I’m standing next to the door, leaning back against the wall slightly. I’m not meant to do this, I’ve been told several times, but it is hard to stand for long periods of time with a snapped leg. It’s in the the process of healing, of course, is expertly splinted—the Runethane ordered the survivors get the best medical care—but it won’t be healed for another month at least, despite the chains of soothing tying the splint to it.

This is a new job I have. Standing around. Guarding, to be specific, though there’s nothing to guard against. I’m not even at the main entrance to the warehouse, but stand at the door to the shipment office in the coal stock house. A kind of decoration, in sad iron armor. I’m not even allowed Heartseeker here. Too threatening to the clients, apparently.

Well, this is as good as it gets. I am going to be dead in five months. That’s what the dragon promised, and I've learned it keeps its promises.

A full half of the guild perished in the flames and at the dragon’s claws. The guildhouse is destroyed, and although Guildmaster Wharoth has been given money to rebuild it, in honor of his valiant defense and excellent shield, he is devastated. I’ve only seen him a couple times since, and the strength in his eyes was dulled to nothingness.

My fault, I think bitterly. I think this thought often. My fault. Whelt is still recovering from his burns. No one expects them to fully heal.

When the dragon next comes for me, I’ll be alone, I’ve decided. No one to fight it for me. Hopefully it’s all over quickly.

The door to the shipment office opens and the manager walks out.

“Stand up straight, Zathar. Important client coming.”

He clanks away. A new decree has been passed: everyone who owns armor must wear it. The manager, though he’s a runeknight, has not worn his in a while, and it fits him badly. He’s reached the level that he’s happy with, and has been enjoying the peaceful, prosperous life. The client he comes back with is much the same sort. He’s not in armor, though I’m sure he owns some. He’s outgrown it a while back—has a swollen belly from too much food and drink. A curious type of runeknight, are business owners. Forge enough to get them the money they want, then use it not on progress but to earn more. I don’t understand them.

I don’t have to. I’m not progressing anywhere. My life ends in five months.

“How much did it cost to get all this in?” the fat client asks.

“Too much. Transportation costs are flying up faster than a gecko up a stalagmite.”

“I suppose that means my costs will be going up as well, then.”

“Well, we’ll work out the details in my office.”

“Of course, of course.”

They shut the door behind them. It’s thin wood—the owner here is a spendthrift, which is the only reason he agreed to hire me—so I can hear their conversation. I don’t want to listen. What reason is there for a dead dwarf walking to listen to anything? But their words enter my ears regardless as I slump back against the wall.

“So what’s exactly going on with the transportation? Blockage in the shafts?”

“Nothing so easily cleared,” grumbles the manager. “Security protocols. There’s a new passcode system all the mines have to follow now. It hasn’t been well implemented.”

“Runethane’s doing, I suppose?”

“His new head of defense, I think.”

“Hah, well, like I always say, he’s looking to the wrong people. Needs dwarves like me organizing things. Nothing’s ever badly implemented in my company.”

“I feel it can't be helped. Things are heating up hotter than a pile of coals a salamander’s made its nest in.”

“Oh? I’ve been too into my work recently. Can’t stop the golden grind.”

“Nasty rumors swirling around. The dragon, of course.”

“Oh, I heard about that one. Though I didn't see it.”

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“Well, I did. Terrified the kids, I can tell you. My youngest is still having trouble sleeping.”

“There’s other rumors, though?”

“Yes. Broderick’s going to make a move, they say.”

“After so long?”

“He’s been building up. There’s talk he has a new general.”

“I wouldn’t be so worried. The Runethane will see him off.”

“The Runethane’s more worried about the dragon. You know his history.”

“Yes, well, we’ve had raids before.”

“We had one from this new general recently. He was just a soldier, yet rumor says he killed some of the Runethane’s best guards.”

“They still drove him off though. Won’t mean anything for my business.”

“He’s gotten better. Rising at an incredible rate. Was a miner last year, they say. And now he’s third degree!”

I draw in a sharp breath. That can’t be true. No one can move that fast.

The fat client seems to agree with me. “Ah, I’m sure it’s been blown out of proportion. Anyway, my order. Can you fulfill it?”

The conversation moves away from rumors and into business. Estimates are polished down to exact figures. Vast quantities of money and coal are to be shifted. The tone of both men becomes progressively more joyful. They love money, it seems. They live their life for it.

My thoughts are elsewhere. On top of the pain, anguish, guilt and fear, now jealousy flares. It cannot be true. A miner last year, and now third degree. I could not make fifth. Of course I couldn’t! To move that fast is impossible.

The rumors are blown out of proportion. They have to be! Otherwise why is he on the other side doing so well, and me so poorly? Why am I in iron, working a low-pay job, not even allowed my spear, yet he is a general decked out in platinum or tungsten? What did he do right, and I wrong?

I feel rather sick.

The two business-dwarves' conversation continues for some time. The door opens, but I don’t bother straightening myself. The manager is in too good a mood to care, and says nothing. My job continues. The light streaming in from small windows high up, dotted with specks of black dust, diminishes. The room becomes total blackness, for of course no lamps are allowed next to shelves stocked high with crates of coal.

I’m getting sleepy. My shift doesn’t end until midnight, but I usually sleep the last part of it anyway. My eyelids begin to close.

“Hey!” someone shouts. Is the voice part of my half-dream, or just far away? I decide the former and shut my eyes again.

“Get out, get out!” someone’s yelling from the front of the warehouse. “Help them!”

This voice is definitely real, because the alarm bell accompanying it is assaulting my ears violently. I’m not meant to leave my post, even in case of an attack, but the person who decided that rule was likely not expecting one. I draw my knife and limp forward through the shelves of coal. The dust I stir up makes me cough. The exit is a square of light, through it I limp. I see the last of the guards in the main warehouse rushing out the doors.

“What’s going on?” I shout after them. “Hey! What’s happening?”

They don’t hear me. I can hear battlecries outside. I limp as fast as I can to the exit, reach it and look out down the road.

It’s a wide thoroughfare, walled by warehouses, and a little distant from here by some massive smelters belching smoke upwards into the stalactites far above. In the clouds of smoke too heavy to go up that instead creep across the road, there are flashes of metal. A brawl? Robbery?

I steady myself against the wall of the next warehouse and continue to limp forward. The guards from my warehouse disappear into the melee, swinging down axe and hammer. One falls over backwards, and though it’s hard to tell in the smoggy, lamplit darkness, I think there’s blood running from him.

The street is like a scene from hell, firelit black smog, with the alarms from every warehouse and smelter in the district blaring, dwarves shouting. This is not a robbery. It is an assault.

I stop my advance. One of the warehouses next to the battle flares into a tower of fire. For a moment I fear the dragon, but no, another figure is behind this. I can see him in the midst of the dwarves surrounding him and hacking at him in futility. His silver armor shines, and his sword shines brighter. It leaves trails through the air, and limbs fall at its touch.

Another building flares into fire, this one nearer to me. A dwarf runs from it—saboteur. Does he glance at me? If he did, he doesn’t care, and rushes into the building opposite.

Everyone’s run out to defend against the attack. No one here is used to war, remembers discipline. Me included. I turn to my warehouse. An oil charge would send the coal up in a tower of flame that would brush even the stalactites a hanging a mile above.

The noise of battlecries vanishes. The fight is over, and the dwarf in silver stands triumphant among the bodies. He raises his sword high and shouts out.

It is a cry of exaltation.

Someone knocks me from behind and I fall to my knees. I look up, and a squad of ten dwarves in tungsten are charging toward the silver-clad figure. He makes a rude gesture, and sprints off into the red-glowing smog. His saboteurs, dozens of them, flood from the warehouses not yet burning and follow.

Those warehouses explode into flames. The military falls back, shouting in frustration and anger. The dwarves the silver runeknight killed are incinerated.

It seems the legend is real. Like a ghost out of nightmares he has appeared, to torment me in my final hours. So suddenly, it is almost as if the fates are tormenting me. The legend from the other side, my mirror, who is clearly so much better skilled than I am.

I slump back against the wall, and curse everything. I am doomed, yet he is rising.