Reaper of Iron and Blood

The moment Doran emerged from the ruined tower, he felt it—the 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—an 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—money, 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—the 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—they 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—and 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—over and over—that 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.

With a sigh, he pulled out a small whetstone. He didn't need to sharpen the edges of Skarnvalk's blade—runes kept it deadly—but 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—there 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—not 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—this Doran—had 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—hard 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—or dwarven—scent.

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—a 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—supplies, 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—maybe 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—fine 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—either 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—it 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—somewhere 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.