Reaper of Iron and Blood

As I pushed higher into the mountains, I kept my gaze on the peaks ahead. The Path's corruption was rooted deep, and the further I traveled, the more I came to understand that cutting down a few cells wouldn't be enough. Their operations were vast—worshipers and ruin-wielders acting as a network, each cell feeding off the next. Taking them down one by one was like carving runes into wet sand. I needed to reach their heart, their leadership. Whoever—or whatever—was driving their obsession with ruins had to be stopped at the source.

I didn't know exactly where that was yet, but I had a direction. East, always east. Every lead I'd uncovered pointed to larger strongholds hidden in the shadow of these mountains, places where the Path gathered their most dangerous relics and their most fanatical warriors. That's where I was heading. Not just to destroy the outposts along the way, but to rip out the root so nothing could grow back.

For now, my goal was to reach the next settlement. Not just to restock supplies—though I was running dangerously low—but to get information. People in these remote villages had seen the Path's movements. They might know where the main strongholds were, or at least the paths I should avoid. If I could find someone willing to talk, someone with more than rumors, I'd have the advantage I needed to hit them where it hurt.

Meanwhile, Lisett reached the trading post Doran had passed through days earlier. The air was brisk, the smell of smoke from the forge still lingering. The blacksmith stood outside, a leather apron tied over his chest, his thick arms crossed. Lisett approached carefully, her steps deliberate. She wasn't sure how much to reveal, not yet.

"Afternoon," she said, her voice steady. "I heard there was a dwarf through here recently."

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow but didn't respond right away. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "There was. Quiet type. Didn't stay long."

"Did he say where he was going?" Lisett pressed.

"East," the blacksmith said. "Toward the mountains. Seemed like he had a purpose. That's all I know."

Lisett thanked him and headed to the small tavern, hoping someone else might know more. The barkeep confirmed what the blacksmith had said. The dwarf had stopped for a short time, crafted something at the forge, and then moved on. No one had seen him since.

The fact that he was heading toward the mountains wasn't surprising, but it did give her a clearer direction. She stocked up on supplies—what little the trading post could offer—and prepared to continue the journey. It was clear now that she was only a few days behind him. If she pushed harder, she might catch him before he reached whatever dangerous place he was heading.

Back on the mountainside, I paused at a narrow ledge and looked out over the jagged terrain. The air was thin here, and each breath felt sharp, but I welcomed the discomfort. It kept me focused. Skarnvalk hummed faintly on my back, its runes quiet now. I tightened my grip on my pack's straps and pressed on, following the faint trail that wound upward. If the stories I'd heard back at the trading post were true, there was a larger Path gathering ahead—a stronghold hidden in the crags. If I could reach it, I could take out another piece of their network.

My plan was straightforward. I'd hit the stronghold hard, use the skills I'd learned as a forge master and a fighter, and dismantle whatever operation they had going there. They relied too much on their ruin-enhanced warriors and their corrupted relics. If I could disrupt their source of power, scatter their forces, and destroy their supplies, it would leave a gap in their structure—one they'd struggle to fill. And each time they scrambled to recover, I'd be there to hit them again.

It wasn't a strategy born of arrogance. It was necessity. I wasn't building an army; I wasn't forming alliances. All I had was Skarnvalk, my training, and the iron will to keep moving forward. If I didn't make each strike count, if I didn't hit them where it hurt the most, I'd just be another wanderer lost to the mountains. But I wasn't planning to be forgotten. Not yet.

The gap in the ruined wall yawned ahead, half-hidden by the creeping vines and moss that clung to the stone. I crouched low, one hand steadying myself on the damp ground as I moved closer. The mist hung thick here, pooling against the crumbled edges of the old structure. It muted the sounds of my approach, which was both a blessing and a curse—whatever was inside wouldn't hear me coming, but I also wouldn't hear them until it was too late.

I reached the gap and pressed my back against the cold stone, peering through. The supply camp was set up inside what must have once been the tower's central hall. Crates were stacked in haphazard piles, with canvas tarps stretched over the larger stacks to keep the rain off. There were four figures moving among the supplies. One was seated on a low bench, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Two others sorted through crates, muttering to each other in a language I didn't recognize. The fourth stood near the far side of the hall, leaning on a spear as they watched the others.

I stayed still, taking it all in. The camp wasn't large—nothing like the full cells I'd encountered before—but it was organized. These weren't random thugs. Their movements were efficient, their gear maintained. The crates were marked with a symbol I didn't recognize, a crude sigil burned into the wood. If this was a supply camp, it wasn't just for their local operations. It looked like they were staging for something bigger. If I left it intact, those supplies would go directly to their more fortified strongholds—and their leaders. I couldn't allow that.

But a direct charge would be suicide. Four against one weren't odds I'd back away from, but these weren't just four raiders. They were armed, alert, and likely ready for trouble. If I was going to dismantle this camp, I needed to be smart about it. I reached into the pocket of my pack, pulling out one of the darts I'd made at the trading post. It was small, barely more than a sharpened length of steel, but it was enough to create an opportunity if I used it right.

I shifted my position, staying low, and scanned the camp for anything flammable. The crates were covered, but there were a few smaller barrels tucked against one of the walls. If they were carrying pitch or oil—and they probably were, given the size of the barrels—then I had my opening. I carefully stepped around the gap, keeping to the shadows as I moved closer. The mist swirled around my boots, covering the sound of my steps.

When I was close enough, I crouched behind a piece of broken stone and took aim at one of the barrels. It wasn't the kind of throw I was trained for—this was no battle swing, no practiced strike. But I'd been working on my aim, and at this range, it didn't need to be perfect. I threw the dart. It struck the barrel with a dull thud, puncturing the wood. A thin, dark trickle of liquid ran down the side, confirming my suspicion. It wasn't water.

I waited a moment, watching the guards. The one with the spear glanced in the barrel's direction but didn't move. The others kept working. I'd need a distraction, something to get them closer to the barrels. I glanced around and saw a loose piece of rubble nearby—small enough to toss, big enough to make noise. Picking it up, I lobbed it into the far corner of the room, where it clattered against the stone with a sharp crack. The reaction was immediate. The seated guard stood, drawing his blade. The two near the crates stopped what they were doing and turned toward the sound.

"What was that?" one of them muttered, stepping closer to investigate. The spearman moved as well, leaving his post to see what the noise was. I kept low, counting the seconds as they walked toward the far corner.

Then, in the silence that followed, I moved fast. Skarnvalk's weight was a comfort as I stepped into the hall, my eyes fixed on the barrels. I didn't swing yet. Instead, I brought the hammer's blade down hard on the punctured barrel's side, splitting it open. The oil poured out, dark and slick, pooling on the floor and spreading toward the nearest stack of crates. The guards turned at the sound, their voices sharp with alarm. But I was already stepping back, gripping Skarnvalk tightly as the room erupted into chaos.

One of the guards shouted an order—sharp, clipped, and in a language I couldn't place. They moved quickly, their training evident as they spread out, two of them rushing toward me with weapons raised. I backed away just as my heel caught the edge of the pooling oil. With a curse, I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk, its runes flaring faintly in the dim light.

The first guard lunged, their sword striking toward my midsection. I turned my body and brought the haft of the hammer up to deflect the blow. The clang of metal on metal reverberated through the hall, echoing off the old stone walls. Before the second guard could flank me, I shifted my weight and drove the butt of the hammer into the first attacker's chest. The force of it sent them stumbling back, their boots sliding across the oil-slicked ground.

The second guard came at me next, their axe cutting in a wide arc. I twisted, narrowly avoiding the blade, and swung Skarnvalk in a tight, upward strike. The curved blade at the top of the hammer caught their axe handle, splitting it in two with a crack of wood and a spray of splinters. Before they could recover, I brought the hammer's head down, sending them crumpling to the ground.

The remaining two guards were closing in, one keeping their distance with a spear, the other pulling a knife from their belt as they circled around. The air was tense, heavy with the scent of oil and the metallic tang of blood. I could feel the uneven stones beneath my boots, the slick patches threatening to throw me off balance. Skarnvalk felt steady in my hands, a constant against the chaos.

I stepped back further, drawing them into the oil-soaked section of the hall. If they wanted to corner me, I'd make them fight me on treacherous ground. The spearman lunged, thrusting their weapon toward my chest. I sidestepped and brought Skarnvalk down in a wide arc, forcing them to leap back to avoid the blow. The knife-wielder tried to come at me from the side, but their footing gave way on the slick surface. They staggered, and I took the opportunity to swing the hammer into their midsection, sending them sprawling.

The spearman was the last one standing. They hesitated, their eyes darting between me and their fallen comrades. For a moment, I thought they might run. But then they steadied their grip, shifted their stance, and started forward.

The fight wasn't over.

The spearman moved with purpose, each step deliberate, as if trying to gauge the slickness of the oil-covered ground. The runes etched into their weapon began to glimmer faintly, casting a sickly green light that made the shadows of the ruined hall dance on the crumbling walls. It wasn't the first time I'd seen their rune-carved tools in action, and I knew enough to be wary. Those runes weren't for show—they had a way of channeling energy that could cut deeper than steel.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the guard I'd knocked down with the knife start to stir, clutching their side and trying to rise. I couldn't let them recover enough to flank me, but the spearman was the more immediate threat. The other two I'd already dealt with—one downed with a strike to the chest, the other with their axe shattered and their body slumped near the far wall. Two still breathing, two still moving. And all it would take was one mistake on my part to shift the odds back in their favor.

The spearman feinted a thrust, trying to get me to commit to a block. I didn't take the bait. Instead, I stepped into their space before they could fully retract the spear, catching the haft of their weapon on Skarnvalk's curved blade. With a sharp twist, I wrenched it downward, the runes flashing brightly for an instant before the spear's shaft splintered under the force. The spearman stumbled, off balance, and I brought the flat side of the hammer's head across their face. They crumpled to the floor, their weapon rolling away as its glow dimmed and faded.

No time to breathe. The knife-wielder was up again, albeit shakily, blood dripping from the corner of their mouth. Their movements were slower now, more cautious, as they circled to my left. But their eyes—sharp and focused—told me they weren't finished. This wasn't a wild charge; this was calculated, a deliberate attempt to find a weak spot. Their blade, a long, thin dagger etched with faint, barely glowing runes, twitched in their hand like a viper ready to strike.

The standoff lasted only seconds. When they finally lunged, I stepped aside, catching their wrist with my free hand and twisting hard. The knife clattered to the ground, and I shoved them backward. Their boots slipped on the oil, and they went down again. This time, I didn't give them the chance to rise. I drove Skarnvalk's haft into their shoulder, pinning them to the ground with enough force to knock the fight out of them. They lay there, groaning, the runes on their dagger fading to dull scratches as the room fell silent.

I stood over them, breathing heavily, my arms trembling slightly from the exertion. The hall smelled of smoke, blood, and the sharp, bitter tang of runic energy that still clung to the air. My eyes swept the room, confirming that all four were either down or too injured to get back up. The two near the far wall—one with a shattered axe and the other with broken ribs—were unconscious. The spearman was unconscious, their ruined weapon discarded at their side. And the knife-wielder was pinned under my hammer, groaning but alive.

The camp wasn't secure yet, but I'd bought myself enough time to figure out what they'd been protecting. I dragged the remaining guard to the side, away from their weapon, and let Skarnvalk's head rest heavily on the floor. The rune-light had dimmed, but I could still feel the hammer's faint hum in my hands, steady and reassuring. Whatever they'd been storing here, it was time to find it, destroy it or collect any "useful " Items.