Reaper of Iron and Blood

We reached the town by early evening. It was a scrappy place, smaller than I expected, its outer wall little more than stacked logs bound with iron bands. Guards stood at the gate, wearing mismatched bits of armour that looked as if they'd been scrounged from whatever skirmishes they'd survived. They gave us a wary once-over but waved us through without much fuss. The caravan's arrival seemed to draw little attention, just a few curious glances from villagers too busy closing up shop for the night to care about a handful of traders and a dusty dwarf with a glowing hammer.

The wagons rattled into the market square, where Drenn quickly got to work bartering the goods. I let him handle it; I wasn't here for trade. I was here to resupply, find a decent bed, and figure out my next move. The promise of a few warm meals and a quiet forge outweighed the noise and bustle of the square.

As I wandered toward what looked like the town's only inn, I caught snippets of conversation among the townsfolk. A butcher muttering about rising meat prices. A cobbler complaining that his tools kept breaking. And one phrase, spoken in a hurried whisper by a pair of ragged-looking men near the well, caught my ear: "The Blightened Path."

I stopped, glancing their way. One of them noticed me and quickly hushed his friend, both of them shuffling off into the shadows before I could ask what they meant. I didn't press it. Not yet. But I made a note of it. Words like that rarely led anywhere good, and I had a knack for finding trouble when I followed them.

The innkeeper, a stout human woman with arms thicker than most men's, gave me a long look when I walked in. Her eyes flicked to Skarnvalk, and she arched an eyebrow. "Trouble?" she asked.

"Not for you," I replied, setting a handful of coins on the counter. "Room and food. Something strong to drink."

She snorted but pocketed the money. "Room's upstairs, first door on the left. Stew's on the hearth, bread's fresh. Ale's cheap, but it'll knock you flat if you're not careful."

I gave her a nod and took a seat by the fire. The place was quiet—just a couple of labourers at a corner table, nursing mugs of the cheap brew, and a hooded figure in the farthest shadow, their face hidden, their movements deliberate. I didn't pay them much mind. Instead, I dug into the stew, which was salty but filling, and tore at the bread like a starving wolf. It had been too long since I'd had a proper meal.

My eyes drifted to Skarnvalk, leaning against the wall beside me. Its runes were faint now, their glow reduced to the faintest shimmer. The hammer's will was quiet, resting. For all its power, it wasn't some endless font of energy. Like me, it needed time to recover. And like me, it would be ready when called.

The hooded figure rose and left without a word, their heavy boots echoing against the wooden floorboards. I watched them go, though they didn't look my way. A bit too quiet for a stranger. Another thing to note, another thread to pull later.

For now, I finished the meal, drained my mug, and headed upstairs. The room was small but clean, the bed firm, the window barred. Good enough. I set Skarnvalk beside the bed and stretched out, staring at the ceiling beams as I let the day's tension fade.

The Blightened Path. Hooded strangers. Broken tools. The world was full of signs, full of whispers of what might come next. But in the end, it always came down to the same thing. When the time came, I'd have Skarnvalk in my hands, fire at my back, and the skill to carve my way through whatever hell awaited.

That was enough. For now.

The next morning, the town buzzed with activity. Wagons creaked under fresh loads of goods, merchants shouted out their wares, and the square was alive with the clinking of coins and the low murmur of trade. I had no interest in haggling for trinkets, but I needed supplies—materials for the forge, fresh bandages for my side, and maybe something sturdier than the leathers I wore.

As I wandered through the market, the people gave me a wide berth. The hammer at my back drew their attention, of course. Even sheathed, Skarnvalk's curved blade gleamed faintly, and the faint runes etched into the haft caught the morning light. Some villagers whispered behind cupped hands, others stared openly. I ignored them all.

One stall caught my eye: a blacksmith's stand piled high with worn tools and cracked blades. The smith, a broad-shouldered man with soot-streaked arms, looked up as I approached, his expression shifting from curiosity to wariness in an instant.

"You looking to buy, or are you here to criticise my work?" he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron.

"Neither," I replied, pulling a small, plain ingot from my satchel. "I need materials, not finished goods."

He squinted at the ingot, then at me. "What are you making?"

"Something better than what you've got here," I said flatly. "But I need stock to start with—good steel, not this half-worn scrap."

The smith frowned but nodded. "If you've got coin, I can part with some of my higher-quality stock. Though from the look of that hammer, you seem to have a knack for crafting your own."

I shrugged. "I do. But I left my best supplies a hundred miles behind. Just give me what you've got, and I'll do the rest."

He named a price that was only half-insulting, and I paid without haggling. Soon, I had a bundle of steel bars and a handful of iron scraps wrapped in cloth. They weren't ideal, but they'd do. I made my way back to the inn, stopping only to pick up some fresh food and a flask of something stronger than ale. The journey ahead wasn't likely to get easier, and it never hurt to have a bit of liquid courage tucked away.

Back at the inn, I set up a small workspace in the courtyard. The innkeeper grumbled about the noise and the smoke, but she didn't stop me. The forge was simple: a makeshift anvil, a portable brazier, and the steady rhythm of my hammer striking steel. I didn't have much time, so I focused on quick, practical improvements—a small blade with fresh runes etched into its surface, a reinforced buckle for my armor, and a handful of throwing spikes carved with symbols meant to find their mark even in chaos.

The work was calming, a reminder of why I traveled in the first place. The clang of metal, the heat of the forge—it was where I felt most alive. It wasn't just about making weapons. It was about making something that mattered, something that could turn the tide of a fight or save a life.

By late afternoon, I had a small collection of fresh equipment and a clear head. The question of what lay ahead still loomed large, but at least now I was better prepared. I packed up my tools and wiped the sweat from my face, Skarnvalk resting against the workbench, its runes pulsing faintly as if in approval.

The forge's faint glow dimmed as I banked the coals for the night. I stood back, wiping soot-streaked hands on my trousers, and surveyed the results. Skarnvalk gleamed as it always did, its runes still faintly pulsing. But now it wasn't alone. On the workbench lay a fresh dagger, small and wickedly sharp, with faintly glowing runes that whispered guidance for every strike. Next to it, a set of throwing spikes, each etched with symbols that would guide their flight to their intended targets. Simple, sturdy improvements—just enough to even the odds on the next fight.

I slung my hammer over my back, tucked the new blades into my belt, and made my way back inside. The inn's common room had emptied, save for a couple of regulars nursing their drinks in the corner. The air smelled of spilled ale and damp wood, the faint crackle of the hearth the only sound.

Upstairs, the room was just as I'd left it: small, sparsely furnished, but clean. I set Skarnvalk by the door, the hammer resting on its haft. The runes dimmed to almost nothing, as though the weapon itself had decided it was time to rest. I couldn't help but smirk at that. Even a tool of war needed a break now and then.

I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself finally relax. My ribs still ached from the last fight, but the cut on my arm was healing cleanly. The work at the forge had helped—it always did. The rhythmic pounding of the hammer, the hiss of quenching steel, the slow, steady burn of the coals… it was as close to peace as I ever got. I leaned back against the wall, letting my eyes drift shut.

That's when I heard it.

A soft scrape outside the window. Not the wind. Not the creak of a branch. Something deliberate. Quiet.

My eyes snapped open, and my hand went straight to Skarnvalk's haft. The runes flared, faint but steady. I rose silently, my boots making barely a sound on the wooden floor. Another scrape. Closer this time. The faintest shadow flickered against the window's edge.

I moved quickly, grabbing the hammer and stepping to the side of the door. Whoever—or whatever—was out there wasn't friendly. Skarnvalk hummed in my grip, the runes responding to the tension in my muscles. This wasn't the first time someone thought they could catch me off guard. It likely wouldn't be the last.

The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive. I waited, breath held, listening for the faintest sound. Another scrape. This time near the door.

I grinned.

Come on, then. Let's see what you've got.

I pressed my back against the wall, one hand steadying Skarnvalk's heft while the other reached for the throwing dagger I'd just forged. The room was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of the runes on my hammer and the weak moonlight leaking through the window. My breath slowed, my muscles tense, as I waited for them to make their move.

The door creaked slightly. Not a knock, not a shove—just the barest hint of pressure, as though someone was testing it. Then came a faint click: a lockpick sliding into the mechanism. My grin widened. Amateurs.

With a sharp inhale, I swung the door wide open before the intruder could finish their work. The figure on the other side staggered back in surprise, their cloak catching on the doorframe. Without giving them a chance to react, I stepped forward, Skarnvalk's blunt end striking out in a quick, precise motion.

The hammer slammed into the intruder's wrist, sending the pick tumbling to the floor. They hissed in pain but didn't cry out—smart. I could see now it was a man, wiry and dressed in dark leathers. His face was half-covered by a mask, but his eyes were sharp and alert. He reached for a dagger on his belt, but I was faster.

I brought Skarnvalk's haft up against his chin and drove him back into the hallway wall. The runes flared, bathing the narrow corridor in cold light. His eyes went wide, a flicker of fear breaking through his composure. He dropped the dagger, raising his hands in surrender.

"Wait—just wait!" he gasped. "I'm not here to hurt you."

I pressed the hammer's haft into his throat just enough to keep him pinned. "Breaking into my room says otherwise."

"I had no choice! I needed to talk to you." His voice was strained but steady. "You're Doran Thargrimm, aren't you?"

I didn't answer, but I eased the pressure just a fraction. He took the opportunity to pull down his mask, revealing a face that looked too young and too tired for this kind of work.

"Please," he said, his tone almost pleading. "I need your help."

I narrowed my eyes, keeping the hammer poised. "You've got a funny way of asking for it."

He grimaced. "I couldn't risk doing it in public. If they knew I was here—"

"Who's they?"

His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced around nervously, as though expecting shadows to come to life. "Look, can we just… talk? Not here. Somewhere quiet."

I stepped back, but kept the hammer ready. "You've got one chance to explain yourself. Start talking, or start running."

He straightened, rubbing his wrist where I'd struck it. "There's a group. They call themselves the Blightened Path. They're—"

"The what?" I interrupted. That was the second time I'd heard that name in as many days. It set my teeth on edge.

"The Blightened Path," he repeated, quieter this time. "They're after something… something dangerous. I've been tracking them for weeks, trying to find someone who could stop them. Someone who could fight them. And then I heard about you."

"Lucky me," I said dryly.

He flinched. "Listen, I know how it sounds. But these people, they're not just bandits or cultists. They're—"

"They're what?" I growled.

"They're killing villages. Not just raiding—wiping them out. They're looking for something, and they're leaving nothing behind but ash and blood."

His words hung in the air. For a moment, all I could hear was the faint hum of Skarnvalk's runes and my own heartbeat. Ash and blood. That was more than just a few rogues causing trouble. It was a warning.

"Why come to me?" I asked. "Why not the town guard, or some noble with an army?"

He met my gaze, his expression grim. "Because you're not a guard or a noble. You're a forge master. A ruin master. And from what I've heard, you don't just make weapons—you make things that matter. You know how to handle things no one else can."

I lowered Skarnvalk slightly, but kept my grip firm. The air in the hallway felt heavier, charged with the weight of his words. I didn't know if I believed him. But something about the way he said it, the desperation in his voice, made me think he wasn't lying. Not entirely.

"Alright," I said slowly. "You've got my attention. Now tell me everything."