Reaper of Iron and Blood

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—warm 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—it'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—it 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—watching, 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—she 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—gouges, 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—reflected 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—first 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—it had woken the beast. And now it was looking at me. Not just looking—studying 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—though there was plenty of that—but 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—not 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?"

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—a 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—if I was going to survive—I'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—marks 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—broad 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—nothing flashy, nothing to draw attention. Just enough to keep me alive a little longer.

The shoulder plates followed—broad, 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—kicks, 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—small, 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."