My helmet is wreathed in runic power. It is invisible, of course, felt and not seen, but no less a spectacle for this. This single rune, dway, is more powerful even than my new rune for cold was. I have failed with my runes several times today, but with this rune I've managed to harness my power expertly. And what is more I did not lose control. This is no dark rune, no bloody rune of the desire to kill, but one that has life and death both woven into it.

I step back to admire. The guards and Nazak remain speechless with awe.

“Now for the rest of the poem,” I say. “Then you can call down the Runethane.”

Nazak nods, then orders a guard to run up to find Vanerak.

My fear of him returns to gnaw at me; it intrudes upon my triumph. I focus. Yet I can't let something mundane like fear ruin such a great work.

I think: what can this poem be?

The answer comes to me. I take the runes I folded for my failed poem and rearrange. I shape some more. I plunge into the magma sea, pull my power through me to create new ones for the words I need. Making the more straightforward ones seems easy to me now.

The poem comes together. It is, naturally, about a dwarf.

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The Reconquerors do not have just one guildhall, but half a dozen. They are spread throughout Vanerak's rapidly expanding realm. No other guilds are yet permitted to be established, for Vanerak wants a tight hold on his domain. Perhaps, once his realm has grown a little further, he will allow the existence of groups not under his direct control. In the meantime there are only the Reconquerors—utterly loyal to him for leading them to safety from Thanerzak's dragon-blasted realm.

Guthah and Pellas sit opposite each other in one of these guildhalls. Not for the first time, Guthah is feeling out of place. This particular hall is just a short distance from Runethane Vanerak's palace, and apart from them and the two surviving Dragonslayers, only runeknights of fourth degree and above are allowed entry.

But they have been told to forge and take meals here, by first degree Halax himself, and so no matter how isolated they feel, this is where they must spend most of their time.

“...it's going well enough,” Pellas is saying. “The handle turned out to be...”

Guthah cannot quite concentrate on what his wife-to-be is saying. There's a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. His sausages and beer sit in front of him untouched. Even though he's hungry, has been working steel all day, he cannot fathom eating right now. His belly is already full with fear.

“...silver was the right choice, I think. But all the same...”

What's come over him? Is it something about the other runeknights here? Has there been some subtle change in their manner of walking and speaking? There are rumors of demons loose by the magma shore. Might they have infiltrated even to here?

“Are you all right?” says Pellas, suddenly concerned.

“I'm fine.”

“You've gone pale.”

“Not enough sunlight,” Guthah tries to joke.

“Did something happen?”

“No. It's just... Something feels off.”

Pellas frowns.

“You don't feel it?”

“I don't know. Not really.”

“Like something's about to happen.”

“With the magma shore? We've been told everything's under control down there.”

“I don't know where it's going to happen. It's not like that. Just...” He throws up his hands. “Maybe the heat from the furnace got to me. It might have been set a little high.”

Pellas lays down her knife. “Now you've got me worried.”

“Sorry. It's just a feeling. It'll go away.”

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“Yeah.” She lowers her voice. “It's hard to feel relaxed in here at the best of times.”

“Finish your beer and let's get back to our room.”

“Let's.”

The guildhall is not such a quiet place—Vanerak's dwarves are not reflections of him, they talk of forging and fighting over their beers, and of more uncouth topics too, and there are always dwarves walking through to the forging chambers past the main hall—but a sudden sound cuts through all this. It is not loud. Yet to Guthah something sets it apart from the others. It's coming from over Pellas' shoulder.

It's footsteps. A lady runeknight has emerged from behind a small knot of fourth degrees now hurriedly marching away. She is of the first degree, and is right now unhelmed. Her face is disfigured by burns—much like Pellas' is—yet there is a harshness in Helzar's gaze unmatched by even Vanerak's other first degrees.

Nothing but hate is in those eyes. They are like bloody daggers, and the same color, red and dark gray around a point of soulless black.

Guthah's muscles spasm tense. She is approaching them, directly. This is what his terrible feeling meant. She has come for them. Zathar has failed in his promise—he has committed some act worth of punishment and now Guthah and Pellas are to pay the price.

He wants to scream. His breath wants to burst from him. Why must he pay for the traitor's crimes? Haven't they suffered enough from Zathar already? He who led them on the dragonhunt, promising he'd protect them, only to ignore and break that promise?

Just because he is the Runeforger, that means he cannot be touched. Why was he blessed with this power? Who could have been less fitting?

Helzar stands right behind Pellas. Her blood-dagger eyes dart down for a second, then back up.

“Ularak!” she snaps. Her voice is like crushed obsidian. “The delivery is late! I needed that tungsten load half a long-hour ago!”

“I'm sorry!” cries a startled runeknight sitting two places away from Guthah. “I'll go and see what's happened!”

“You will. And you will do it now.”

He leaps up from his place, bows hastily and dashes away, leaving his half-eaten meal on his stone plate. Helzar shakes her head, sneers a little, and walks away without another glance back.

Guthah breaths out slowly.

But the ill-feeling remains.

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The dwarf dives into the magma sea. He breaks through the black crust of it with ease; its fragments smash apart on his tungsten skin. Warmth subsumes him, which is in truth raging heat, yet to a being of magma it feels like home, like the heat of the furnace. It is a comfort. He is heat, after all, a dwarf is heat, of love and greed and rage. How could heat possibly melt his tungsten skin?

Deep he swims. The weight of molten stone presses upon him. Instead of crushing him, it only makes him stronger. His tungsten skin thickens. His inner heat grows to meet the pressure and temperature, to match it.

His very blood responds. It rushes in his veins, bringing the heat-of-life through him more strongly. His legs beat through the magma with greater force, and his arms move as if the power-overwhelmed stone weighs nothing and exerts no friction.

The poem ends with no conclusion. The dwarf continues to swim down, down, down.

This is the poem's strength—its stroke of brilliance. Descent is its main theme, and the runic power thus flows down from it, to run through the rest of the conjoining metal. It is the embodiment of the themes below in narrative form and through it the sequence both begins and is complete.

Red and gold flash as I seal rune to tungsten. Nazak and his guards remain transfixed. Though they know what I am making is powerful, they cannot quite tell the power of this craft—they are waiting for the final rune to be grafted so they can see the full potential of my runes for themselves.

When I do graft the final rune, lahj for heat, the whole helmet glows warm gold for a few seconds, before the light gradually fades. Yet I'm still not done.

Piece by piece I fit the suit together. The tungsten sections lock perfectly against one another. I tighten the boots around my feet. I could stride out into the magma shallows in their current state with ease, but I still want a little extra security.

The threads of the black glowworm are a prized commodity. A six inch length costs a full gold wheel back in Allabrast. I never touched them, never even glanced at them, knowing my gold needed to be spend on metal and reagent, and that no armor was ever defined by its undercoat.

Yet my resources are now unlimited. A few long-hours ago I asked for sheets of woven glowworm threads to be precisely measured, cut, and sewn by an expert tailor. It arrived quickly—incredibly quickly—and now lies in the storeroom.

I take out the package, unwrap the paper carefully. I remove my boots and replace them with a sock of the fabric. It's cool against my skin, and so soft that I wouldn't know it was there but for the coolness.

The black glowworm devours only one kind of prey: the silverskin bat. Creatures of skin and critters of chitin brush against its hanging webs harmlessly. But when a silverskin bat, attracted by the light which is a perfect imitation of the glow of lesser worms, makes contact with the black threads, they bond instantly to its metallic skin.

No matter how much the creature thrashes, it can do nothing to escape. Eventually it goes limp and accepts its fate—consumption from the inside after the worm enters through the nearest orifice.

The thread bonds with metals other than silver too, but much more slowly. I place my foot back into my boot, adjust for comfort, and wait. A few minutes later, I feel the coolness of the fabric pull away a little as it bonds to the tungsten. A few more minutes and I judge the process complete. I pull my foot out the boot, put it back in.

Both movements are smooth. I flex my foot. The fabric stretches and the armor-plates glide over each other soundlessly.

Over the next hour I don each piece of fabric and section of armor in turn, bonding them tightly. Once each is fully complete, I don the whole suit.

A glow of heat fills me. I feel invigorated, drunk on the heat. I take a few steps and I feel light. I flex my hands. My fingers snap quickly and tightly. I kneel down and reach for the magma of the furnace, let it run around my fingers.

My fingertips feel hot, but they do not burn—unless they are burning with power. My strength seems to grow the longer I leave them in contact with the substance.

I turn to Nazak.

“Done,” I say. “Now I await our Runethane's judgement.”

“He is on his way,” he says. "You will not have to wait long."