The runes shine upon the anvil in bright majesty. Their complexity is extreme. The poem is one on the edge of chaos: a single altered angle in any single rune would cause the runic flow to totally collapse—which would be a terrible flaw in a poem to go on any other shield, but mine only has to take one strike.

Unlike the poem on the first layer, this one is concentrated fully on its purpose. The theme is destruction. Every possible method is here somewhere: slicing, burning, smashing, tearing. Those are just the most basic words. There is also focal-light-melt, singe-first-layer, break-pure-particle-link. Only rarely have I seen single runes with such exact meanings.

There are eleven stanzas. Seven could be considered ordinary odes. The remaining four are extraordinary—each is a looping spiral praising the increase of heat and light. A spark becomes an inferno, becomes a raging wildfire, becomes a star burning hot in the firmament above the surface night, becomes heated beyond comprehension.

As art, my—and it was me who wrote it, I was not possessed, I think—my use of escalation and metaphor is spectacular. But what's truly genius is the runic flow: the power increases as it circles around the spirals. Usually runic power fades as it travels along the lines—so far as it can be said to travel, at least—leaking through off-angles and other imperfections. Yet my runes are perfectly calculated to do the opposite. Just as Galar's were on the inside of his hollow trident.

How did I manage this? I stare at my anvil in wonder. Where did this knowledge come from?

Did it lurk within that sphere? I shiver. Where was I? I think my body stayed here in the arena, yet my soul... Already the memory is fading. Yes, it was like a memory, my vision. I remembered being in a sphere, and then being released.

But was it my memory? If not, if it was another's, then why did I recognize the shadows of the two trapped in there with me?

There's no time to waste on speculation. I'll think on the vision later.

I read over the poems again. Once those four stanzas are grafted with almergris, the runic power of them will spiral out of control. They will become red hot, white hot, blinding, then erupt. Just like how Galar's trident worked, though on a smaller and more focused scale.

So, I must leave one rune in each of them ungrafted. When Barahtan's blade strikes and is slowed by the first layer of the shield, the fire-runes in the other stanzas will ignite as he cuts down. When this ignition reaches the almergris, the reagent will flare and power will rapidly begin to circulate in the poems—bringing instant destruction.

At least that is the plan. A lot depends on the angle Barahtan strikes at. His blade needs to come close to at least one of the four almergris-grafted stanzas. A simple cut to the weak side of the shield will go right through without activating any runes.

But again, I don't think he wants to win in such a cheap way.

I take a deep breath, stretch. I flex my fingers. The poems may be complete, but I now need to graft them. And to graft almergris with no runic ears...

What I'm about to do is dangerous beyond words.

I'm getting ahead of myself. First thing to do is graft the first poem to the outer layer of the shield. I turn the linked runes over on the anvil and begin to brush over the quizik reagent. I go slowly, making sure the coating is even on each rune. Just because quizik is easier to work with than other reagents doesn't mean I can afford to relax.

I still finish quickly, though. After only one a short-hour there's an even coating of blue-gray on the underside of each runes. Now all I have to do is fit them around the steel spikes.

Like many things in forging, this ends up being trickier than anticipated. Once a rune touches the metal, the quizik sticks slightly, so if I have to readjust its position I lose some reagent. Then I have to hurry to scrape it off, put the scrapings back onto the brush, and reapply it.

Eventually this job is done and the runes are applied. Now to heat them. I heat up a welding stick and gently tap it along the runes. The quizik smoulders and the runes shimmer as they become one with the shield.

I reach the final rune and step back. I shake my head. Not good enough. The splinters are too uneven, and the theme of the poem doesn't fit at all. I've failed here.

But there's nothing I can do about it. No time to waste on weeping.

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Now to graft the runes of destruction. I'll do the seven ordinary stanzas first. I ready the runes and the polished steel, and before I know it I'm finished, too quickly. Even taking my time, it's only taken me less than a short hour to graft each and every one of them. My stomach turns over as I examine for imperfections, anything that'll give me an excuse to put off doing the next part of the craft...

There's nothing to change. It's now time for the almergris. There's no more avoiding it.

I open the box with extreme trepidation.

“That's a very dangerous substance you have there,” says Judge Daztat.

I jump in shock—I'd forgotten he was there. My grip on the box is tight, though. I don't spill anything.

“I am aware,” I snap. “So I'd appreciate if you didn't interfere by distracting me.”

“Probably it shouldn't be in the catalogue.”

“Well, it was.”

“And what script is that you're using?”

“Zolphurous One.”

Judge Daztat frowns deeply. “I've never heard of it.”

“It's not very well known.”

“It looks like a prohibited script.”

“I never heard it on the list of prohibited scripts.”

“It looks like it's designed to cause direct bodily harm to your opponent.”

“How can you tell if you can't read it?”

“I can make out at least a few of the words,” he sneers. “At my level, traitor, you begin to see the similarities common to all the scripts.”

“If almergris is in the catalogue, and the script I'm using isn't prohibited, then there's no problem with my craft,” I say, trying to keep my cool. “Now, I have a very difficult task ahead of me, and limited time to do it. Please stop distracting me.”

Judge Daztat scowls even worse. “I will be keeping a close watch.”

I turn back to the box of almergris. I breath deep to still my fingers. They are not weak flesh, I tell myself. They are steel tongs and will not waver. I use a miniature spoon to scoop out the almergris and lay it onto the shield in the shape of the runes. Because the steel is curved, the grains slide and roll down. I use tweezers to pick them up and return them to the pattern. More grains roll down—the reagent wants to thwart me.

With extreme patience I fix the pattern, then again, and again. When it comes time to fit the runes over it, the almergris shifts and rolls down the side of the shield again. I return it. I won't give in to its provocations.

The runes are on. Now to weld. I pick up my welding stick, then shut my eyes and take in absolute blackness. I listen closely to the sounds of the arena, how they curl around the anvil, the furnace, the reagent and my craft, giving them shape.

Everything is so faint without my runic ears. It's the auditory equivalent of looking through muddy water in the dark. Only the vaguest shapes and textures are apparent. Doubt assails me once more. Can I really do this?

If I let myself feel doubt, I give in to the almergris. I grit my teeth and aim my welding stick, push forward. A flash lights the inside of my eyelids. The crowd shouts out: my hearing-sight is annihilated. I wait for it to return. I cannot risk opening my eyes between grafts; a single stray spark could rob me of my eyes.

The crowd stays noisy. It's a rippling, clashing sound, making it impossible for me to tell where anything is. I'm forced now to rely on my memory. I touch with the welding stick again. Another flash illuminates, and the crowd roars again.

“Runes that directly harm the crowd are also disallowed,” Judge Daztat spits. “I see a few rubbing their eyes up there.”

“You've covered yours though, I assume.”

“Yes. I understand now, though: you're using runes of light. Those are banned.”

“Not this script.”

“All three scripts of them!”

Is this true or is it another one of his lies? I think it's true—the scripts probably have a different name up here than I'm used to, so I had no way to tell. But I nearly feel like laughing: here's an advantage to my abilities I'd never considered.

“Are my runes in any of those scripts?”

“They must be.”

“They are not. You can cross-examine them using the thickest dictionary you have, Judge Daztat. You won't find them in there.”

“That's not possible.”

“It is possible. My knowledge goes deep, judge. You've underestimated me.”

“You will be disqualified for this!”

“I said: check your dictionaries!”

I continue to graft, scowling. I graft the penultimate rune, then move down. Blinding light turns the arena white each time my welding stick touches—I imagine, at least. A few members of the crowd are screaming that their vision's faded. Why haven't they closed their eyes? Surely knowledge of what I'm using has spread around the crowd by now. What other material has a blind eye on its container?

The second of the almergris stanzas near-completed, I move onto the third. The screaming in the crowd is really beginning to distract me now. I feel uneasy—I want to undo the hurt I've caused, not cause more!

“Shut your damn eyes!” I scream at them.

I start on the third stanza. One rune flashes, the next, another... I count to the second to last one—

I misjudge the position. A spiral of runes blazes through my eyelids and into my eyes. I yell out in shock, turn my head away as it brightens. I don't turn my body in time and a lance of heat stabs into my left shoulder. I scream and collapse. My fireproof overalls are aflame; I roll over and over in the sand.

I bellow in pain again. I can feel a ring of fire around my shoulder, but the skin inside the ring is numb. I grit my teeth then open my eyes to examine the wound.

Red around and black char in the center. A truly horrid burn, the worst I've ever had. I try moving my arm and the red ring erupts into even worse pain. I bend double in agony.

“Damn this!” I scream into the sand. “Damn this substance!”

The almergris, whose ire I managed to avoid down in the fort, has finally taken its revenge. Or maybe I was just too careless, too fast.

No. It's not the almergris that's caused this terrible injury, nor simple carelessness. My runes have caused it, my own poem. My power has proven too great for me to control.

I stand up and stagger back to the anvil. There's a molten hole where the third stanza was, but I can still graft the fourth. The craft is not ruined. I can still win this. I must!