Reaper of Iron and Blood

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—they 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—he still hadn't given me a name—moved 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—am—a 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—the 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—it 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?"

Corvin's face darkened. "This isn't a joke. They've already slaughtered three villages trying to find these pieces. Men, women, children—they 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—"

"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—the hollow eyes, the unnatural movements—flashed 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—because 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—"

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—that 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—scruffy, 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—a 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.