Stronric awoke the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed, yet the gnawing hunger and thirst persisted, tugging at his thoughts. His body was weary, but the stillness in his mind brought a new clarity he hadn’t experienced in days. He welcomed the focus and prepared to face his inner forge once more.
Within his mind, he stood before the Soul Forge. Lines jutted through the stone foundation, where Stronric had repaired the cracked stones with Ruhna. The rest of the structure still remained a pile of stones, yet to be repaired to its former strength and might. The blue flame of the forge was still alite, flickering and fragile. The forge was the heart of his inner world; without it, nothing else could be mended. Stronric had learned through days of rest and meditation that attempting to repair other stations or aspects of the forge drained him with only making minimal progress. He felt a series of notifications flash in his vision, distracting him momentarily and bringing him back to the physical world. He had refused to level up or use any of his class skills, choosing to ground this trial in the old world’s traditions. There were no "classes" to carry them through back then only sweat, blood, and ironclad resolve. With practiced disinterest, Stronric dismissed the tenth notification without even reading it. Letting out a long breath, he stilled his mind and re-entered the forge.
The heat from the forge radiated through the air, and Stronric ran a calloused hand over the cracked stones, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. He concentrated on mending the forge, and as he did, a wave of nausea swept over him, forcing him to pause. He had come to understand that the state of the forge could affect his body in the outside world. When he first left the forge days ago, the violent illness he suffered was because he had unknowingly torn a hole in his soul. Body and soul were intertwined; damage to one rippled through the other.
The idea struck him as almost humorous. “A dwarf being poisoned,” Stronric muttered with a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Now, that’s just funny.”
He gave himself a light smack on the cheek to break the momentary lapse and refocused on the forge. The hard stone beneath his hands, the intricate placement of the air intakes, the way the stones fit together like an ancient puzzle. The webs of power danced around the outer parts of the blackness. They were thicker now and more chaotic, as if all the killing has left a pool of untapped energy in the world around him.
Stronric took an exhausted step back to evaluate his work. The pile of broken stones was cut down significantly. The flame of the Soul Forge burned brighter and warmer, again protected by a short wall. He realized to finished repairing the forge would consume an immense amount of energy. He wondered if he could prepare more than one crucible now and leave them on the forge, when he fought tonight would they fill? Could he pour the rest of the stones in one go without pulling the energy from the world around him?
The thought made his hands tremble ever so slightly. It wasn’t just the magnitude of the task; it was also the fear of losing control. He would need to consume more Ruhna than ever before, and that brought the familiar voice of madness whispering at the edge of his thoughts, taunting him with old fears. Thee thought about his clan, his kinsmen and his promise to restore the Dwarves. The fear of losing himself became second to his resolve to right his wrongs and fix his connection with Ruhna and his kinsmen. He turned back to the forge, said a silent prayer to Thoranthana and then summoned as many crucibles as possible that would fit around his steadily beating flame.
Stronric’s eyes opened, and he breathed in the fresh cool air. He had nothing left to do but wait until nightfall. He had no choice but to be ready to face the Gnolls and his own fears.
The Camp
The tension at the camp had been simmering for days, and now, as dusk settled over the horizon, it reached a boiling point. Rugiel stood at the edge of the camp’s defenses, her war hammer resting in the crook of her arm, a silent reminder of her readiness. Gromli was by her side, his large ladle weapon secured on his back. Nearby, Bauru crouched, inspecting the traps and quietly adjusting the sharp stakes that lined the inner side of the newly dug moat.
“Ye see them?” Bauru asked, his voice steady, though his eye narrowed in the gathering gloom.
Rugiel did not answer immediately. She scanned the tree line, watching the shadows shift, and waited for the faintest sign of movement. When the first gnoll broke through the underbrush, she tightened her grip on her hammer.
“There,” she said, her voice low but firm.
Within moments, more gnolls began to pour out of the forest. Dozens turned to hundreds, their snarling faces and hulking forms filling the clearing. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wet fur, and a low, rumbling growl reverberated through the woods. The sight sent a shiver down Rugiel’s spine, but she refused to let the fear take hold.
“Do you think Stronric…?” Gromli began, his usual cheerfulness subdued as he watched the gnolls pour forth.
“Stronric is not dead,” Bauru interrupted, her tone sharp, almost angry at the suggestion. “He’ll return. He has to.”
But despite Bauru’s words, the fear gnawed at the back of Rugiel’s mind. What if Stronric had fallen? What if he was lying somewhere in the forest, broken and alone? Rugiel shook her head to clear the thought and turned to face the camp.
“Bauru,” Rugiel called, her voice steady despite the anxiety clawing at her. “Prepare to fall back to the kill boxes.”
The humans and dwarves had done much to make the camp defensible. The camp was shaped like a long curving rectangle that followed the curve of the river. Two sides were protected by the quick flowing river. The other two sides were walled with piles of garbage and debris. The only true structure was a large wooden gate frame, but it seemed whoever built it was never able to finish the doors. Bauru had led the Humans in digging a shallow moat around the piled walls, sparing only a carts length area leading to the gate. They placed sharpened sticks along the bottom and sides. The survivors stripped the piles of garbage to find steady wooden or stone items that could be used to form true walls and enclosed the second opening that used to be at the back of the camp. This left the only safe and easy access point at the open gate frame.
“Aye,” Bauru replied, his focus unwavering as he adjusted the tension on a spring-loaded trap. He stood and looked to the militia, a ragtag group of men and women who had come to them days ago as mere villagers. Now, they stood with weapons in hand and armor hastily cobbled together, their faces set in grim determination. These people weren’t soldiers, but they had been drilled day after day, and Gromli had kept them well fed and healthy.
The humans had scavenged and scoured every inch of the camp. They collected arrows, bows, spears and rusty weapons. A small group of human hunters stood around the one crate of arrows, acting as the camps archers. Rugiel only allowed a few to act as archers, as most would be needed to hold the gate. A row of humans with hastily made shields and spears lined the open gateway. Adopting a shield style combat formation, the humans would hold. Bauru and Rugiel would strike out at any elites or leaders of the enemy force. Hoping that killing the gnoll’s leader would break the moral of the slaver and send the gnolls back fleeing. The elderly would reinforce the walls with access supplies and hand out new shields or weapons as the shoddy items they had would inevitably break. Rugiel was surprised when some of the Humans had even unlocked new warrior classes, trading the tools and plows for swards and shields. Farmers no longer, they had made their choice to stand and fight, knowing if this camp fell, their village and homes were next in line for the gnoll army.
“All right, listen up!” Rugiel called out, raising her voice to reach the militia. “The gnolls are coming, but we are prepared. Remember what we’ve trained for. Stick to your posts, keep your heads down, and let the traps do their work. When the time comes, fight with all your strength. This is our land! We seem to have become quite the thorn in the side of the gnolls! They must crush us for fear if they pass us we can strike at their flanks! They thought they could attack your village, and no recompense would come for them! Here and now, we stand as the vanguard for the village. This siege at some river in the middle of nowhere proves how scared they are of our wraith if let free!”
The militia murmured in agreement, shifting nervously but resolutely into their positions. Gromli moved between them, offering reassuring words and adjusting their stances with a practiced eye. His own weapon, a two-handed ladle, seemed almost comical, but there was no laughter in the air tonight.
Rugiel turned back to the approaching gnolls, her war hammer now gripped firmly in both hands. The fear of losing Stronric still lingered, but there was no time for doubt. She had a duty to protect these people and their land, and she would not fail them.
“Bauru,” she said quietly, her eyes never leaving the advancing horde, “Do you think we’ve done enough?”
Bauru was silent for a moment, his one good eye scanning the traps and the militia. “We’ve done all we can,” he replied. “Now, we’ll see if it’s enough.”
The gnolls moved closer, their guttural snarls echoing through the clearing. The camp held its breath, waiting for the moment when the creatures would reach the moat.
“Hold,” Rugiel whispered, her voice carrying a calm authority that steadied the hands of those around her. She raised her war hammer, ready to signal the attack.
The first wave of gnolls reached the edge of the moat and began to scramble down the slope. They fell headlong into the traps, sharp stakes and hidden pits claiming their first victims. Some tried to climb out, only to be met by a hail of arrows and stones from the militia.
“Now!” Rugiel called, and the militia sprang into action.
The battle began in earnest, and chaos erupted. The gnolls charged, driven by blood lust, but the kill boxes and traps funneled them into tight formations, making them easy targets for the defenders. Gromli’s voice boomed across the camp as he directed the militia, his ladle moving with surprising grace as he fought off any creature that broke through the lines. Bauru, crossbow in hand, moved through the chaos with practiced ease. He took down gnolls with precise shots, covering the militia as they fought. Rugiel moved with purpose, her war hammer swinging in wide arcs, each blow crushing bones and shattering defenses. But for every gnoll that fell, it seemed two more took its place. The battle was far from over, and the fear for Stronric’s fate still lingered at the back of their minds.
They would fight on, for their home and for each other, no matter the cost.
Stronric
The sun slipped below the horizon, and the shadows of the forest deepened into an impenetrable darkness. Stronric stood alone, his back pressed against the weathered stone that had been his sanctuary for the past two days. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint scents of damp earth and lingering blood. He could sense the presence of the gnolls moving through the night, like predators stalking their prey. But tonight, they weren’t hunting him.
Stronric’s stomach growled, the dull ache of hunger gnawing relentlessly at him. He hadn’t eaten since the beginning of his trial, and the deprivation was taking its toll. His limbs felt heavy, and his vision swam as he scanned the darkened forest. He clenched his fists, trying to shake off the creeping weakness, but he knew it wasn’t just hunger that threatened to break him.
A sudden rustling in the trees pulled him from his thoughts. Stronric’s eyes narrowed as he listened, every instinct sharpening despite his exhaustion. The gnolls were moving, but not towards him. They were heading in the direction of the camp.
“Damn it,” he muttered, panic rising in his chest. He had assumed they would come for him again, but they were smarter than he had given them credit for. They were going after the camp, after his kin.
Pushing himself away from the rock, his legs almost buckled beneath him. Stronric took a steadying breath, forcing the weakness from his mind. He donned his pauldrons, the familiar weight of them settling heavily on his shoulders, a tangible reminder of the responsibilities he bore. Finally, he whispered a quick prayer to Thoranthana as he secured her tabard over his chest.
The forest seemed to blur around him as he stumbled through the underbrush, his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn’t fail, not now, not when the lives of those he had sworn to protect were at stake.
The distant sounds of battle reached him before the camp came into view. Stronric gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain and fatigue. He broke through the tree line just as the gnolls breached the camp’s defenses, their guttural roars filling the night air. The human defenders fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and outmatched.
“Stronric!” The voices of Rugiel, Gromli, and Bauru rang out in unison above the chaos, a resounding call that cut through the noise of battle. Rugiel stood at the forefront, her war hammer swinging in powerful arcs as she rallied the defenders. Gromli’s booming shout carried a note of encouragement, while Bauru’s voice held a sharp edge of determination. For a brief moment, all three pairs of eyes met his, relief flashed across their faces, quickly replaced by steely resolve.
Stronric’s chest tightened as he heard their voices, Rugiel, Gromli, and Bauru calling his name above the chaos. It wasn’t just a cry for aid, it was a reminder that he wasn’t alone. They were his kinsmen, and they were still fighting. His eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in the sight of the defenders struggling to hold the line. The gnolls pressed against the makeshift barricades, clawing and snarling with unrelenting fury. The trolls towered over the skirmish, their massive forms battering the walls with brute strength.
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The weight of his responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders, grounding him amidst the whirlwind of battle. Stronric felt a surge of emotion, relief that his kin still stood, pride in their defiance, and guilt for having allowed the enemy to get around him. He clenched his fists, feeling the rough texture of his axe’s haft beneath his fingers. There was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt. They were his family, and he had sworn to protect them.
As his kinsmen’s eyes met his, Stronric felt something shift within him, a flicker of warmth, a brief respite from the gnawing emptiness that had plagued him for so long. They hadn’t abandoned him, and he would not abandon them.
“You’re not facing this alone,” Stronric muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the axe. “Not while I still draw breath.”
A roar built in his chest, growing louder with each breath until it broke free, echoing through the clearing. The blue flame within him surged, flickering and unstable, but it was enough. Stronric took one last deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs and steady his resolve.
“Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice ringing out with newfound strength. “We stand together!”
Stronric took a deep breath, drawing on the last of his Ruhna. The energy surged through him, a flickering flame fighting to stay alight. He braced himself, bending low before exploding forward leaving the ground broken behind him. The air rushed past him as he leapt into the fray, his feet smashing down in the midst of the gnoll horde with a force that sent a shockwave through the ground.
The gnolls closest were crushed into piles of blood and gore, those further away stumbled, snarling in confusion. Stronric didn’t waste a second. He swung his axe with brutal efficiency, cleaving through the first row of attackers. The blue flame of the Soul Forge flared within him, guiding each strike with deadly precision. The gnolls tried to regroup, but Stronric was relentless, carving a path through their ranks. Stronric could feel the Ruhna entering him and powering him forward.
As he fought, Stronric’s own mind was a battlefield. The fear of losing control as the influx of power surged through his body was plaguing his mind and whispered doubt into his ear. The power freed by each kill tempted him to let go of his control and unleash the chaos within.“No,” Stronric growled, gritting his teeth as he drove his axe into another gnoll. “Not again.”
Stronric instead forced the incoming Ruhna into his soul forge and the awaiting crucibles. The forge protested and pain, as if filling more than one crucible at a time was unnatural in such a weakened state. Stronric danced around a gnoll’s blow and returned one of his own, cleaving the creature in half. He took the next moment to steady his breathing and place a firm mental hand on the filling crucible, feeling the weight increase as more Ruhna flowed in. He snapped back to the battle and as the crucible filled the raging madness was easier to push back to the periphery of his mind.
The trolls reached the camp’s walls, their massive fists pounding against the defenses. The makeshift barricades held for the moment, but they wouldn’t withstand the onslaught for long. Stronric knew he had to act quickly. He forced the fear back, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing and the steady pulse of Ruhna within him. One breath at a time, one strike at a time.
He adjusted his grip on the axe and turned his focus to the trolls. They were enormous, towering over the gnolls and defenders alike, their skin thick and mottled like old stone. Stronric felt the weight of the challenge before him, but he couldn’t afford hesitation.
Rugiel’s gaze swept over the battlefield, taking in the relentless waves of gnolls and the desperation etched on the defenders' faces. Her war hammer felt heavier in her grasp, not from the weight of the weapon but from the gravity of the moment. The tide of the battle was shifting, and she could see their lines beginning to waver under the onslaught. The trolls would not fall without the flame to burn away their ability to regenerate. The trolls could single handedly tear the only walls that held back the sea of beasts.
She couldn’t allow that to happen.
Taking a deep breath, Rugiel stepped forward. She found a clear space amidst the chaos. The air around her seemed to hum with a rising intensity as she planted her feet firmly and raised her war hammer high. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, focusing her mind on the connection she held with Morgal, the mad god of smithing. The memory of his fiery blue forge burned brightly in her mind, a source of strength and inspiration.
“Let the forge of Morgal guide us,” she whispered, and as she opened her eyes, they shone with determination and if a person looked hard enough, they might have seen the ring of blue flames dance around her irises
The war hammer came crashing down with a resounding clang. From the earth beneath her feet, an ethereal anvil rose, forged from the very essence of her connection to Morgal. The anvil was ancient and rough-hewn, glowing faintly with blue fire that flickered like embers caught in the wind. The defenders paused, eyes wide, watching as Rugiel raised her war hammer once more.
“For the forge and for our kin!” she cried, and swung her hammer down onto the anvil with all her might.
The impact sent a shock wave rippling outward, and in an instant, a cascade of brilliant sparks erupted from the anvil. The flames weren’t wild and uncontrolled; they were deliberate, guided by Rugiel’s will and the blessing of Morgal. The sparks spread through the air, like fireflies drawn to steel, and in moments, the weapons of the defenders began to glow with a faint blue light.
The humans and dwarves stared at their newly empowered blades and axes; the weight of their fear lessened by the madness of Morgal’s flame. Rugiel felt the strain of the skill coursing through her, but she held steady, knowing the significance of what she had done. She had pushed the skill beyond what she thought the skill would allow.
“Fight with the flame of the forge!” Rugiel shouted, her voice ringing out like the clash of steel. “Show these beasts the strength of Morgal’s anvil!”
With renewed vigor, the defenders surged forward, their weapons gleaming with blue fire. They swung their blades and axes with renewed confidence, every strike infused with the spark of Morgal’s flame. The gnolls recoiled, momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in the battle’s momentum.
Rugiel stood tall, her war hammer resting against the glowing anvil. Gromli fought to the side of the maiden of the anvil and battered away a gnoll who tried to end her life. Rugiel hadn’t moved when the gnoll tried to end her life. She was concentrating on keeping her skill active, she chose to trust in those around her for protection. Gromli shook his head, he was no warrior but a cook. Another gnoll broke through the lines and charged Rugiel. Gromli shouted out a war cry and slammed into the beast with his robust belly. The gnoll fell to the ground and before it could rise against Gromli slammed his ladle down ending the beast life. Gromli shouted another challenge to the encircling gnolls.
Charging forward, Stronric threw himself into the heart of the enemy ranks. The gnolls closed in around him, their claws and weapons slashing at him from every direction. Stronric fought with every ounce of strength he had left, his movements a delicate balance between control and fury. Each swing of his axe was fueling the flickering flame of his Soul Forge, he felt each new crucible fill and with that the threat of the Ruhna spilling out.
The trolls turned their attention to him, their beady eyes narrowing as they recognized the new threat. One of them let out a guttural roar and charged, swinging a massive club in a wide arc. Stronric barely ducked in time, the club passing inches above his head and decimating several gnolls that tried to stab Stronric through the back.
Stronric retaliated with a powerful upward strike. His axe bit into the troll’s thick hide. The creature howled in pain, but Stronric didn’t relent. He pressed forward, pushing himself to keep moving, keep fighting. The flame on his axe glowing brighter as it burnt the troll. The trolls were unyielding their massive fists and clubs crashing down like falling boulders. But Stronric fought with a precision born of years at the forge. He wielded his axe like a smith wielded a hammer, each strike deliberate and measured. He couldn’t overpower them through sheer force, but he could outlast them, wear them down, and find their weaknesses.
Stronric swung, slashed and slammed his axe down on the five trolls. They had encircled him trying to kill the dwarf who refused to die. With each blow the trolls began to move slower and slower as they began to succumb to their wounds. Just like fighting the gnoll champion in the clearing, he adapted his fighting style to be fast and true. Just like fighting the gnoll champion in the clearing, he adapted his fighting style to be fast and true. One troll was too slow to bring his club up to fend off a blow from Stronric. Stronric took this chance to swing his axe as he stepped inside the troll’s guard. Blood poured from the armpit of the troll. The club fell onto the ground, the troll’s weakened grip no longer able to hold it up. Stronric dodged another blow from a troll and jumped on the club. Then launched himself towards this troll’s head. Stronric’s arms burned as the Ruhna gathered inside of his body. The power now overflowing into his limbs from his chest.
With a single swing Stronric cut off the Troll’s head. The troll’s large and cumbersome body began to topple forward. Stronric landed on the beast’s shoulder and used the momentum throwing himself at the second troll. Swinging down with all of his might he slammed the axe in between the second troll’s eyes. The troll died instantly. Stronric pulled his axe free and rode the dying troll to the ground. A cloud of dirt and dust exploded upward from the impact, and he didn’t let the cover go to waste. He dashed forward and slid between the third troll’s legs. Swinging upward, he slammed his axe into the troll’s groin. He ripped his axe free as he continued under the beast’s legs. Screaming in pain the troll collapsed to its knees, its weapon forgotten on the ground. Another sickening crunch, Stronric used his boot to help pull his axe free of the back of the troll’s head.
The fourth troll dropped its weapon and turned to run, Stronric wouldn’t let the coward escape. He chased after the beast, swinging his axe at its ankle. The troll fell to the ground and began to try and crawl back through the incoming army. The troll crushed its own allies in its fear to escape Stronric. With a blood covered smile Stronric ended the troll’s life. Swinging down on the head of the trolls several more times as madness began to overcome him. Stronric knew the true battle was about to start for him.
Stronric lungs became the bellow of war, breathing in the carnage around him he let out a scream. Enemies around him stopped in surprise and fear as the war cry carried on more. An aura of blood lust dripped off of Stronric as the madness pushed in on him. The muscles on Stronric’s arm budged and swelled as more Ruhna poured into him, overflowing the delicately placed crucibles. He willed his Soul Forge to provide more crucibles to catch all the Ruhn, but he had no time to go inward. Knowing he only needed a little more he charged the troll.
The troll bellowed a primal challenge and charged, its massive club arcing through the air with crushing force. Stronric met the beast head-on, his axe swinging in a fierce counterstrike. When their weapons collided, the impact was like a thunderclap, sending shockwaves rippling through the battlefield. The ground beneath Stronric’s feet split and cracked under the force of the blow.
The troll’s arms buckled under the overwhelming power, bones splintering with a sickening crack. Stronric didn’t hesitate; he continued the strike, driving his axe down in a powerful, sweeping arc that cleaved through the troll’s thick hide. The blade bit deep, carving a path from the creature’s shoulder to its hip in a single, brutal motion.
For a moment, there was silence. Stronric stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his axe slick with blood. Around him, the surviving gnolls retreated, slinking back into the shadows from which they had come. Stronric turned his gaze towards the humans with their spears, watching as they began to cheer and chant a single word: “Thane.”
Stronric couldn’t hear them. His mind was a storm of raw energy and madness, the remnants of power surging unchecked within him. He took a slow, lumbering step towards the humans, dragging his axe behind him. Gromli, Rugiel, and Bauru leapt down from their posts, positioning themselves between Stronric and the cheering militia. Their weapons were drawn but not raised, ready for anything but holding onto a fragile hope.
Stronric staggered forward, each step a monumental effort against the chaos in his mind. Bauru raised a hand, calling out something Stronric couldn’t make out through the haze. When Stronric was no further than an arm’s length away, he came to a halt, his broad shoulders slumping. He let out a shuddering breath, the battle against his own mind more grueling than the war he had just fought.
“I need a few minutes,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Forgive my weakness.”
Without waiting for their responses, Stronric closed his eyes and retreated into his Soul Forge.
Within the forge, the scene was nothing short of chaos. The anvil blazed with an intense, white-hot flame, and torrents of Ruhna poured off it in waves. The webs of power enshrouded the anvil and covered the floor. The sheer amount of power whipped Stronric’s beard and hair wildly. The fire in the half complete forge roared, casting blue lights that danced off the chaotic webs. He stepped forward muttering to the forge, “Just hold on a little longer.”
Each step towards the forge was a test of his will, his exhaustion weighing heavily on his mind and body. When he finally reached it, he collapsed against the ancient stones. He was relieved to see there were multiple crucibles filled with glowing power. He used ever once of his remaining strength to will the stones into their molds. His mind skipped as he poured the overflowing power over the stones and prayed, they’d hold. The forge itself seemed to take notice of this monumental task, and the flames burned brighter. Stronric collapsed on the floor leaning his head heavily against the rebuilt foundation.
“I can’t do it. I don’t have the strength to finish this task. I fear if I leave this place now the wild overflowing power will be containable.” Stronric spoke to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flicker of the white webbed energy move. He lifted his head and stared in disbelief, as the webs bursting from the anvil wound together forming thick tentacle like arms. The arms reached out and wrapped themselves around the reforged stones. A cool breeze seemed to blow through the Soul Forge and Stronric somehow felt peace. He watched in awe, as the tentacles started to rebuild the remainder of the forge. With each brick placed he gained the strength to stand. Stronric was able to lift his own stones, placing them along with the others, working in tandem with whatever was guiding the energy.
The hours passed in a haze as Stronric labored, his hands moving with careful precision. When the final crack was sealed, the Soul Forge was calm and almost serene. The webs retreated into the anvil, leaving a single sealed crack and a new rune. The design itself consists of three distinct, angular segments arranged around the center, forming a sharp and symmetrical geometric pattern. The lines are straight, intersecting at precise angles, creating a bold and rigid structure that avoids any curves or flowing shapes.
Each segment seems to reach outward, almost touching but leaving deliberate gaps that prevent the pattern from fully closing, symbolizing incompleteness. The lines of the rune glow with a silvery-blue light, sharp and vivid against the dark granite surface. Faint cracks radiate outward from the center, their edges illuminated by the same bluish glow, as though the power of the rune is seeping into the stone. Together, the angular shapes and glowing fractures give the impression of controlled, focused energy barely contained within the rune’s precise geometry. The flames of the forge burned steadily and strongly. For the first time since he had ruined it with his reckless naivety, the forge felt whole.
The madness within Stronric’s mind receded, leaving behind a rare moment of clarity. He felt like himself again. A question surfaced, unbidden: Was this how Morgal had gained his power? The Mad Smithing Ancestor—had he given into the madness or found a way to channel it? Stronric shook his head, banishing the thought. Why does my mind always wander at moments like these?
With a deep breath, Stronric left the forge and returned to the outside world. Only moments had passed, though it felt like an eternity in the forge. He glanced back at the camp and saw his kinsmen working tirelessly, reinforcing the walls, tending to the wounded, and reloading their weapons. They had held their ground, and now, with a brief respite, they could recover and brace for whatever came next.
Stronric pushed himself to his feet and hefted his axe. Bauru rushed over to help him, but Stronric pulled away.
“Not yet, beardling,” Stronric muttered, eyes cast downward. “My trial is not over.”
“Thane, look,” was all Bauru said, pointing towards the horizon.
Stronric looked up and saw the first light of dawn breaking through the trees. The dark night had finally given way to the rising sun, a new day.