Reaper of Iron and Blood

I hoisted my pack higher onto my shoulders, the leather straps digging into my arms as the weight settled. It wasn't just supplies—there 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—tools, 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—they'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—he 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—shouts, 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—a 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—faster 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—mostly hard bread and cured meat—but 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.

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—and 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—not 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—lots 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—just 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—small 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—and winning—then 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—whatever 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—just maybe—they 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—an 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.