I put the letter down. A tremble begins in my hands; it creeps up my arms. A feeling of weakness spreads into my chest—my ruby blazes—my stomach turns, my legs shake—I sink back into the chair—I must have stood up at some point while reading or re-reading, though I don't remember when.

My breathing quickens. My throat dries. I gag, and heave, and vomit onto the floor.

I take deep breaths to calm myself but this only makes the nausea worse. I vomit again, just a few dregs this time, mostly saliva. The inside of my mouth becomes sour. I spit. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I take another deep and sour breath, another.

And what kind of a Runethane slaughters a guild to the last runeknight—as our Runethane did, before he even entered the black dragon's lair? This could well be the greatest crime of all, though sadly honored runeknight Goluhr was unable to elaborate much on this particular crime; it was the final one he admitted to.

There is nothing to suggest that the slaughtered guild was the Association of Steel. Nothing! No mention is made of its guildmaster, nor of how many members it had, nor why it was on its way to the dragon—if the dwarves in question were on their way to assist in the battle or were simply scavengers out to loot remains. They might not even have been from Runeking Ulrike's domains, but rather a company under the command of the hated Uthrarzak, or even a band of survivors from the realms beneath Runeking Halajatbast's mountain.

Guildmaster Wharoth risked his reputation, and his life, to save me from Allabrast's prisons and the clutches of Vanerak. When everyone despised me, including most of my own guild, it was he who stepped out and believed in me, in my innocence, and my ability to change.

So if he would go that far for me, how much farther would he go for half his guild, half his old friends and comrades? Very far indeed, no matter what they had said or done. Up to the surface, even, across the snow to a mountain inside of which a dragon slept.

He swore that we were fools, and that any futile attempt at revenge would mean nothing. He would not risk the guild, he said, for such a quest. Yet he loved us. When his rage calmed, he might well have changed his mind and quested north to seek us. He would have hoped that the tribulations of the surface might have weakened our resolve, and that the right words would turn us back from certain death. Or maybe he would have tried to block us by force—perhaps by means of a duel—no, that does not sound like him. Perhaps he would have joined us on the quest, deciding that as guildmaster he could not sit in the safety of his hall while half his runeknights fought with everything they had to slay the black dragon.

Yes, it is more likely than not that eventually he decided to leave Allabrast—with his best dwarves only—or no, perhaps with the whole guild, desiring for us to never be split apart again.

And if he did so, what might have happened if Vanerak came across him? The Mountain of Halajatbast is far to the north, so as they traveled their paths would have moved closer and closer to converging. It is possible both of them stopped at Heldfast Hill for supplies; the only friendly settlement between Uthrarzak's realms and the mountain.

Vanerak was rushing for me. I well know that he relishes spilling blood when the mood takes him, yet he would not have swerved from his goal without good reason. Was the reason he slaughtered that guild, then, that it was led by kind Guildmaster Wharoth? The runeknight who best knew my powers, and my protector.

I shake my head and swallow a new urge to throw up. Maybe that guild attacked him first, or blocked him. But in that case there would have been no crime, and the captured second degree admitted that their attack was a crime. Maybe they were a group from Heldfast Hill. Yet those dwarves showed no desire to leave their safety.

Try as I might, conjure up as many theories and reasons as I may, I cannot convince myself that the worst has not come to pass. The guild Vanerak and his runeknights slaughtered was the Association of Steel, on its way to assist our quest or dissuade us from it.

Wharoth dead in the snow—Vanerak standing above him—halberd buried deep—the rest of the Association lying around, some in pieces—their spilled blood slowly freezing, steam rising from it—red images assail me. On the floor I gag and heave, but there is nothing left.

It is my imagination, I try to tell myself. Just my imagination! There is no proof, not a single word of proof, that the guild slaughtered was the Association of Steel.

At this thought, a new emotion rises in me: anger, partly at myself. What does it matter who Vanerak killed? It was crime, an evil crime. To slay fellow dwarves for no other reason than your own greed, and what of his other crime, the one first mentioned? He killed several dragonslayers upon his entrance to its lair to protect his lies. The real slayers of the dragon—killed so this thief could steal their glory! Likely it was not just those of Xomhyrk's guild that he slew, not just Dragonslayers, but members of other guilds, including the Association of Steel. Anyone wounded in body but awake and with eyes open to have witnessed Xomhyrk's final victory—slain as they lay there by Vanerak's cruel pollaxe.

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My ruby blazes like a drop of magma upon my chest. This cannot go unpunished! The death of noble runeknights by someone so cruel, for such a revolting reason—who could let such a crime go unpaid for?

Who could let the torturers and murders of Pellas roam freely?

They must die—Vanerak, Halax, Helzar, Nazak, and every other runeknight complicit in these evils. They must be slaughtered as they slaughtered so many good dwarves—I must slaughter them! That is the purpose I must turn toward. A quest as vital as any dragon-hunt!

I rise from the floor and, with halting and jerky steps, make my way to the partitioned part of my room. With cold water I wash the vomit from my beard. I look into my mirror and into my eyes —I see fire in them. My ruby is blazing in time with the beats of my heart. It yearns to see the blood of my enemies. I will give it that blood!

The true metal is the key. If I can master it, I can pierce even a Runethane's armor. I can strike through Vanerak's mirror-mask, shatter it, pierce his skull and mind-flesh and put an end to him. Halax, torturer Helzar, Nazak as well—I will cut their hearts from their chests!

A knife. That is what I shall make. A dagger! I have enough true metal for this. I will forge a blade keener than any I have yet created. First degree armor will part like hide at its touch. Through the realm, I will stalk, and strike each of them down one by one. Why fight fair and open, when they did not? I will stab through their backs!

I pick up my shaving razor and dash it to the floor. It breaks in a flash of sparks. I yell in rage and smash my fist against the mirror. It shatters. The shards reflect my face as they spin and fall and dash apart into dust upon the stone.

It does not matter if I master the true metal. Forge with it or without it, I will remain powerless. My forging is watched—I cannot make a dagger whose only purpose is clearly and obviously to pierce armor. And I cannot stalk around the realm. Such a thought is ridiculous. I would be caught within the hour, to face unspeakable consequences. All I would do is give Vanerak another excuse for cruelty.

Powerless! I yell wordlessly and hammer against the wall. My fists bruise, redden, swell and hurt, but the stone does not budge.

I am powerless to take revenge against Vanerak. I can do nothing to stop whatever further evils he plans to commit. I doubt I could manage to kill even one of his first degrees, let alone three.

I must try—but what would be the point to suicide? If I try, I must succeed.

There has to be a way, I tell myself. I cannot see it yet, but there must be a way. I must be patient: the quality Vanerak has taught me will be his downfall. I will bide my time and wait for the opportunity to strike.

Yet how much time do I have? Vanerak has ceased his interrogations. He may have discovered something.

So it comes down to the patience of the forge against the onward rush of outside forces. I must find a balance. But at least the first step is obvious to me: I must master the true metal.

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To the forge I go. The gray haze which has confounded my crafting these past long-hours has lifted totally from my vision and other senses; I see and move with purpose. Each step takes me closer to my objective, my destiny: a fateful battle against the hated Vanerak. He will pay for the lives he's taken.

I pull apart the wreckages of my six attempts at the runic furnace. As I tear girder from plate, I think on the critical errors that destroyed each one. The reasons, which were so murky to see before, are now clear as diamond. Mistaken runes, unaligned rods, poor welds—how could I make such basic errors? I will not do so again.

My writing-stick flies across the paper, tracing lines at exact angles, sketching diagrams of gems cut into perfect geometries, scribbling calculations of runic flow that are without a doubt correct. All this is far from effortless, but my ruby, understanding the ultimate purpose of my actions, burns hot and I do not tire. I only require a few breaks for water, then within a long-hour I am done. This planning stage took less time than I expected, and so I check everything twice, and twice again, but see that I have made no errors.

I measure and weigh new steel—the remains of the other attempts, already enruned, would have to be re-purified—and ready to forge the new design. It will be similar to the others in basic shape: a wide ring of steel about a meter and a half in diameter, with curving rods sticking up from it, and at the end of each rod will be a gem with its point directed at the center of the circle.

For the runework, I have taken inspiration from Galar's trident of light. This is why the craft is circular: power loops around again and again, and heat steadily increases, just as how within Galar's trident light increased. When the heat becomes so great that the steel comes nearly to the point of melting, a lever will click and the heat will pour up the rods and into the gems. From the gems it will be directed to a central point, and, hopefully, the true metal will melt.

Whether it will melt or not is the only unknown to this craft. I simply do not know how much heat it will take to turn my grains of true tungsten to liquid. But I judge that since I managed to get it to red heat in the magma forge, my goal is surely not a completely unattainable one.

But I am getting ahead of myself—I must create the furnace first.