didn''t smile. "You have something that does not belong to you."


    His eyes flicked to my pack.


    The book. The obsidian artifact.


    I clenched my jaw.


    "So do a lot of people," I said. "You''ll have to be more specific."


    The man exhaled, slow and measured. Then he reached into his cloak and dropped something into the dirt at my feet.


    A black iron ring, engraved with a spiral within a circle.


    My blood went cold.


    Because that was the same symbol on the book.


    And whatever this was, whoever this man was¡ªI had just stepped into something far bigger than I was ready for.


    The rain came down in sheets, turning the coastline into a restless, churning mess of black waves and jagged rock. The wind howled through the gnarled remains of ancient shipwrecks, their broken ribs jutting from the surf like the bones of forgotten leviathans.


    Tavren Coil stood at the water''s edge, wrapped in a tattered ash-grey cloak, the hood pulled low over his face. His fingers curled absently around the silver sigil at his throat¡ªa spiral-within-a-circle, the same symbol that had marked the book now in Doran Thargrimm''s hands, though neither of them knew it yet.


    His boots sank into the cold, sucking mud, but he didn''t move. He was watching the water.


    Waiting.


    Behind him, three men stood nervously, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Mercenaries, though not the kind that made names for themselves. They had the look of deserters¡ªarmor that didn''t match, weapons scavenged rather than bought. One of them, a wiry man with a deep scar along his jaw, finally worked up the courage to speak.


    "You''re sure he''s coming?"


    Tavren didn''t look away from the horizon. "He''s late."


    The mercenary exhaled through his nose, annoyed. "This job is getting worse by the day. You said the Path would¡ª"


    A low horn echoed across the water, cutting him off.


    The mercenaries tensed, hands drifting to the hilts of their mismatched weapons. But Tavren remained still, his gaze locked on the dark mass now emerging from the fog.


    A ship.


    No sails. No flags. Only a hulking shadow, silent against the storm.


    The hull was black iron, reinforced with strange silver plating that seemed to drink the light. There were no torches aboard, no lanterns¡ªonly the faint, pulsing glow of something beneath the deck, something that sent ripples through the water like a second heartbeat.


    The mercenary with the scar swallowed hard. "That''s¡­ not a normal ship."


    Tavren finally turned, his sharp, lined features illuminated by the first flicker of unnatural light from the vessel''s hull. His expression was unreadable, but something in his cold, calculating eyes made the mercenary step back.


    "It''s not a ship," Tavren said. "Not in the way you''d understand."


    The mercenary shifted uneasily. "Then what in the hells is it?"


    Tavren smiled. It didn''t reach his eyes.


    "Payment."


    The mercenaries exchanged glances. They had been hired for simple work¡ªescorting Tavren Coil through Path-controlled territory, ensuring that his cargo reached the right hands. But none of them had asked who he truly worked for. None of them had asked why the Path wanted him alive so badly.


    And now, it was too late to run.


    The ship came to a stop just off the shallows, the water beneath it unnaturally still. A single figure stepped onto the deck, clad in blackened steel, a helm covering his face. He carried no weapon. He didn''t need one.


    Tavren''s grip on the sigil at his throat tightened.


    The mercenary with the scar took another step back. "Coil¡­ what the fuck did you get us into?"


    Tavren didn''t answer.


    Because the figure on the deck had just lifted one hand, palm facing skyward.


    And the sea itself began to rise.

 Chapter 25

    The tide didn''t move naturally. It didn''t roll, didn''t crest¡ªdidn''t crash against the jagged shoreline like it should have. Instead, the water simply rose in perfect, unnatural symmetry, a massive wall of black ocean lifting toward the storm-wracked sky.


    The mercenary with the scar¡ªDanik, he''d called himself, though Tavren Coil suspected it wasn''t his real name¡ªstaggered back, his boots skidding in the mud. His hand fumbled at the hilt of his sword, but he didn''t draw it. There was no enemy to stab. No battle to fight.


    Because how in the hells did you fight the sea itself?


    Coil didn''t move. He only watched.


    The silver sigil at his throat was hot, burning against his skin, as if something was answering the silent call he hadn''t realized he was making. The black iron ship remained still, untouched by the unnatural surge of water, as if it existed separately from the world around it.


    The figure on the deck stood unmoving, his palm still raised, his face hidden behind the blackened steel of his helm.


    No insignia. No crest. No banners.


    Whoever he was, he wasn''t a servant of the Path. He was something else entirely.


    Danik finally found his voice, though it was raw with disbelief. "This¡­ this isn''t what we agreed to."


    Coil exhaled slowly, watching the wall of water hover above them, shifting but never falling. He could feel it now¡ªthe shape of something inside it.


    Not a ship. Not a force of nature.


    Something alive.


    Coil turned, finally giving Danik a flat look. "And what, exactly, did you think you were signing up for?"


    Danik''s mouth opened, closed.


    The other two mercenaries¡ªone missing half an ear, the other with a jagged brand on his wrist that marked him as a former slave¡ªlooked just as lost. They weren''t new to war, that much was clear. But war had rules.


    This? This was something else.


    The sea shuddered again, a deep, groaning noise vibrating through the air as the thing in the water shifted. The mercenaries weren''t the only ones afraid¡ªeven the wrecks along the shore seemed to react, their splintered wood groaning as if the bones of old ships still remembered what it was to sink.


    The figure on the black ship finally lowered his hand.


    The sea fell. Not like a wave¡ªnothing so natural.


    It simply¡­ dropped.


    A soundless crash. No spray. No impact. The water swallowed itself whole, rippling outward as if nothing had ever disturbed it.


    The tension in the air remained.


    Tavren Coil turned to face the figure on the deck, his hands loose at his sides, though his every muscle was primed to move. He was no fool. He had seen men and things who bent the natural order, who twisted it to their own designs.


    But this?


    This was something ancient.


    The figure spoke.


    "You are late."


    His voice was low, measured¡ªalmost gentle. It made Danik flinch harder than the rising sea had.


    Tavren shrugged. "The Path''s patrols are getting thicker. Even for me, slipping through their borders is becoming a chore."


    The figure didn''t reply. He only stepped forward, closer to the edge of the ship, his faceless helm tilting downward to regard the three mercenaries who suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.


    Danik clearly wanted to run. But he knew better.


    The other two were frozen, watching with the kind of reverence that only came when men realized they had seen something that shouldn''t exist.


    Coil sighed and touched the sigil at his throat. "You have what I asked for?"


    A long pause.


    Then the figure lifted a black-iron coffer, setting it gently on the ship''s railing. The moment it touched the surface, the metal shuddered, as if something inside it was still alive and moving.


    Danik made the mistake of taking a half-step toward it.


    The figure turned his head slightly toward him.


    Danik froze.


    For a breathless moment, Coil swore he saw the faintest shimmer in the air¡ªsomething unseen coiling toward the mercenary, testing his presence, deciding whether or not he deserved to continue existing.


    Danik took a deliberate step back.


    The shimmer vanished.


    Coil exhaled. He knew better than to press for details.


    Instead, he took the coffer from the railing, feeling the unnatural chill that radiated from it even through his gloves.


    "The Path will be looking for this," Coil murmured, more to himself than anyone else.


    The figure inclined his head. "Let them look. It changes nothing."


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    Coil smiled faintly. "You keep saying that."


    "And yet, here you are."


    Coil didn''t argue.


    He turned, hoisting the coffer under his arm and gesturing for the mercenaries to follow. Danik hesitated, but he didn''t argue. He had already survived one encounter with something unnatural tonight. He wasn''t eager to risk another.


    The three men fell in step behind Coil, making their way back toward the inland path. The rain still lashed the coast, but the storm felt quieter now, as if it had spent all its rage on the thing in the water.


    Danik finally spoke as they crested the ridge.


    "You still haven''t told us who you''re working for."


    Coil didn''t look back.


    "That''s because you don''t want to know."


    A single candle burned.


    A single eye opened, a slit of golden light in the darkness.


    And something whispered a name.


    Not Tavren Coil.


    Not Doran Thargrimm.


    Something older.


    Something that had been waiting a long, long time.


    The iron ring lay in the dirt between us, blackened and engraved with that damned spiral within a circle. A mark I''d seen before. A mark I''d found on the book.


    I kept my face still, but inside, my thoughts were tightening like a forge clamp. This wasn''t coincidence. Not anymore.


    The man in front of me¡ªtall, wrapped in a travel-stained cloak, face mostly shadowed¡ªwasn''t moving. He stood like he was waiting. Testing me. His hands rested at his sides, empty, but I wasn''t stupid enough to think that meant he wasn''t dangerous.


    Karvek shifted slightly, his weight adjusting on the balls of his feet. He saw it too. Whoever this was, they weren''t just some roadside scavenger. Lisett, to her credit, remained as she always did¡ªstill, observant, calculating.


    I knelt, picked up the ring between two fingers, turned it over. It was old, the engravings worn but deep. The metal itself had an odd feel to it, like it had been forged from something heavier than just iron.


    "You carrying more of these?" I asked, voice low.


    The man didn''t answer right away. He tilted his head slightly. "I was told you''d recognize it."


    That made my jaw tighten. "By who?"


    "A mutual acquaintance."


    Bad answer. I felt Karvek''s tension rise. His men, those who were still standing, were shifting slightly, spreading out just enough to give themselves a better stance if this turned ugly.


    "You''ll have to do better than that," I said, voice flat. "Mutual acquaintances don''t usually involve cryptic rings and dark ruins full of dead men."


    The man exhaled, slow and measured. "No. They don''t."


    Then, with a slight gesture, he lifted his hand¡ªand his sleeve shifted just enough for me to see what was beneath.


    Another ring. Black iron. Same spiral. Worn against a calloused finger.


    My stomach twisted.


    Lisett saw it too, her grip on her staff tightening.


    Karvek, though, didn''t waste words. He moved.


    Steel sang as he drew his sword, the scrape of metal against sheath sharp in the cold air.


    "Enough games," he snapped. "You''ve got five seconds to explain who you are before I open your throat."


    The man didn''t move. Didn''t even flinch. "If I were your enemy," he said smoothly, "I wouldn''t have come alone."


    That gave Karvek pause.


    The mercenaries shifted, some casting uneasy glances around the treeline. They expected an ambush. But I knew better.


    This wasn''t an ambush. This was a message.


    And I was already too deep in it.


    I let the silence stretch between us, watching the stranger closely. The ring was still in my hand, cold against my skin. Heavy in a way I couldn''t explain.


    Karvek was waiting on me. Lisett, too.


    I made my decision.


    I closed my fingers around the ring and shoved it into my pack.


    "Fine," I said. "You want to talk? Talk."


    The stranger inclined his head slightly. "I''ll tell you what I can. But not here."


    Karvek muttered something under his breath but didn''t argue. He knew we were still too battered to risk another fight.


    "Then we move," I said. "We need supplies, shelter, and time."


    The words tasted bitter. Time wasn''t something I had much of anymore.


    But I wasn''t leaving this unfinished.


    Not while the Path still breathed.


    Not while that damned book sat in my pack, waiting for me to understand just what the hell I was holding.


    The wind howled through the broken trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and old blood. The storm that had battered the mountains earlier had softened into a cold drizzle, but the ground beneath our boots was still slick with mud and scattered with the remnants of the dead¡ªPath operatives, ruin handlers, men who had thought they were wielding power only to be swallowed by it.


    We had survived the Hollow, but survival meant nothing if we didn''t keep moving.


    Lisett adjusted the straps of her pack, her face paler than usual, exhaustion weighing on her like a second skin. Karvek wiped rain from his eyes, his grip tight on his newly forged sword. The blade was stained dark with whatever foulness had leaked from that altar when it cracked open. His men¡ªwhat was left of them¡ªwere in worse shape. Jorren''s ribs were wrapped tight in a bloodstained cloth, and he moved stiffly, gritting his teeth with every step. Tobren''s arm was hanging useless at his side. Varric was gone. Broken and left behind in the Hollow.


    The stranger with the iron ring walked a step behind me. I could feel his eyes on me, waiting, watching. He hadn''t given a name. Hadn''t asked for ours. But he had known who I was before we''d ever spoken. That alone made him a threat.


    We moved west, away from the ruin. The mountains loomed behind us, cold and indifferent, as if they had already forgotten what we had done. I envied them for that.


    Lisett''s voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. "Where are we going?"


    "Vraknheim," I said.


    Karvek frowned. "That''s a long damn march."


    "It''s the only place we can regroup." I shifted the weight of my pack. "We need supplies, rest, weapons, and information. We won''t find any of that out here."


    Vraknheim wasn''t home¡ªnot anymore. But it was one of the few places left where I knew the right people. Or at least, the kind of people who could be bought, threatened, or convinced to keep their mouths shut.


    Lisett sighed, rubbing her eyes. "That''s a long way to go with half a dead crew."


    "Then let''s not waste time," I muttered.


    The days bled together.


    We followed the old roads, sticking to the valleys where the trees were thickest and the winds were weaker. The cold gnawed at our bones, and the rain didn''t let up. Every morning, Lisett changed bandages and checked wounds with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many men die from slow infections. Karvek kept watch when we camped, his sword never far from reach.


    Jorren didn''t last.


    By the third night, his breath had gone shallow, his body curling into itself as the fever took hold. Lisett did what she could, but the Hollow had marked him. His skin had taken on that grey, waxy pallor that meant he was already halfway gone.


    By morning, he wasn''t breathing.


    Karvek buried him with his own hands, saying nothing. The dirt was too wet to hold, and by the time he was done, his arms were shaking. But he didn''t stop. He didn''t let anyone else do it for him.


    When it was over, he stood, wiping the mud from his hands. "Vraknheim," he said, his voice rough. "We get there. We get what we need."


    No one argued.


    The gates loomed ahead, thick with soot and damp from the endless drizzle. Vraknheim was not a welcoming city. It was built on the backs of industry, its veins filled with molten metal and labor that never ceased. The forges never went cold. Neither did the crime.


    I had left this place years ago. But now, it was the only place left to go.


    The guards at the gate barely spared us a glance. Men passed in and out¡ªmerchants, sellswords, traders from the north bringing in shipments of iron and coal.


    We weren''t the only ones coming here to disappear.


    Lisett pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "Where first?"


    I took a deep breath, letting the scent of forge-smoke fill my lungs. It smelled like home. It smelled like a past I wasn''t sure I wanted to remember.


    "To the Black Anvil," I said. "I need to see an old friend."


    Karvek smirked faintly, though it didn''t reach his eyes. "One that owes you a favor?"


    "One that doesn''t ask too many questions," I corrected.


    We stepped into the city, our boots heavy with mud, our bodies worn thin by the road.


    I could feel eyes on us already.


    Vraknheim wasn''t the kind of place where you returned unnoticed.


    And somewhere in its streets, someone had already marked us as prey.

 Chapter 26

    Doran moved through the streets of Vraknheim with deliberate caution, every step measured, every breath slow. The city''s heavy air was thick with forge-smoke, damp stone, and the ever-present stink of too many bodies crammed into too little space. The Black Anvil was close¡ªhe could almost hear the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel through the murmur of the streets.


    Lisett walked beside him, hood pulled low, her sharp eyes scanning the alleys and doorways like she expected trouble. She wasn''t wrong. Trouble was exactly what followed men like them.


    Karvek and what remained of his mercenaries trailed behind, a sorry-looking bunch, battle-worn and restless. They needed rest, proper food, and weapons that weren''t on the verge of breaking. But they had nothing left¡ªno coin, no supplies, no easy way to rebuild. And Vraknheim was not kind to the desperate.


    Doran adjusted the strap of his pack. The obsidian shard and the iron-bound book rested inside, wrapped tight to keep their wrongness contained. But he could feel them. Even now.


    He had too many unknowns. And he hated unknowns.


    The Black Anvil wasn''t much to look at from the outside. A squat, reinforced stone building with a single, soot-streaked sign hanging above the heavy iron door. No windows. No nonsense. Just a forge built for work, not for show.


    Doran rapped his knuckles against the metal.


    No response.


    He frowned and knocked again, harder this time.


    Still nothing.


    Karvek stepped closer. "You sure this friend of yours is still breathing?"


    "Not sure of much these days," Doran muttered. His fingers twitched toward Skarnvalk''s grip as unease crawled up his spine.


    Then, finally, there was a noise from inside¡ªsomething heavy scraping against the floor, a lock turning.


    The door creaked open just wide enough for a single eye to peer out, bloodshot and lined with exhaustion.


    "By the Deep¡­" The voice was rough, cracked from too much pipe smoke and not enough sleep. "If it isn''t Doran bloody Thargrimm."


    Doran exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "It''s been a while, Varrik."


    The door opened the rest of the way, revealing a burly dwarf with a burn-scarred face, a thick salt-and-iron beard, and arms covered in faded tattoos of runes and hammer-marks. Varrik''s apron was smudged with soot, and the unmistakable scent of burning oil clung to him. His gaze flicked over Doran''s group, his smirk fading.


    "Who are they?" he asked.


    "People who need a roof and a drink," Doran said. "And I need a forge."


    Varrik grunted, then stepped aside. "Get in before someone gets ideas about picking your pockets."


    Varrik locked the door behind them, shooting a look toward Karvek and his men. "They look like they''re two steps from dropping dead."


    "They are," Doran admitted. "We need food. Rest. And I need to see what I can do with what''s left of their gear."


    Varrik scratched his beard. "Coin?"


    Doran gave him a dry look. "You think I''d ask for favors if I had coin?"


    The old smith grunted. "Figures." He turned toward the forge, rolling his shoulders. "You still know your way around the tools?"


    Doran flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar ache in his knuckles. "Better than I know my way around people."


    Varrik smirked. "Then get to work."


    Doran shed his cloak, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped toward the anvil.


    He had steel to mend.


    And an old war to prepare for.


    Elsewhere.


    The rain hadn''t stopped. It slicked the stone streets of Varngard in a glistening sheen of filth, running in rivulets between broken cobbles, carrying rot and blood into the gutters. In a shuttered corner room above a disused apothecary, Tavren Coil watched the water drum against the glass, one hand resting lightly on the worn cover of the journal before him.


    The spiral-within-a-circle was faint now, ink bled with age and weather. But it was the same. Exactly the same as the one on the ring. The one on the coffer. The one in his memories.


    The room was spartan¡ªjust a desk, a narrow cot, and a brazier burning low. A half-drunk cup of something pungent sat untouched beside the journal. Tavren didn''t look away from the page.


    Because he''d found a name.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    One that hadn''t been spoken aloud in centuries, buried beneath misdirection, half-truths, and rewritten records. A name etched into the deepest layers of Path archives, known only to those who had been part of its first formation.


    "Orsendar," Tavren said quietly, the word tasting like ash.


    Behind him, a floorboard creaked.


    Danik, still pale from the coast, stood awkwardly in the doorway. His scarred jaw worked soundlessly before words caught up with breath. "You said we''d be moving soon."


    "We will." Tavren didn''t turn. "Did you get what I asked for?"


    Danik hesitated, then stepped forward and placed a bundle on the desk. Wrapped in oilcloth, it clinked faintly¡ªglass or metal, hard to say.


    Tavren unfolded the bundle. Inside were five vials, each filled with a thick, dark liquid that didn''t reflect the firelight quite right. Alchemical. Rare. The kind of thing the Path confiscated and studied. Or destroyed.


    Tavren studied one, swirling it gently. The viscosity was wrong. Alive, almost. Not blood, not entirely.


    "Where did this come from?" he asked.


    Danik swallowed. "Black Hollow Market. South of Harrow Bend. They said it came from beneath the ruins of Fennak''s Cradle. Old mining town. Collapsed during the War of Ash."


    "Did they say who brought it in?"


    Danik shook his head. "Only that he had a brand on his tongue. Said nothing. Just took his coin and vanished."


    Tavren''s eyes narrowed. A tongue-brand meant old Path. The kind of mark given to traitors or prisoners who''d seen something they shouldn''t have.


    He unstoppered one vial and dipped a silver-tipped needle into it. The metal hissed softly, and the sigil around his throat pulsed in response.


    "Yes," Tavren murmured. "It''s reacting."


    "To what?" Danik asked, unease creeping into his voice.


    Tavren finally turned to look at him. "The same thing that''s drawing ruin masters out of their holes. The same thing your old employers pretend doesn''t exist."


    Danik frowned. "I thought this was about the book."


    "It is," Tavren said. "But the book''s just a ledger. A record of what came before. It won''t stop what''s waking up. But it might tell us how to slow it."


    "And this?" Danik gestured at the vials.


    "Insurance."


    Tavren wrapped the bundle again and stood. "We leave for Gorshen Pass tomorrow. There''s a vault buried beneath the northern wall. Pre-Path. Pre-Kingsblood Accord. I want what''s inside it."


    "And if someone already found it?"


    Tavren smiled faintly. "Then we take it back."


    He blew out the candle.


    Outside, far across the sea, the coast still bore the scars of that silent ship. A new tide lapped against the shore now¡ªone that had not been seen in centuries. Salt and shadow mingled in the breeze.


    A blade that wasn''t a blade lay buried in the sand, its hilt humming with latent heat.


    And something beneath the waves stirred again. Waiting.


    The forge roared like a caged beast behind me, its breath hot on my neck as I hammered the edge of the blade into submission. Sweat stung my eyes, and each swing sent tremors through my shoulders, but I didn''t slow. This wasn''t just work¡ªit was survival.


    Varrik had let me into the Black Anvil without asking too many questions. He always had a nose for trouble and the good sense to keep it to himself. But he wasn''t running a charity. I owed him for the steel, for the roof over our heads, and for the fact he hadn''t thrown Karvek''s half-dead mercenaries back into the street. Coin had to come from somewhere, and fast.


    So I was making swords.


    Not the kind I''d forge for myself. No runes. No clever mechanisms. Just sleek, gleaming steel with clean lines and an edge sharp enough to fetch a merchant''s admiration¡ªor a sellsword''s coin. I''d shaped the blades to look expensive. Fancy crossguards, polished fullers, the kind of superficial touches that drew high prices in a city like Vraknheim. Showpieces that cut just as well, but didn''t hint at deeper purpose.


    Karvek sat nearby with a bottle of something harsh, one boot off, inspecting a swollen ankle. He hadn''t said much since we arrived. His men were healing, slow as it was, but Jorren was still dead, and none of them were taking it lightly. I didn''t blame them. The Hollow had cost us more than blood¡ªit had shaken them. Even Lisett was quieter than usual, though I could feel her watching me from the shadows of the forge whenever she thought I wasn''t paying attention.


    The stack of finished blades grew slowly. I was careful with each one. Even if they were meant to sell, I wasn''t about to put my name to garbage. Varrik had offered to call in a few favours¡ªsaid he knew a couple traders who might take the blades off my hands in bulk if I kept them plain-looking. No rune glow, nothing to catch the eye of the wrong kind of buyer. The Path had ears in Vraknheim. Best not to let them know I was back.


    "How many more?" Varrik asked, his voice cutting through the clang of hammer on steel.


    "Three, maybe four," I said, not looking up. "Should cover the steel, the roof, and a bit left for gear."


    He grunted. "You always were the responsible sort. Shame you''re terrible at making friends."


    "I''ve got you, don''t I?" I smirked.


    "Unfortunately," he muttered, walking off to check the stockroom.


    Truth was, I''d been thinking about reaching out to someone else¡ªThorin Grelt, a retired coin broker who used to fund ore expeditions before the Path made mining a suicide job. I''d traded with him once, years ago, and last I heard, he was still alive and bitter in Vraknheim''s lower quarter. Might be willing to broker a few deals, get us some coin faster if I played it right.


    Lisett finally stepped into the light, her arms folded across her chest. She''d changed into a clean tunic, but her eyes were still tired.


    "You planning on sleeping tonight?" she asked.


    "When there''s coin in the lockbox and food on the table."


    She didn''t argue. Just leaned against the wall, silent for a moment. Then, "I heard talk in the market this morning. A man asking around for ruin-touched weapons. Quiet-like. Doesn''t sound local."


    I set the hammer down, my hand flexing.


    "Who?"


    She shook her head. "Didn''t catch a name. But he''s got coin. And he''s not just a collector. He''s trying to find something."


    I frowned, wiping my hands on a cloth. That wasn''t good. The last time someone came asking about runes, we ended up waist-deep in a ruin bleeding green.


    "Keep an ear out," I said. "If he starts asking about dwarves or hammer-wielders, let me know."


    She nodded once. "You think it''s Path?"


    "Could be. Or someone worse."


    I didn''t say it aloud, but I was thinking about the book again. The spiral-within-a-circle. About the man who''d dropped that iron ring at my feet, back near the Hollow. Whatever that symbol meant, it wasn''t done with me yet.


    Vraknheim was just a stop. A place to rest, to earn, to rebuild. But the next step wasn''t far off. The others needed better gear. New armour. And more than that¡ª we needed answers.


    But first, I had to get us out of debt. One blade at a time.


    Elsewhere, in a smoke-drenched chamber tucked behind Vraknheim''s eastern slums, Thorin Grelt poured over a page torn from an old trade ledger.


    The ink was smudged, but the name was still visible: Thargrimm, D.


    Thorin grunted, rubbing a calloused thumb over the entry. He hadn''t seen that name in years. But if the rumours were true¡ªif the dwarf with the hammer was really back in the city¡ªthen this might be his chance to settle an old debt of his own. One that went far deeper than gold.


    He rose, donned his battered cloak, and stepped into the cold, ash-swept street.


    Time to see if ghosts really did return to Vraknheim.

 Chapter 27

    The wind outside the Black Anvil had teeth. I heard it bite through the soot-caked shutters just as I finished quenching the blade¡ªplain steel, mirror-polished, no runes. Just enough embellishment to whisper "expensive" in a merchant''s greedy little ear. I set it with the others on the rack. Seven blades total, not counting the one I''d kept for Varvek. It wasn''t much, but it was a start.


    "That the last one?" came a voice behind me¡ªLisett.


    I nodded, not looking up. My shoulders ached like hammered iron. "For now."


    She crossed the forge, pausing beside the stack. Her fingers hovered over one of the hilts. "They''ll sell well. Fancy-looking. But not flashy enough to attract the wrong kind of attention."


    "That''s the plan." I straightened, rolling out the tightness in my neck. "We need coin more than we need glory."


    Her gaze flicked to me. "You ever get tired of doing everything the hard way?"


    I smirked. "Easy ways get you dead."


    Before she could retort, a knock came at the outer door¡ªthree sharp raps, spaced with the deliberate rhythm of someone who didn''t want to be mistaken for a thief.


    I froze.


    Varrik wasn''t expecting anyone. Karvek and his last man, Felix, were out drinking off their bruises, and Lisett was here. Which meant¡ª


    I grabbed Skarnvalk, just in case.


    Varrik grumbled something from the stairwell as he trudged down and undid the iron latch. The door creaked open, and through the rising hiss of the wind, I heard that voice. Gravel and whiskey, wrapped in old grudges.


    "¡­Doran Thargrimm. I''ll be damned."


    I stepped into the light.


    Thorin Grelt hadn''t changed much¡ªolder, sure, with deeper creases around the eyes and a limp he tried to hide, but the same barrel-chested frame, the same cloak fraying at the seams from years of being too stubborn to replace it. He wore coin-broker''s leathers, but the dust on them said he hadn''t done real trade in months.


    "Speak of ghosts," I muttered, "and one shows up on your doorstep."


    His eyes narrowed as they found me. "You''ve aged, Thargrimm."


    "Better than the alternative."


    We stood in silence. The last time we''d parted, it hadn''t exactly been on good terms. Back before the Path turned the world sideways, I''d taken a mining contract in the Blacksmoke Deeps¡ªThorin''s coin had backed it. Then the Path swept in, wiped half the crew, and left the rest of us broken and scrambling out with little more than scorched boots and nightmares. Thorin had called it negligence. I''d called it survival.


    He took a breath. "You cost me a lot of gold."


    I crossed my arms. "And I buried good men dragging your iron-headed operation back above ground. We''re even."


    His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on why you''re back."


    "I''m making swords," I said flatly. "Selling steel. Rebuilding."


    "After all these years?" he asked. "No more ruin diving? No more hammering holes into ancient wards for kicks?"


    "I''m not here to stir dust, Grelt. Just earn coin and keep my people fed."


    He glanced around¡ªat Lisett, who was watching quietly, and then toward the forge, where heat still shimmered from the anvil. "Varrik still letting you use the place?"


    "Steel and fire don''t argue," I said. "They just do the job."


    His eyes lingered on one of the swords on the rack. "You ever think about selling more than just blades?"


    I frowned. "What are you after?"


    He raised both hands. "Not me. Word''s out that a certain dwarf''s been cutting a bloody swath through the Path. Trouble is, half the brokers think it''s myth. The other half think it''s opportunity. I''ve got contacts¡ªquiet ones. They buy high-end steel for collector clients. Sword dancers, duelling houses, even a few rich bastards who just want something sharp to hang above their hearth."


    "You want to broker for me."


    "I want to make gold," he said. "And I think you do too."


    I glanced back at the forge. My hands were raw, my shoulders sore. Karvek''s men needed armour. Lisett could use better tools¡ªvials, proper gear. And I still hadn''t figured out how the hell we were going to afford travel out of this cursed city.


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    I looked him in the eye. "What''s your cut?"


    "Fifteen percent."


    I snorted. "Ten."


    "Twelve and a half. And I vet the clients. No Path. No mercs with too much curiosity."


    I paused. That told me one thing¡ªhe didn''t know what I''d been doing out on the road. Not in detail. Maybe he''d heard whispers, but he didn''t know about the obsidian shard. Or the book. Or what I''d done in Tharn''s Hollow. If he did, he''d be walking the other way.


    I nodded. "You get clean buyers, I''ll keep the steel hot."


    He offered his hand. "Old times, then?"


    "Let''s not romanticize it."


    Still, I shook.


    That night, we met upstairs over a chipped bottle of cask-rot and an oil-stained ledger. Thorin had names. Varrik, for all his cranky tendencies, agreed to look over the first buyers and keep the blades safe until pickup.


    Lisett was already drafting a list of salves and reagents we could afford if the coin came through. Karvek muttered something about armour weights and adjustable fittings. For once, the forge felt more like a war camp than a grave.


    It wouldn''t last.


    But it didn''t need to.


    It just needed to get us through the next storm.


    Vraknheim didn''t change for anyone.


    The snow in the gutters was black with soot, and the smell of the tannery district clung to the back of your throat like a curse you couldn''t spit out. Even now, walking with Thorin Grelt back toward the markets, the streets hummed with that same tension I remembered from years ago¡ªlike a forge too hot, one hammer-strike away from collapse.


    Thorin limped slightly on his left leg. Old wound, likely from his bouncer days before he turned coin-broker. He hadn''t asked questions when I agreed to let him move the swords. Not yet. But I saw it¡ªhow his gaze kept drifting toward my hammer, toward the blade at my back, the runeless steel that didn''t shine like it should in the lamplight.


    He knew I was different.


    He just didn''t know why.


    "You still got that temper, Doran?" he asked, voice casual as we passed a rusted iron shrine to Molgrym. "Back in Blacksmoke, it was the first thing to show up and the last to leave."


    "I keep it under the anvil," I muttered.


    "Still burns, though. I can see it."


    I didn''t answer.


    He led us to a cramped stone outpost at the edge of the South Market. No signs, no heraldry¡ªjust a thick iron door with a slot at eye level and a battered knocker shaped like a wolf''s jaw.


    He rapped once. A pause. Twice more.


    The slot scraped open.


    "Grelt," Thorin said. "Tell Vek I''ve got something sharp he''ll want to see."


    A grunt. The door clicked and opened.


    Inside was nothing but stone, dust, and heat. A brazier burned low, and a few crates sat half-unpacked near the walls. Thorin motioned me forward.


    "This is one of the safer places to broker steel without someone stabbing you for it. Vek''s no friend of the Path or their scavengers. He moves merchandise for clients that don''t ask too many questions."


    A man stepped out from the shadows¡ªtall, broad, with a scar across his lip and arms like braided rope. He looked at me like he was appraising a mule for slaughter.


    "So this is the smith?" Vek rasped. "Don''t look like much."


    "Keep talking," I said. "See how much less I look like after you''re missing teeth."


    Thorin sighed. "Vek, don''t start."


    The man smirked. "Fine. Let''s see the wares."


    I pulled back the cloth covering the blades¡ªseven in total, none of them enchanted, but each one built with precision, balance, and enough flair in the hilt to charm a noble into overpaying. Vek examined each one without a word, holding them to the light, checking balance, bite, and the flex of the steel.


    "These''ll sell," he muttered. "High-end duelists, maybe a guildmaster''s brat trying to show off. That twisted fuller on this one¡ªlooks exotic. You make that choice?"


    I nodded. "Takes the weight off the blade''s belly. Cuts faster on the draw."


    "Could be worth extra to the right eye. I''ll move them. Quietly."


    We set terms. Vek would take a cut. Thorin would handle the accounts. I''d get updates through runners from the coin-broker''s circle. First sale would go out tonight¡ªto a Surnathi silk baron''s youngest son looking to buy his first blade.


    Gods help him.


    Later that evening, back at Varrik''s forgehouse, I found Lisett hunched over the old stone counter in the upstairs alcove. She''d mapped out a shopping list¡ªinks, salves, boiled resin, some damned thing called "prismroot" I was pretty sure didn''t exist outside apothecary hallucinations.


    "You planning to start a war," I asked, "or a garden?"


    She looked up, brushing hair from her ink-smudged brow. "Both, maybe. If I had the gear, I could make six or seven functional tinctures. Not proper alchemy, but enough to keep us breathing if things go sideways again."


    Karvek entered behind me, lugging a satchel over one shoulder. The new sword I''d forged him¡ªno runes, but with a leaf-shaped blade and thick crossguard¡ªhung at his hip. He looked less ragged than when we''d met. More grounded.


    "You sell the blades?" he asked.


    "First one''s going tonight."


    He nodded. "Might have a way to help with coin too. A pit-fight crew near Eastcliff runs ''exhibition bouts.'' Not to the death. No weapons. Just fists and bragging rights. They pay if you draw a crowd."


    "You volunteering?"


    He gave me a slow, lopsided grin. "Thought you might."


    I groaned. "Great."


    The frost had started to rot the cobblestones by the time we crossed into Eastcliff proper. Vraknheim''s slums always stank in winter¡ªsmoke, piss, and the sour breath of too many people packed too close. There was a canal nearby, mostly frozen, with thin sheets of ice like cracked glass. Rats the size of boot heels gnawed at fish guts left by the wharf.


    I walked with Karvek at my side. Neither of us said much.


    I''d left my gear at Varrik''s. Armour was too heavy for what we were doing, and weapons were banned in the pits. Didn''t stop some bastards from trying to cheat, but if you got caught, they broke your thumbs and dropped you outside the South Gate without boots. No one cheated twice.


    I wore a roughspun tunic under a thick wool coat, just to keep the chill off. The coat reeked of smoke and forge oil. My boots were reinforced leather¡ªold, but comfortable. I''d stripped everything down to the essentials: fists, muscle, and grit.


    Karvek had found the place.


    Said the fights were clean¡ªrelatively speaking¡ªand that the coin was real. Said they liked new blood, especially dwarves. Said a lot of things. I didn''t argue. We needed money. Lisett needed reagents, Karvek needed armour, and I needed steel.


    We turned down a narrow alley where the stone gave way to packed dirt. There was a longhouse at the end¡ªlow-roofed, squat, with carved posts blackened from old fires. A faint drumbeat thrummed from within, steady and low, like a forge bellows working overtime.


    Karvek stepped aside and motioned with his chin. "You sure?"


    I didn''t answer. I stepped through the door.

 Chapter 28

    The inside was heat and shadow. Smoke clung to the air like old stories. The pit sat at the centre¡ªsunken into the floor, ringed by rough-hewn wood and iron-studded beams. Torches smoked in sconces above, throwing flickering light across the crowd. Most of them were workers¡ªdockhands, hauliers, gutter born thugs. A few wore better coats, their eyes sharp, watching like wolves at a lamb auction.


    The announcer was a tall half-orc with a voice like thunder and broken glass. Scarred from chin to crown, with tattoos of clan-runes across his neck. He saw Karvek and gave a small nod.


    "New blood?" the half-orc growled.


    Karvek pointed to me. "Dwarf. Strong one."


    The half-orc looked me over like I was meat on a butcher''s hook.


    "Name?"


    "Doran."


    "No house?"


    I shook my head. "No one worth mentioning."


    "Weight class: heavy. You''re up third. Don''t die."


    I pulled my coat off and handed it to Karvek. The air bit at my skin. I flexed my shoulders and cracked my neck. My hands were calloused, scarred, and thick from years on the hammer. I wasn''t just strong¡ªI was forged. Every scar told a story. Every fight made me harder. I didn''t carry a reputation in Vraknheim''s rings, not anymore, but I''d earned one on the roads. And reputations have a way of following you.


    I waited by the edge of the pit.


    The first fight was fast¡ªtwo humans, both drunk, both sloppy. Ended in a headbutt and a broken jaw. The second was better¡ªan older dwarf against a wiry-looking elf with a back full of whip-scars. The elf danced like smoke, but the dwarf had the weight. When it ended, the elf spat blood and laughed all the way out of the ring.


    Then it was my turn.


    The announcer bellowed, "In the pit¡ªnew blood, no house, no chains¡ªDORAN!"


    Some in the crowd barely looked up. Others whistled or jeered. One man muttered, "Thargrimm¡­?" But the name passed like fog.


    They didn''t know me.


    Not yet.


    My opponent stepped in.


    A half-troll.


    Not full-blooded¡ªhe wasn''t drooling, and his eyes didn''t glass over like the brutes from the Eastern steppes. But he was big. Seven feet if he was an inch. Skin like worn leather, arms like tree limbs. His tusks were cracked from past fights. He grinned when he saw me.


    "Stupid little stump," he said.


    I smiled back. "You talk too much."


    The horn blew.


    He lunged.


    I ducked under his first swing¡ªwild and heavy¡ªand drove a fist into his ribs. Felt like punching a stone wall. Pain lanced through my knuckles. I kept moving, low and tight. Another swing, overhead. I stepped aside. His arm grazed my shoulder¡ªit felt like a wagon wheel catching me at full tilt.


    I staggered but stayed up.


    He grinned. "You feel that, stump?"


    I spat blood. "Try again."


    He did.


    And this time, I didn''t move.


    I stepped into it.


    My forearm caught his wrist, redirected it¡ªjust enough. My other hand came up, slammed into his elbow with a crack that made the crowd roar. He screamed and pulled back, stumbling. I followed, fists a blur. One to the gut. Another to the ribs. Then a headbutt that shattered my brow and his nose.


    Blood flowed freely.


    Mine. His. I couldn''t tell.


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    He roared and swung blindly.


    I ducked low, wrapped my arms around his waist, and drove.


    He hit the pit wall with a grunt.


    Then I hit him.


    Again.


    And again.


    Until his knees gave out.


    He slumped.


    And the horn blew.


    The crowd exploded.


    Some cheered. Some booed. Coins changed hands. Blood soaked the dirt at my feet, thick and steaming. I didn''t lift my hands. I just stood there, breathing hard, watching the half-troll get dragged out by two handlers with chain-hooks.


    Karvek tossed me a rag and a waterskin.


    "You broke his arm," he said, impressed.


    "He''ll heal."


    "And your hand?"


    I flexed it. "Hurts."


    "Means it worked."


    As i sat down, I caught a glimpse of someone across the room¡ªa woman in a green traveling cloak, hood drawn back just enough to see sharp eyes, pale skin, and a glint of something golden on her throat. She was watching me¡ªnot like a fan, but like a merchant inspecting a gem for cracks.


    When our eyes met, she smiled.


    Just once.


    Then turned and vanished into the smoke.


    I didn''t like it.


    I didn''t get to sit for long.


    The pit-master¡ªa short, stocky Man with a broken jaw and fingers stained yellow from lichen chew¡ªstepped out of the shadows near the bench and spat in the dirt. "You''re up again. No rest for rookies."


    I looked up. "What?"


    "Crowd wants a rematch bout. Said you hit too clean. They paid for brutality."


    Karvek grimaced. "You''re not supposed to fight twice your first night."


    "They paid double," he said. "House rules. You want a cut, get back in the pit."


    I stood slowly. My knuckles were swollen, and my brow had split again from the headbutt earlier. The cloth I''d been using to slow the blood was soaked through. I handed it to Karvek and rolled my shoulders.


    "Double''s double," I said.


    Karvek didn''t like it, but he knew better than to argue. "Try not to lose teeth."


    This time, they gave me an orc.


    Not a warrior breed¡ªno tribal ink, no clan marks. Cityborn, probably raised in the alleys behind the smelters. Thick bones, thicker neck, and knuckles that looked like he''d been punching stone since childhood. He paced in a slow circle, bouncing his shoulders.


    I dropped into stance¡ªlow and tight. Dwarves fight from the hips, not the feet. You brace, anchor, then break them.


    The horn blew.


    He came fast¡ªfaster than I expected for his size. His first jab caught me across the cheek and lit up the side of my skull like a forge flare. The second I slipped, barely, and drove a hammerfist into his hip.


    He grunted, more annoyed than hurt.


    Then he slammed his elbow into my nose.


    My vision went white.


    Pain shot up into my skull, blooming behind my eyes like fire through a dry mine shaft. I dropped to a knee. Spat blood. Blinked hard.


    He grinned and came in close.


    That''s when I wrapped his leg and pulled.


    He went down like a sack of bricks, but I didn''t get a chance to capitalise¡ªhis knee caught me in the side as he fell, hard enough to knock the breath out of me. We rolled, trading blows. He landed two in my gut, I got one clean shot across his jaw and felt something snap under my knuckles.


    I was slower now. Bleeding from my nose and mouth. But he was limping, and his guard was full of holes.


    So I hit those holes.


    Again.


    And again.


    Until he stopped swinging.


    When I rose, my chest heaved like a bellows, ribs screaming. The crowd was louder this time¡ªroaring like wolves around a kill. They liked it dirty. Bloody. Real.


    And I gave them real.


    I didn''t stay for the payout.


    Karvek half-carried me out of the pit house, grumbling about cracked bones and short-sighted dwarves. I told him to shut up, and he did. That''s the kind of friend he was.


    A FEW STREETS OVER ¡ª THORIN GRELT


    Thorin leaned over a slate map of Vraknheim, marked in faint red lines¡ªcoin channels, trade nodes, and smuggling routes. A pipe hung unlit in his teeth, fingers tracing the new pin he''d added beside the South Market: Thargrimm Blades ¨C confirmed.


    A younger scribe in apprentice robes cleared his throat. "Another buyer sent word. Lady Kholra''s agent. She wants two swords¡ªornamental, but usable."


    Thorin raised an eyebrow. "She knows who forged them?"


    "Doesn''t seem to care."


    He tapped the parchment once. "Send word to Vek. Tell him to triple-wrap those deliveries. If word spreads too fast, we''ll get scavenger crews sniffing around. Or worse, Path sympathizers."


    The scribe nodded and left.


    Thorin exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the far wall¡ªwhere an old letter lay pinned behind stained glass. A faded seal: Miners'' Union of Blacksmoke. Signed by Doran Thargrimm.


    "You always had a nose for trouble," Thorin muttered. "But now you''ve got value."


    BACK AT VARRIK''S FORGE ¡ª LISETT


    The forgehouse was quiet, save for the soft bubbling of a brass kettle and the occasional pop of something bitter boiling too fast. Lisett crouched over a table strewn with scraps¡ªdried moss, powdered shell, ground bone, a single purple seed no bigger than a nailhead. She moved like someone solving a puzzle too complex for words.


    Varrik had given her space upstairs¡ªan old counter covered in soot and forgotten tools¡ªbut she''d transformed it. Glass vials lined the wall like silent sentries, and her notes¡ªwritten in sharp, exact script¡ªcovered every flat surface.


    She was brewing smokeleaf oil now¡ªused to dull pain and prevent swelling. Doran would need it. She hadn''t expected him to fight twice. No sane pit boss would''ve allowed it.


    Her hands moved with clinical precision¡ªtwo drops prismroot distillate, a pinch of baked ashbark, then flame the mix. Wait for the shift to deep blue. Swirl.


    She frowned.


    It turned green.


    "Shit."


    She started over.


    Karvek carried me through the door like a sack of flour.


    Lisett didn''t even look up. "Put him on the stone table."


    "You sure?" Karvek asked. "He bleeds a lot."


    "I said table."


    He dumped me there with a grunt. I groaned. Every part of me felt like it had been pulled through a collapsing tunnel.


    Lisett grabbed a cloth, dabbed at my face, then held a vial to my lips.


    "Drink."


    I tasted moss and fire.


    "Burns," I rasped.


    "Means it''s working."


    The pain dulled.


    The bruises would stay, but I could breathe again.


    "You''re insane," she said. "That or stupid."


    "Bit of both," I managed.


    She smiled slightly. "Don''t die before I can afford better ingredients."

 Chapter 29

    Pain bloomed in layers¡ªdeep bruises in my ribs, dull throbs in my knuckles, and the headache behind my eyes like someone had hammered nails into my skull.


    But I was alive.


    The pit-fights hadn''t broken me, though they''d come close. Lisett''s brews helped, bitter and hot like boiled moss, and now I sat at the edge of the forge''s balcony, wrapped in my soot-stained cloak, breathing Vraknheim''s bitter midnight air.


    The city was a broken crown of stone and snow¡ªtowers jagged as a drunk mason''s teeth, chimneys puffing black smoke into the sky like the whole place was quietly burning. Rats scrabbled in the alleys. The bell from the nightwatch tower tolled once. Faint, like a heartbeat under the stone.


    Behind me, footsteps.


    Felix.


    He moved like someone trained not to be noticed. Slim, wiry, but not weak. His armour was mismatched leather and riveted chain¡ªpatched, stained, and mended by his own hand. He carried two blades: a short sabre worn low on his hip, and a long belt dagger curved like a fang.


    "Karvek told me you nearly had your skull cracked," he said, leaning on the rail beside me.


    "Nearly," I muttered. "Didn''t stick."


    Felix had been quiet since we reached the city. He wasn''t like Karvek¡ªwho barked, argued, fought with heat. Felix listened. Watched. The kind of man who survived ambushes not by strength, but by reading the wind before it turned sharp.


    "You''re drawing eyes," he said.


    "I know."


    "Not just from the pits."


    I glanced at him. "Meaning?"


    "Thorin''s people walk like shadows but spend coin like nobles. And Lisett''s getting looks at the market. She''s been buying components the alchemists don''t even keep out front. Blackroots. Nightglass. Stuff that stinks of assassination or miracles."


    I rubbed my brow. "We need coin. And I need better armor for you three. I''m not having another Barak Khald."


    He was quiet a moment. "You planning to make me a blade, too?"


    I looked over at him.


    "I still carry Karvek''s old one," he said, tapping the hilt of his sabre. "But it''s not mine. Never was."


    "You want steel that fits your hand?"


    "I want steel that matches what we''ve become."


    THREE DAYS LATER ¡ª THORIN''S HOLD, EAST VAULT


    The building was tucked behind the slum markets, past a dye shop that never shut and an alley that always smelled like vinegar and rot.


    Inside, it was all hard corners and locked boxes.


    Thorin stood behind a ledger, brow furrowed.


    "You sold three," he muttered. "Vek''s buyers are circling like gulls. And now I''ve got a request¡ªfrom a noble house, no less."


    I didn''t flinch.


    "House Halvryn," he continued. "Old blood. Eastgate nobility. Word is they''re building a private guard. Armed discreetly. Want five blades. Matching hilts. High quality¡ªbut not flashy."


    "Uniforms," I said. "Blades that kill, but don''t shine."


    Thorin nodded. "And they want them delivered through me, not Vek."


    That meant something.


    Meant trust.


    Or fear.


    "They know who made the last ones?"


    "They suspect."


    "And that doesn''t scare them?"


    "It does," he said. "But some people want ghosts on their side."


    BACK AT THE FORGE


    Lisett''s workspace smelled like pine ash and acid now. The windows had been blocked with heavy cloth. Shelves lined with tinctures glimmered in the low light¡ªgreen, gold, deep violet.


    A mortar stone spun under her hand, grinding smokeleaf into powder.


    "Painkillers for Felix," she muttered. "Tonic for Doran. Eye-clearing drops for Karvek¡ªhe''s still got dust in his cornea from the forge burst."


    I entered quietly. She looked up, saw the bruises on my jaw, the healing gash by my eye.


    "You''re bleeding again."


    "Just barely."


    She crossed the room and dabbed a cloth across my brow, muttering something in Neryllan¡ªold alchemical chant, maybe a curse. Her fingers smelled like burnt resin.


    "You''re pushing too fast," she said.


    "We don''t have time to go slow."


    Her jaw clenched. "You keep saying that."


    "Because it''s true."


    She said nothing. But I saw it¡ªfear, buried beneath frustration. She didn''t want to lose another companion. Maybe not me.


    LATER THAT NIGHT ¡ª THE INNER MARKET, VRANKNHEIM


    Karvek, Felix and I took turns patrolling while Lisett bartered for sealed vials of dryroot sap¡ªpowerful catalyst for nerve tonics.


    Felix noticed them first.


    Two men. One human. One half-elf. Black cloaks. Gray gloves. Clean boots in a filthy part of the city.


    Not locals.


    Not buyers either.


    They weren''t watching us. They were watching the forge from a rooftop across the lane.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "Company," Felix muttered.


    "Thorin''s?" Karvek asked.


    "Doubt it," I said. "Thorin doesn''t hire amateurs."


    I stared at the two men for a long moment. They didn''t move. Just watched.


    Maybe the noble houses were curious about their new smith.


    Or maybe someone from the Path had caught our scent after all.


    Either way, things were changing.


    Quietly.


    Sharpening.


    Like a blade being drawn in the dark.


    The steel had to sing, but not too loud.


    The forge was quiet that morning. I''d risen before dawn, not from nightmares, but from clarity¡ªthe kind that strikes only when you know you''ve stepped into deeper waters than before. The Halvryn order wasn''t just blades-for-hire. It was a test. And not just of craftsmanship.


    Of control.


    No runes. No flourish.


    Just perfection.


    Five swords, all uniform. Not identical¡ªno blade worth wielding ever truly was¡ªbut forged from the same billet batch, folded and tempered in tandem so they''d carry the same soul. Like brothers made in steel.


    Varrik cleared a space in the backroom where I could work uninterrupted. Lisett helped sterilize the oil trough with boiled resin¡ªsaid it kept the impurities down. She wasn''t wrong. I''d watched her distill painkillers in less ideal conditions.


    Felix and Karvek cleared out the scrap.


    I took out my tools.


    Each sword began with raw stock: High-carbon spring steel, bought from a dwarven caravan out of the Ironreach valleys. Cost more than we could afford, but Thorin covered the advance¡ª"Don''t waste it," he''d said.


    I used a modified double-fuller design, shallow, elegant. Blades around 36 inches. Meant for balance, not just reach¡ªenough for a thrust, but with proper weight near the hilt for parrying. No tips sharpened like razors¡ªthese weren''t dueling blades; they were killers'' tools. House guards needed discipline, not flash.


    No runes, as requested.


    But I added a subtler mark¡ªmy signature, same as I''d carved into Karvek''s sword and the armor at Barak Khald. A faint triangle inside a crescent, hidden beneath the crossguard plate, engraved deep enough to last generations.


    Did I feel pride?


    A little.


    But mostly tension.


    Because this wasn''t just about delivery. It was about being seen.


    And seen in Vraknheim was dangerous.


    Delivery Day ¡ª Three Days Later


    Thorin arranged it: no names, no paperwork. Just a crate, sealed in black wax, delivered to the Halvryn estate by two of his more reliable men.


    Karvek went with them.


    Not because I didn''t trust Thorin.


    Because I trusted Vraknheim less.


    Karvek returned with coin.


    Not words.


    He said the house guards had looked the blades over, and one of them¡ªa veteran, scar above the lip, dead eye¡ªhad nodded.


    That was it.


    But I knew what that nod meant.


    "You did your job."


    That Night


    I stared at the blank steel for a long time before I lit the forge again.


    The heat hit me like an old friend. Familiar. Unforgiving.


    Felix sat nearby, cross-legged. Silent. Watching.


    "You sure?" I asked.


    He nodded. "This is the last gear I''ll ever need¡ªso it better be the right kind."


    We talked.


    We didn''t talk about the ambush on the Path. Not the screams. Not the way his comrades had died. But I watched his eyes when I asked him what he wanted.


    "Light. Quiet. But deadly. I want something that vanishes when I don''t need it¡ªbut bites deep when I do."


    He paused.


    "And two blades," he added. "One for each hand. Hidden. Fast."


    Firstly Twin Gauntlet Blades Modelled after retractable assassins'' bracers, but practical. Each fitted with a bone-hinged internal release. No magic. Just dwarven mechanics. Press the heel of the palm against a surface¡ªshkkt¡ªblade releases. Press again¡ªblade retracts. The steel is high-carbon, with a dull matte finish to avoid glare. The outer housing is reinforced leather-and-mail to double as forearm guards. I etched faint runes near the base of each blade¡ª"Marn ek Val"¡ª"Strike from Silence" in Old Khazran script. Not enough to glow. Just enough to mean something. After that Throwing Knives six in total. Forged narrow and straight. Full tang, wrapped in linen grip. Balanced for mid-range, five to fifteen strides. I built a harness for his thigh and lower back. Silent draw, zero jingle. Lastly, Zweihander (Greatsword) was the crown jewel. A two-handed blade, yes¡ªbut only just. I kept the blade narrow, flared slightly toward the tip to add cutting power without dragging in the sheath. The crossguard was short, curved slightly back. Full-length was around 4.2 feet¡ªnot enough to slow movement, but enough to punch through heavy armour. I hollow-ground the centre to drop the weight without losing integrity. The grip: black-stained ashwood core with a tight steel-wire wrap.


    I forged the final rune beneath the guard plate:"Karth Zul"¡ª"To End What Hunts Me."


    I didn''t ask what he''d use it on.


    Some things don''t need to be said.


    The forge never lies.


    It doesn''t care what name you carry, or how many men you''ve killed. It doesn''t judge your sins or weigh your worth. It just takes what you give it¡ªheat, muscle, patience¡ªand gives you steel in return.


    That night, I worked alone.


    The others had turned in. Karvek was snoring somewhere near the wall-stove, boots still on. Lisett was upstairs, grinding down ashbark or boiling some foul-smelling thing in a copper pot. Felix, as usual, had vanished into the city. Ghost-like. Watching, listening, blending into cracks between stones no one else saw.


    I had no illusions about why he asked for the armour.


    He wasn''t looking for glory. Not for protection either. No, Felix wanted what most men too stubborn to die truly crave¡ªan edge.


    Not one you see. One you feel, too late.


    I stoked the forge with care, feeding it barkless pine and blackwood offcuts soaked in resin. The flames burned hot but low, the colour of molten gold and soot. Perfect for leather curing and dye setting¡ªnot too much flare. No wasted heat.


    Steel armour was out of the question.


    Felix wasn''t a wall to stand behind. He was the whisper between breaths. The flicker in your periphery before the world went dark.


    So I started with hide.


    A double-tanned sheet of ox leather, boiled in resin, hammered flat under a press stone I''d rigged from Varrik''s anvil weight. Once it cooled, I soaked it again¡ªthis time in a mix Lisett brewed from ashroot and wax, stiffening it to near-ceramic hardness without killing its flexibility.


    While that cured, I riveted a thin mail lining¡ªmatte-black, hand-riveted rings flattened with a war hammer. Quiet. Didn''t reflect a single spark. Just enough to stop a knife if it kissed his ribs.


    I stitched the brigandine by hand. Reinforced shoulders with layered wool and flat hides. Laced the sides with silent cord. Tight enough to hold, loose enough to breathe. No flared ridges. No cape flourishes. Just raw, focused design.


    I built the arms to integrate the hidden gauntlet blades I''d forged days earlier. Each gauntlet wrapped with boiled leather and fitted with a hand-latched retraction system. Nothing fancy¡ªno magic, no springs. Just a thumb catch and a release bar rigged beneath the wrist.


    One slam of the palm, and the blades shkkt out like silver breath.


    Another press¡ªshkkt back in.


    Practical. Lethal.


    Perfect.


    It took me two nights to finish the full set. I didn''t sleep much. Didn''t want to. The work felt pure¡ªclean. Like the forge remembered what it was before the Path came.


    I wrapped the greatsword last.


    It hung on a wall rack, cloth-wrapped, the hilt bound in black-stained ashwood and oil-rubbed linen. Balanced for his build. Light for its size, but it still sang when I slid it free.


    I had etched the final rune beneath the crossguard, subtle and deep.


    "Karth Zul" ¡ª To End What Hunts Me.


    When I handed Felix the armor the next morning, he didn''t speak. Just ran his fingers over the seams. Checked the weight of the gauntlets. Felt the coat''s balance.


    I didn''t expect a thank you.


    But he paused, touching the burn-marked rune I''d carved on the inside of the chestguard.


    "Thulm Varrek"¡ªLet the Dead See Me Last.


    He didn''t say anything.


    Just nodded once. Like a man signing the final page of a book he''d already lived.


    Then he was gone. Up the stairs. Quiet as ever.


    Karvek grunted from behind the forge wall.


    "You forge him armor like that, you might as well start calling him ''ghost.''"


    I didn''t look up.


    "He''s earned it."


    The forge was quiet again.


    But my hands weren''t done.


    Not yet.


    I still owed Lisett protection.


    Karvek, too.


    And with the nobles sniffing at our blades, and watchers lurking across rooftops, I had the feeling our time in Vraknheim was running short.


    Steel could only buy so much silence.


    But if I was going to send my people back out into the dark¡ª


    I''d damn well make sure they walked like gods.

 Chapter 30

    I was still dusting ash from the anvil when I heard him approach¡ªslow boots across stone, the kind of stride a man carries after years of knowing where and when something''s about to go wrong.


    Karvek didn''t speak.


    He stood in the doorway, arms folded, face shadowed by the forge light. He hadn''t said a word about Felix''s armor, hadn''t asked when I''d start his.


    Didn''t need to.


    Some bonds didn''t need speaking.


    He stepped forward, fingers tracing the gauntlet blade rack, then the hammer head cooling in the water trough. His gaze flicked to the wall, where his sword¡ªthe one I''d forged back in Barak Khald¡ªhung, scarred and worn from weeks of use. That sword had seen blood. It had cracked bone and carved through more than it was ever meant to. It had lasted.


    "Feels strange," Karvek finally said.


    "What does?"


    He shrugged. "Being owed something again."


    I wiped sweat from my jaw. "You earned this the day you charged down that hill beside me."


    He didn''t argue.


    Didn''t have to.


    Karvek wasn''t like Felix. He didn''t need silence. He needed resilience.


    I started with chain-backed plates, nothing flashy¡ªjust slabs of shaped steel hammered to a curve that matched the way his body moved. Not heavy like knight''s mail, but thick enough to stop a cleaver. I quenched the steel in oil infused with charroot and limestone, a trick I''d learned from an old Redfall smith¡ªkept it from dulling on the second hit.


    His chestplate I cut from three separate layers¡ªouter steel, middle canvas fiber for vibration deadening, and an inner wool lining stitched tight with cross-patterned threading. It sat on him like a second ribcage. Could breathe in it. Twist. Fall. Stand again.


    The pauldrons were asymmetric¡ªleft larger than the right, layered with extended curve protection. I remembered how Karvek fought¡ªhe led with his left, guarded the draw with his right. Always expected the first blow, never the last.


    Bracers were thick, shaped to catch blades and redirect¡ªnot stop. Stopping meant absorbing. Absorbing meant breaking. I gave him teeth-shaped ridges on the outside. Notched the edges like shark fins. One swipe across a throat would make a mess even without a weapon.


    "Good weight," Karvek muttered when he lifted one.


    "I know," I said.


    I reinforced the greaves with dense metal ribs wrapped under boiled hide. Fastened them with leather buckles and iron rings so they could be taken off fast in the field. The boots were double-soled, riveted through a shank plate for support. Flexible, but unyielding if you planted your stance in mud or snow.


    No bright finish. No polish. Just a dark oil-soot rub to keep off rust and avoid glare.


    This wasn''t armor for a parade.


    It was for the aftermath.


    I almost stopped there.


    But something felt missing.


    I thought about Karvek''s sword¡ªhow he always moved with it slung across his back like a question waiting to be answered.


    He''d need a backup. Something for closer work. Quicker.


    So I made him a hatchet.


    Not a camp axe. A weapon.


    Dwarf-forged, curved slightly at the edge for cleaving. Inlaid with small notches near the beard for catching blades. Steel-core handle wrapped in black leather.


    I etched one rune into the flat of the axe head:"Dur Valdr" ¡ª Stand Through Flame.


    He didn''t say anything when I handed it to him.


    Just turned it once in his hand.


    Gave a grunt like it might have been approval.


    Then strapped it to his belt and walked out.


    I leaned back against the forge post, breath burning in my chest. My hands stung. Wrists ached. The forge still hissed like a breathing thing.


    But I wasn''t done yet.


    Lisett was next.


    And gods knew, she wouldn''t make it easy.


    I hadn''t meant to do it all at once.


    But when the forge is hot, and the weight sits right on your shoulders, you just keep going. One piece becomes two. Two becomes armor. Then weapons. Then a gift you don''t know how to name until it''s finished.


    I didn''t stop after Karvek.


    I should have.


    But my hands were already pulling leather from the drying hooks, feeling the grain for weak spots. My eyes were burning, but the design was already laid out in my head.


    It was for her.


    Lisett wasn''t a frontliner. She didn''t rush into fights. But she didn''t run either. She''d stood over Karvek''s broken body at Barak Khald, slapping salves over bone-deep wounds while arrows hissed past her shoulders. She''d pulled me out of the blood-muck on the Path. When others flinched, she focused.


    Stolen story; please report.


    That was courage.


    So I built her something worthy of it.


    I started with a deep-grey doeskin vest, cut high at the collar but open at the shoulders for movement. I inlaid it with interlocking panels of hardened resin and boiled rootfiber, pressed into a flexible armor mesh. Not enough to stop a longsword¡ªbut it would turn a dagger. Or slow a crossbow bolt.


    The sleeves were a mix of canvas and dyed hide, reinforced at the forearms with shaped scale-plates etched in light silver. Flashy, yes¡ªbut only where it made sense. The scales glimmered faintly in firelight, like frost catching dawn. I did that for her¡ªbecause Lisett never asked to be invisible.


    I wrapped her belt in stitched velvet over hardened core leather. Slender pouches lined it¡ªsix in total¡ªeach perfectly fitted for vials, tools, scalpel cases, and flint-snap burners. A custom holster on her hip held a folding alchemist''s wand she insisted she''d "someday finish." I left the space there. Hope deserves armor, too.


    Her boots were calf-high, side-laced, with steel-toed reinforcements hidden under black ash dye. No heels. Just traction. Grip.


    Her cloak¡ªthat was the centerpiece.


    Crimson-wool, lightweight, embroidered along the hem with a double-threaded silver vine. Subtle enough to pass unnoticed at a glance, but anyone looking close would see it: the leaves were etched with runes.


    Not magical.


    Not glowing.


    Just truths.


    I stitched the words in old dwarven script. Three short lines, across the inner hem.


    "Hold Fast. Mend Deep. Never Bow."


    She''d never asked for a weapon.


    But I gave her one.


    It wasn''t a sword. Wasn''t a dagger. It was a focusing rod, forged from twin-core dwarven bronze with an internal groove down the center. About the length of her forearm. Carved in swirling patterns. The tip held a shard of fireglass, flame-caught and sealed under hammered quartz. When tapped against her belt flint, it would heat instantly¡ªenough to sterilize, to cauterise, or, gods willing, to burn if she needed it to.


    A medic''s torch.


    Or a last line of fire.


    On the handle, I carved a small sigil. My mark.


    Triangle. Crescent. Crossed threads.


    It wasn''t flashy for the sake of flair.


    It was hers.


    I finished sometime before dawn.


    My eyes had gone red. My limbs, lead.


    The forge had gone quiet. The anvil cold. My hammer lay beside me, still warm from its last strike.


    I made it to the cot in the corner of the forge loft. Sat down.


    Tried to take off my boots.


    Didn''t finish.


    When I Woke Up


    It was warm. That was the first thing I noticed. Not just the air¡ªbut around me.


    Blankets. Someone had thrown two thick wool throws over my body. My boots were off. My arms were bandaged.


    I shifted, groaning.


    Lisett''s voice, low and warm, drifted from nearby. "He''s waking."


    I opened my eyes.


    The forge was lit¡ªbut not from fire. The shutters were open. Morning light streamed through, softened by cloth hung over the window frame. The air smelled of roasted rootbread and strong tea.


    Karvek was by the fire, turning a skillet. Felix leaned against the stair rail, arms crossed.


    And Lisett knelt by my side, a soft grin curling her lips.


    "You''ve been out two days," she said.


    "Two?" I croaked. "Did I¡­?"


    "You finished all of it," Felix said.


    "And more," Karvek added.


    Lisett pressed a flask into my hand. "You missed the surprise."


    I blinked. "What surprise?"


    She stood and gestured around.


    All three of them wore the gear.


    Felix in full black-and-ash, nearly silent even as he moved. His hood drawn low, blades hidden. A shadow waiting for dusk.


    Karvek, all bulk and iron, leaned into his armor like it was part of him. His new axe gleamed at his belt, scarred from training. Not blood.


    And Lisett¡ªshe wore her crimson cloak, shoulders straight, wand at her hip. She looked taller. Brighter.


    More seen.


    "We fixed the forge," she said. "Cleaned the soot. Built racks. Repaired the upstairs table. Stocked the larder. Felix found fresh rootbread. Don''t ask how."


    I stared.


    She smiled.


    "You gave us protection," she said. "We gave you rest."


    Karvek dropped a cup of hot tea beside me. "Don''t get used to it."


    I took it, and for a moment, I let myself feel the weight settle.


    Not pain.


    Not exhaustion.


    But belonging.


    For a long time, none of us spoke.


    Lisett returned to the workbench, eyes on a series of half-sketched spell designs, but her focus wasn''t there. Not really. She stole a glance every few moments¡ªchecking if I''d fall back asleep, or fall apart.Felix had perched himself on the rafters again. I didn''t hear him climb. Just noticed him up there, sharpening a blade with smooth, almost meditative strokes.Karvek leaned against the frame of the hearth, one leg braced, cup in hand, watching the forge like it might decide to come alive again.


    They were still in their gear.


    That part hit me harder than the bandages did.


    Not because they wore it¡ªbut because it fit.


    Felix''s boots made no sound as he shifted. The cloak fell just right when he dropped from the beam, landing in a crouch that was too smooth to be learned in a week.Karvek moved like he belonged in that weight¡ªleather layered over chain, his axe riding on his back like it had been there for years.And Lisett¡­ her crimson robe caught the light when she passed the window, the ward-threads faintly visible if you knew what to look for. She carried her wand like a sword, not a crutch.


    I didn''t just forge them gear.


    I forged them roles.


    "I''m not used to waking up to finished work," I muttered.


    Karvek snorted. "Get used to it. You''re not the only one who knows how to hold a hammer."


    Lisett shot him a look. "He forged your breastplate."


    "And I straightened your bench legs," Karvek said. "Everyone contributes."


    That was the difference. Before, it had been survival.Now? It was a rhythm. Ours.


    Felix finally spoke. "There''s been no movement from the alleys. No watchers. No disturbances."


    "Too quiet," I said.


    "Exactly."


    Lisett closed her journal with a soft thunk. "Then it''s time."


    I looked up. "Time for what?"


    She stepped over, kneeling beside the cot again, her expression steady.


    "For you to decide where we go next."


    I hadn''t been still in years¡ªnot really. Even when injured, even when stranded, there was always a direction. A mission. A war. A hunt.


    But now, in this moment, they were looking at me not for orders¡­ but for vision.


    Karvek spoke first. "We''ve got steel. We''ve got hands. We''ve got each other."


    Felix nodded. "Which means we''re dangerous enough to be hunted."


    Lisett: "So we choose what gets built next. A forge. A resistance. A rebellion. Doesn''t matter. But it starts here."


    They''d all made their choice already. They were waiting for mine.


    I drained the last of the tea. Set the cup down with care. And stood¡ªslowly, the way stone rises, not the way men do.


    My legs held.


    So did my answer.


    "We work. We train. We build. Quietly."


    Karvek tilted his head. "No vengeance? No crusade?"


    I looked to the hammer leaning by the anvil. Skarnvalk, silent for once. Watching.


    "Not yet," I said. "That comes later."