Reaper of Iron and Blood

As I stood there, the freshly forged armour gleaming faintly in the firelight, I could feel the dragon's gaze bearing down on me like the weight of the mountain itself. The glowing eyes shifted slightly, narrowing, and I caught a low, rumbling sound that was almost too deep to be a laugh.

"This forge has been silent for a long time," the dragon said, its voice curling through the chamber like smoke. "And now, here you are. Hammering away, shaping steel, breathing life back into these walls. I never thought I'd see it again."

"I didn't come here to entertain you," I said, leaning Skarnvalk against the anvil. My voice was steady, but I could still feel the tension in my shoulders, the way my muscles hadn't quite relaxed since I'd seen it stir from the shadows. "This place might mean something to you. To me, it's just a forge. A means to an end."

"Perhaps," it said, its massive head shifting closer. The scales along its neck caught the forge's faint light, rippling with greens and blues. "But not every end is yours to choose. You've awoken something more than a forge. This place… it remembers. Just as I do."

I didn't like the way it said that. The dragon wasn't just speaking about Barak-Khald. It was speaking about itself, about the centuries it had watched, waited, and dreamed. It wasn't anger I heard in its voice, though. Not yet. It was curiosity, tempered by something sharper—caution. Maybe even a hint of admiration. The same way I might look at a particularly well-made blade and wonder about the smith who'd shaped it.

"You've proven yourself a craftsman," it continued, its voice dropping to a rumble that shook the air. "And a warrior, too, if those goblins outside are any measure. But what will you do now, I wonder? Now that you have what you came for. Will you leave this place as it is, or will you bring it back to life? Will you leave behind ruin, or will you shape something greater?"

Its words hung heavy in the air, and I knew better than to answer right away. The dragon wasn't asking because it wanted a fight—at least not yet. It was asking because it saw something in me. What exactly that was, I couldn't be sure. But I wasn't going to let it decide my path for me.

Far below, Karvek trudged through the snow-laden pass, his boots crunching over frozen earth. His cloak was threadbare, the edges stiff with frost. He wasn't sure how much longer he could push his men before they turned on him. There were only three left now—hard-faced killers who'd followed him for the promise of coin and vengeance. After their failed ambush on the Path's caravan, they had little of either. Supplies were running thin, tempers thinner. The only thing keeping them moving was the hope of finding that damned dwarf.

"We're close," Karvek muttered, more to himself than the others. He'd heard stories from travellers coming down from the higher passes—rumours of goblins fleeing their nests, of strange lights flickering in old dwarven ruins. The kind of rumours that sounded too specific to be chance. Doran Thargrimm wasn't just a name in the wind anymore. He was up there, somewhere, and Karvek intended to find him.

One of his men spat into the snow. "You've been saying that for days. You sure we're not just chasing ghosts?"

"Keep your mouth shut, Torv," Karvek snapped. His voice carried the rough edge of someone who'd led men into battle and seen them die. "You think I like dragging you lot through the mountains for the fun of it? That dwarf's up there. And when we find him, we'll have the leverage we need."

"And what if he kills us, same as those goblins?" Torv said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "He's not just some blacksmith. They say he's dangerous."

Karvek stopped, turning to face the man. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. "Then he kills us. But if you want to turn back, you can try explaining that to the Path when they catch up to us. We've already made enemies of them. Our only chance is to find him first. Now shut up and move."

The men fell silent after that, trudging on through the snow. Karvek's mind raced as he replayed the rumors, the whispered tales of a lone dwarf carving his way through Path cells and leaving only broken steel and bloody corpses behind. He didn't know if Doran would be an ally, an enemy, or something in between. But one thing was clear: if Karvek wanted any chance of survival, he needed to find him before anyone else did.

Back in the forge, I ran my hand along the edge of the newly-forged breastplate, feeling the smooth curve of the steel and the faint ridges of the runes. The armor was complete, each piece fitted and ready. But it wasn't just the dragon watching me now. It was the mountain itself, the weight of history pressing down from all sides. I could feel it in the stone walls, in the faint hum of the air around the forge. Barak-Khald wasn't just a place—it was a test. And I wasn't sure yet if I'd passed.

The dragon shifted again, its glowing eyes narrowing. "You carry the weight of survival like a forge master carries his hammer. It's heavy, isn't it?"

"Better than the alternative," I said, straightening. "If you're waiting for me to crumble, you'll be here a long time."

It let out a low, rumbling chuckle, and I felt the stones beneath my feet tremble. "I hope so, dwarf. Because if you fail, the mountain will bury you."

The sun had barely begun its climb over the snow-draped peaks when Doran stepped out of the ruined halls of Barak-Khald. The bite of the cold air struck him immediately, a welcome change from the heavy heat of the forge's belly. The fresh armour—skycinder steel hammered into form—felt solid on his shoulders, though the straps still needed adjusting. He stretched, rolling his arms and shoulders, and heard the faint creak of the articulated plates as they settled into place. The morning light gleamed off the breastplate's surface, highlighting the veins of silver that ran like rivers across the dark steel. Practical, strong, but not invincible. He knew better than to think anything made him invincible.

Lisett followed close behind, her breath visible in the chill air. She had a weary look, though she tried to hide it. The dragon emerged last, its enormous form casting a long shadow over the broken steps. It moved slowly, deliberately, its scaled body glinting faintly with hues of green and blue. The creature's presence radiated a heat that seemed to melt the snow beneath its claws, steam rising around it like a living furnace. Its eyes scanned the surrounding mountainside, taking in the scene with a calm, predatory intelligence.

The goblins hadn't given up. They never did. Across the field of shattered stone and snow, dozens of them had regrouped during the night. There were more now—ragged warriors bearing spears tipped with black iron, shields hammered out of stolen dwarven steel. Some crouched behind makeshift barricades of ice and stone, while others stood in loose clusters, their yipping cries piercing the still air. And at the rear, hulking shapes moved slowly into position. Trolls. Two of them, their massive forms barely restrained by the ropes and prodding spears of their goblin handlers.

Doran planted his feet and gripped Skarnvalk with both hands. The hammer felt natural, its weight balanced by years of use and the new armour's subtle runic reinforcement. He glanced at Lisett. "Stay behind me," he said. "You see anything that doesn't look like it wants to kill us, let me know."

She gave a faint smile. "What, like your dragon?"

Doran looked back at the massive beast, who seemed more interested in the gathering goblin horde than the small, pale human beside him. The dragon's eyes narrowed, its nostrils flaring as it exhaled a puff of smoke. "It's not my dragon," Doran muttered. "It just decided not to eat me."

"Comforting," Lisett said, but she readied her staff anyway, her knuckles pale as she gripped it tightly.

Doran turned his attention back to the goblins. They were fanning out, their numbers steadily increasing as more poured in from hidden tunnels and rocky crevices. The trolls hung back, their handlers barking sharp commands, prodding them toward the front lines. The goblins were bold now, watching Doran and Lisett and the dragon like they'd just found the feast they'd been waiting for.

Let them come, Doran thought. The armour shifted with him as he raised Skarnvalk, its curved blade catching the sunlight. The runes engraved into the steel hummed faintly, not enough to glow, but enough for Doran to feel their presence. He stepped forward, planting himself in the open, and let out a sharp, wordless roar that echoed across the mountainside. The goblins froze for a heartbeat, then surged forward as one, howling like wolves let off their chains.

Karvek crested the ridge with his three remaining men, each one looking more ragged than the last. Their faces were hollow, their breaths shallow. They'd run out of food two days ago, and the last of their water had been gone since yesterday. Frost rimmed their cloaks and beards, and Karvek's sword felt heavier with each step.

"Captain," one of the men rasped. "Look."

Karvek followed the man's pointing hand and saw the battle unfolding below. A dwarf stood in gleaming armour, swinging a massive hammer into the tide of goblins that poured toward him. Behind him, a human woman and—Karvek blinked—a dragon stood watching. The dragon was shifting its weight, coiling its tail as though deciding when to strike. The goblins surged, their numbers overwhelming. The dwarf didn't fall back. He met them head-on, his hammer sending bodies flying, his armour deflecting spear thrusts and arrows. He took blows, too—slashed arms, a pierced thigh where the armour didn't quite cover. But he fought on.

"Is that him?" one of Karvek's men asked, awe creeping into his voice. "The dwarf we've been hearing about?"

Karvek narrowed his eyes, gripping the hilt of his sword. "It must be."

"We're not in shape to fight," another man muttered. "Not in this condition."

"Doesn't mean we can't be smart about it," Karvek said. He watched as one of the trolls lumbered forward, swinging a massive club. The dwarf rolled aside, striking the troll's knee and sending it howling to the ground. The dragon moved then, stepping forward and opening its jaws. A roar tore through the air, followed by a torrent of fire that engulfed the goblins closest to the dwarf. The heat was palpable even from where Karvek stood. The goblins screeched and scattered, their formation breaking as flames consumed them.

"By the gods…" one of Karvek's men whispered.

The other troll made its move, charging the dwarf with a guttural roar. This time, the dwarf's hammer met the troll's chest with a sickening crack, the runes flaring faintly as the impact drove the troll backward. The armor was doing its work—deflecting blows, absorbing impact—but Karvek could see the strain in the dwarf's movements. He wasn't invincible. He bled. He staggered. He kept fighting.

"Captain?" one of the men prompted.

Karvek watched a moment longer. The dwarf wasn't retreating. The dragon was holding back again, its glowing eyes watching as the dwarf and the human woman fought on. The goblins kept coming, though their numbers were thinning. The trolls were wounded but still dangerous.

"Get your weapons," Karvek said at last. "If we're going to die in these mountains, we'll do it on our feet. Fighting alongside the bastard who's giving us a chance."

His men hesitated, then nodded. They drew their blades, battered as they were, and followed him down the slope toward the fray.