The weapon I begin to forge is a trident. This is my deception—let all who see it think it to be a simple improvement on my last weapon, whose purpose is also solely to tear apart the demons. The saga I plan to inscribe on it will have a double-meaning, and instead of three points it will have four, three at the front and one at the reverse—ostensibly to pierce the armor of those possessed, but truly to pierce the armor of Vanerak.

Already I have completed its basic shape. Now it is time for the next stage, the hardest stage—the creation of the true tungsten points.

I examine my tiny disc of true tungsten. I envision how I will shape it, and see that I have enough for just one point, or maybe a little more. I decide to make it the fourth point, the back-spike. If I destroy the remainder of my tungsten stores, I should gain enough true metal for the front three points.

I lift every remaining tungsten ingot off my shelves and pile them beside the anvil. I divide the pile into three, ready my mining-blade, and get to work. Hot red smoke billows into the air with each stroke. It stings my eyes—or maybe my tears fall because I know that this is mining.

White sparks appear, fade to reveal grains of the true metal. They rattle onto the anvil and I sweep them into the crucible.

A mere hour later and a third of the tungsten is gone. In its place, one gram of the true tungsten. Feeling vaguely sick, I equip my runic ears and place the crucible into the runic furnace. I force the offset section into place. The air shivers and roars with sound and heat equal to that of a dragon. I grit my teeth and count thirty seconds, slightly less than last time, then force the offset part back out the circle. Heat fades and I withdraw the crucible.

I unequip my runic ears and peer in at the shimmering white pool—though far smaller than the smallest coin, it is immeasurably more precious. There are twisting shapes on its blinding surface, things that are almost weapons, pieces of armor, jewelry—yet not quite. The metal desires to be made into these things, yet it cannot become them on its own.

It will have to wait a little longer. I spend another two hours mining the remaining tungsten for two more grams of true metal. Once it is done, and two more true tungsten discs set upon the anvil, I take a step back. A colossal sense of emptiness comes upon me. At the foot of the anvil there had been, only a few hours ago, dark metal piled high, noble and useful and quite precious metal—now there is only bare floor. Three grams of true tungsten are all that remains, sitting there upon the anvil besides the gram and a half more from my first mining.

Such terrible waste! Nearly my own body-weight in metal has been annihilated for a mere four and a half grams. I blink tears from my eyes. The master mason is right to despise us; he and his fellows who respect stone are right to look down upon those who break it into dust. I have heard that the masons have secret rituals of respect for the fragments they chip away with their chisels; runeknights and miners show no such respect to what they waste.

But there was truth in Nazak's words too: without the power of true metal, there would be far fewer dwarves alive. How could dragons ever be slain without it? Or hordes of trolls, and great armies of humans? It seems that the destruction and disrespect of stone and metal is a cruel necessity.

Now to shape the discs into points. I measure again the flat tips on the trident's flame where they are to be welded—each is exactly a millimeter wide. I compare them with the true tungsten, and decide that I must make the points thinner and sharper.

I use my ordinary furnace to heat the ends of the trident, and spend the next short-hour reshaping them so that the flat sections are only three quarters of a millimeter in diameter.

Now it is time for the real challenge. I heat one of the three smaller pieces of true tungsten in runic furnace, for a few seconds. It becomes blindingly white, but not molten. I place the tiny circle onto the anvil, holding it on its side in a pair of tongs so small they could be called tweezers. I plan to fold the disc in half, half again, until it is in a rough cone.

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I strike. It does not change shape at all. I strike again, and still no change. I strike again, with all my might. A great clang rings through the forge; pain shoots through my ears, followed by a high keening sound. I inspect and see that still the metal has not bent. I examine the hammer, and there are three deep scars scored into it.

Perhaps this hammer is too small. For such a precise job, I chose one of the smallest, but this was clearly a mistake. I take up one of the biggest ones, with a head bigger than both my fists. I lay the tweezers down and balance the disc in their clasp. I raise the hammer high in both my hands, higher, and swing down with great speed and all the power of my body.

It impacts the edge of the tiny white disc. A visible shiver runs up its handle and into my arms. A deafening clang sounds; its warped note replaces all other sound for a moment.

A single spark of white flies amongst many of orange. It traces a strange geometric path in the air before blinking from existence. I drop the hammer and peer to inspect the disc, terrified that I have damaged it, maybe snapped it in half, but no—it has simply bent by the smallest amount. I inspect the hammer, and see that it is scored just like the last, though even deeper, and the mark is glowing.

Runeking Ulrike implied that he did not use ordinary tools for his extraordinary materials, and now it is clear to me from experience that ordinary metal indeed cannot work true metal, not unaltered. Well, this is no real obstacle to me, though it will take up some time. Once I would have been annoyed at this—but now I am patient, and see the meaningless of worrying about time while in the forge.

I use steel for this next craft. I shape a rectangular head the size of my fist, and a hollow handle. It molds easily, even the cylinder made to fit my palm. Once such efforts gave me terrible trouble—no longer. This is not to say I accomplish it quickly. Quite the opposite: every stroke is carefully wrought, and evening out the various planes takes many short hours. Even the tiniest bumps I must make flat, until the whole piece of metal rings with sweet and even notes. When I weld haft and head together, I place each grain of quizik individually.

I do not feel the passage of time. Guards change, Nazak replaces Halax, and I barely notice.

I weld, and now it is time to enrune. My runes of magma tell a tale of crushing weight distorting the hot metal that comes beneath it, and of how if magma is cooled in the right way, it can become as hard as gemstones. Even the true metal—in its unruned state, at least—will be unable to scar this craft, I hope. Conversely, I also hope the true metal when worked will take on no interference from the runic power. That is the reason some runeknights are hesitant to use hammers hardened by runes: for fear that the message of the poem on it will be imparted onto metal whose sole purpose should be cutting or defense.

Partly this could be superstition. I suspect not, however I also suspect that the relative quality of crafts plays a role in the effect. While this hammer is certainly well and patiently made, a craft of true metal will surpass its quality beyond measure.

Now that I have proper tool, I heat the true tungsten disc back to blinding white and attempt my shaping again. My hammer is simple to lift, but when I hold it over the metal, it grows heavy, desiring to fall down with great force to crush and shape whatever lies beneath. My muscles tense and ache with the effort of keeping it raised as I plan the angle of the strike.

When I finally bring it down, the speed is great. The platinum runes gleam redly as they fall, leaving blurred streaks of light in my vision. The hammer impacts, and a clang sounds, yet it is duller than the last times.

The hammer bounces up, and I see clearly that the disc is bent, a little more. I inspect the underside of the hammer and see a small scratch.

Even with an enruned tool, the true metal will be hard and slow to work. Once this would have annoyed me, but again, now I feel above such emotions. Time does not matter; only the finished craft does.

Hammer, clang, bounce, and down again. I strike the disc of metal a hundred times until it is bent in half. A further hundred times, and it is in half again. Now and then a spark trances a pattern in the air, a pattern with purpose, as if the spark is alive.

And are they not alive, truly? Until now my crafts had always lacked something, that power that emanates from the weapons and armor of the greatest runeknights. My metal was not alive. Even if I thought of it having emotions as I heated and hammered, of desiring respect and feeling grievous offense when I worked it improperly, this was all metaphor.

With the true metal I have surpassed metaphor. The clangs are voice, the movement conscious. It does not live in the way a dwarf lives, nor in the way a brute beast lives, nor even in the way a slowly spreading lichen lives, yet, all the same, it has life to it.

Heat, hammer, heat. A thrill runs through me. This is true power. My ruby blazes—it knows what purpose I will turn this metal to.

I will pierce that mirror-mask!