My each and every attempt to forge with the titanium fails. I manage to warp, bend, splinter, tear, or contaminate with iron oxide every single section I cut out. My first try was actually one of the better ones—and now that my beginners luck has worn out I realize how far I truly have to go.

After wasting more than half my sheet I decide to take a break for a while. There are chores to do, sleep to catch up on, and runes to ponder. Hopefully when I come back to the titanium it will be with a fresh and rejuvenated mind.

Time passes, and because I can never seem to catch Jaemes, I have no idea how much. Lately he is never in his room, and rarely does he come down for meals, and when he does he of course doesn’t have his calendar on him.

Strangely, not knowing the time doesn’t bother me as much as before. I’m getting used to the pace of life down here. It’s started to become nearly relaxing.

As a side project, I decide to enrune my iron boots and gauntlets. If I want enough honor for more titanium then I’ll need to go on more hunts, and I want to guarantee my survival on them. I buy some incandesite and copper wire with the honor I gain from doing chores and write out some long poems.

These are the smallest and most precise runes I have ever written, and I do them entirely from memory. It's as hard a process as it ever is, but also something I am very used to. The theme of the poems is simple and direct, as befits fiery copper and incandesite. They are about speed: how fast flame can flare to life, the speed of its onrush, how fast it consumes its fuel.

When I test the boots and gauntlets they feel almost too fast. Slightly out of control. It’s miles better than sluggishness, though.

Feeling confident, I ask to be assigned to more hunts, and Cathez is eager to grant me permission. I go on them, but they prove to be far less eventful than my first. On one we run into no predators at all, and on the other two we are accosted only by packs of biter beetles—dog sized creatures which we drive off quickly.

Partly I am glad to not be thrown into mortal danger, partly I am disappointed that I only earn enough honor for another half a square foot of titanium sheet.

“Going to take me a long time to rack up enough for a full suit,” I complain to Nthazes. “If I ever work out how to not destroy the damn stuff.”

“You’ll get there,” he says in an encouraging tone, but I don’t feel very encouraged. And while the infinite patience of every dwarf here is certainly a virtue, it does feel a little overbearing sometimes.

I go on another hunt, acquire a little more titanium, ruin it. Never have I had so much trouble in the forge before. My nerves are beginning to strain—I become a little more sympathetic of Galar and Fjalar. More than once I actually do dash a failed crafted against the floor in a fit of rage.

How long is it going to take before I manage to use this stuff? How long has it been since I started with it? I really ought to know, I tell myself nervously, and I decide to seek out Jaemes, to corner him in his chambers no matter how long I have to wait by his door.

I knock on it. No answer. I sit down and lean my back against the opposite wall. The stone is cold and hard, uncomfortable. Good. I won’t be drifting off to sleep then. Or so I think—after a long time waiting, my eyelids grow heavy, and my body starts to lean to one side despite my best efforts to keep it straight.

Jaemes’ voice, amplified by my runic ears, wakes me with a start. I cannot understand a single word—he is muttering to himself in his human tongue. His mood is clear enough, however: it is black.

The glow of his lantern lights the corridor brightly when he turns the corner. The rays pierce into my eyes and I snap them shut. Tears sting.

“Ah!” I yelp. “Watch that!”

He snaps back with something rude-sounding in human, then stops himself.

“Oh, Zathar. It’s you, is it?” He dims the lantern right down. “I apologize.”

“No worries,” I say, standing up and rubbing tears from my eyes.

“Here for the time, are you?”

“Yes. It’s been a while—you never seem to be around.”

His expression darkens. “No. I’ve been busy.”

“Is it all right if I come in? Just for a moment.”

“Yes, why not? It’s not as if I’m writing much these days. Damn bloody...” His muttering turns back to human as he opens the door and beckons me through.

I take off the curved band that my runic ears are fixed to—I’m not in armor right now—and place it on an empty space on the desk. It’s nicer to talk with someone at close range when they aren’t on. Less wince-inducingly loud.

Jaemes turns his chair from his desk to face the bed, where I sit down. He gazes into my eyes intensely—a piercing gaze. Behind his blue eyes I sense that dark thoughts are whirling.

“You having trouble lately?” I ask.

“You could say that.”

“Something to do with the Runethane?”

“Always is,” he says gruffly. “Anyway though, you’re here for the time, aren’t you?”

He reaches back and pulls the paper with the days scrawled on it from the drawer. He reads over it for a few seconds, then leans over his desk and dips his quill in ink.

“Missed a few days maybe,” he mutters while he scratches away. “This should be about the right count...”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He turns back and shows me the paper. My eyes widen and my skin grows cold. The count is nearly to three thousand nine hundred—nearly half a year has passed since my arrival.

“That long?” I say, aghast. “Oh, hells!”

“That damn long,” he says. “Nearly six months without any progress whatsoever.”

“I mean, I’ve made some. But you’re right, not enough. Not enough by a long way.”

“I was talking about my own work.”

“Oh, right.”

“Seems we’re in the same boat, then.”

I frown at the strange human metaphor, then nod my head. “Yes. Both running out of time with nothing to show for its passage.”

“A rather poetic turn of phrase there, Zathar. It’s always amused me how literary you runeknights are, though I suppose the clue is in the name. I will say, however, that you do have rather more time than I do.”

“I told myself two years. Nearly a quarter of that is gone now.”

“Yes, but you’re still a dwarf. And a very young one at that. Me, how many years old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Maybe eighty.”

He laughs harshly. “At eighty, most of us humans have trouble walking, let along delving into the deeps. I’m halfway through my sixties.”

“You’ve got fifteen years then.”

“Hardly. I give it about five before my brain starts turning to porridge. Having no one to talk to but dwarves is accelerating things—no offense.”

His comment, as well as the way he’s making light of my situation, irks me a little.

“Better write fast then.”

He doesn’t seem to notice my slightly caustic tone. “Writing doesn’t take that much time. Research is the issue. And how am I meant to research something I’m barely ever allowed near!”

“They won’t let you near the deep darkness?”

“The Runethane won’t, yes.” His voice is filled with bitter frustration. “Not often enough. Even though it’s no harm to him—what does he care if some crazy old human gets devoured by it?”

“He’s probably just worried for your safety.”

“He doesn’t give a damn for my safety. He just decides things on a whim—you haven’t met him yet, have you?”

“Not yet.”

“You will at some point, I’m sure. Be careful. I’m an expert on dwarven physiology, and I know that you lot aren’t really supposed to live for centuries upon centuries. Those amulets you wear might keep you in good physical health, but mental?” He shrugs. “I’m not convinced.”

“Our amulets protect our minds from the ravages of time also,” I say defensively. “And I’m sure the amulet of a Runethane is better than most.”

“Oh, they protect the physical brain matter from time’s ravages, no doubt about that. But the spiritual aspects? What does having several hundred years’ worth of memories all knocking about in there do to one’s mind, eh? Have a think on that, young dwarf.”

He might not be wrong: the oldest dwarf I have ever met is Vanerak, who anyone can tell is not completely sane.

“Everyone else trusts him, though. Are you sure you haven’t just angered him somehow?”

“No, I haven’t angered him. He’s taken it on himself to be angry with me.”

“Maybe. Anyway, all we can do is be patient.”

“Yes, yes. Patience. That’s a dwarvish word I’ve only seen in a dictionary, did you know? They don’t use it down here. Why would they?”

“Still, we know it.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose we do. Though I have to admit I’ve never been very good at it.”

I smile. “Neither have I, as my guildmaster often reminded me.”

“Maybe he was a bit like my professors back in the day—no, I’m probably insulting him. My professors were the biggest pack of idiots you ever set eyes on. Though funnily enough, as soon as I became one myself, it was the students who started looking like the idiots. Ah, things change as you grow old, dwarf. Mostly for the worse.”

“I’ve heard there are dwarves who live in mountains on the surface, selling equipment to rich humans. Does no one ever buy amulets from them?”

“Probably,” he laughs. “But I’m not rich. Academics is not a lucrative business.”

“A book on the deep darkness though, I’m sure that would sell for something.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe if I dumbed it down for the common audience, but I have my academic pride to protect.” He leans back in his chair. “If I can ever get it finished,” he sighs.

“I’m sure you will in time.” His lantern flickers slightly and I shiver a little. “What is the deep darkness anyway?” I ask.

His blue eyes light up. “Ah, finally someone cares to ask. The others are so uncurious, you know. Understanding that the deep darkness is a force of uncaring evil is good enough for them. At least, that’s what they think they understand.”

“You don’t think it’s evil?”

“How could a force be evil? Is a shadow more or less evil than the light that casts it? Evil and good are meaningless words when we talk about nature. An earthquake that crushes buildings is not evil. Neither are the sun and rain which cause our crops to grow good. They are merely things that exist.”

“Nthazes talks as if the dark is a conscious force, though.”

“It acts like a conscious force. That doesn’t mean it is one. When it reaches out its tendrils to the heat and light, who’s to say that isn’t just some form of magnetism?”

“I’ve never heard of a natural force with tendrils.”

“Plants? Roots are just tendrils groping for water.”

“I suppose. I've never seen a plant though.”

“Who knows? Perhaps it is the very existence of this fort, with its runic lights and warm bodies, that attracts the darkness upward.”

“I’d keep that idea to myself if I were you,” I warn.

“Yes. I probably should have. That’s only one of my theories though. But if I can’t get closer to it more often to make my observations...” He shrugs. “It’s you lot’s loss. If you knew more about it, maybe you could fight it better.”

I nod. “I agree.”

“I’m glad someone does.”

I am just about to open my mouth to ask a further question about the darkness when a deep chime rings outside. I instantly tense, for I’ve been told about the alarm bell. Two deep chimes for a minor incursion, three for a major.

But no second chime comes. Jaemes and I both stand up. I put my runic ears back on and hear running footsteps in the corridors. Quickly I hurry out the door.

“What’s going on?” I shout.

Thundering from behind me announces Commander Cathez.

“Up!” he shouts. “If you’re asleep, get up! Up now!”

“What’s going on?” I shout again. My heartbeat is rapid, my palms sweating. “Commander, what’s happened? Is it an incursion?”

He turns to us as if noticing our presence for the first time.

“Turn your lantern up, human! Brighter!”

“Is it the darkness?” Jaemes asks. “Here?”

“No idea, but just turn it up just in case!”

He turns it up as far as it will go and brightness floods the corridor, outlining the ancient stones more clearly than I have ever seen them before. And the brightness also outlines the intense anxiety writ clear on Cathez’s face.

“Commander, what’s going on?” I repeat.

“It’s Mathek,” he says. “He’s been found dead in the storerooms.”

“Dead?” I cry.

“Yes, dead.” He swallows. “Drained of all his blood!”