Reaper of Iron and Blood

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—raw 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—a 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—it 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—nothing 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—it 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—he'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—light, 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—what 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—even someone he didn't fully trust yet—might 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—trust 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—they 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—no more than two days' travel northeast—but 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—it 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—they 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.

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—shadowy, 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—that much was clear—but 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—a hammer, a bundle of rope, a small pouch of spare rivets—but 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—take 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—rumors 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—delay 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—an 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—collapsed 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—makeshift 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—my 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.