Reaper of Iron and Blood

The platform above shuddered, loose stones tumbling down as Goryn stepped forward. His once-tattered cloak flared, now etched with green runes that pulsed in steady, menacing patterns. From his back he drew a weapon unlike any I'd seen before—a long, jagged blade that seemed to breathe, its surface shifting and rippling as if alive. The runes along its edge glowed brighter with each step he took toward me.

I didn't wait for him to come down. If he wanted a fight, I'd bring it to him. With a grunt, I swung Skarnvalk, the hammer's runes flaring as I struck the weakened base of the tower. The platform buckled under Goryn's weight, sending him sliding down toward me. He landed with a grunt, rolling to his feet in one smooth motion.

"Finally," he muttered, raising his living blade. "Let's see what you're really made of."

Goryn was fast—faster than I'd expected. He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, his blade slashing toward my head. I parried with Skarnvalk's haft, the clash of runes against runes sending sparks into the air. The force of his swing pushed me back a step, but I stood my ground, countering with a crushing overhead strike. He sidestepped with inhuman speed, his blade lashing out in return. I barely caught it with Skarnvalk's flat side, the runes on my hammer pulsing brighter in defiance.

"You fight like a brute," Goryn taunted, his voice calm despite the fury of our blows. "A craftsman's strength, but no refinement."

"Works well enough," I growled, swinging Skarnvalk in a wide arc. The hammer's blade caught the edge of his weapon, shearing off a glowing piece of its surface. The fragment hissed as it hit the ground, dissolving into blackened mist. Goryn hissed in response, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time.

The platform under us groaned, the ruined tower's base giving way. We both shifted, keeping our footing on the uneven ground as the swamp threatened to swallow the structure whole. Goryn lunged again, his blade aimed low, and I brought Skarnvalk down to meet it. The impact sent shockwaves through my arms, the runes on both weapons screaming in protest. The force of our clash shattered a section of the platform, leaving a gaping hole that plunged into the water below.

Goryn danced back, his green-tinged eyes narrowing. "You're tougher than you look, dwarf. But you can't win this fight. The Path will—"

I interrupted him with a sharp thrust of Skarnvalk's butt-end, catching him off-guard. He staggered, and I followed with a sweeping strike that forced him to retreat toward the edge of the crumbling platform. His weapon twisted in his grip, the runes along its length flaring brighter as if feeding off his frustration.

"You talk too much," I said, closing the distance. Skarnvalk's runes flared again, brighter now, as if the hammer itself was eager to end this. Goryn lashed out desperately, his blade darting toward my chest, but I twisted aside, catching his wrist with the haft and driving my elbow into his face. He stumbled, off-balance, and I brought Skarnvalk down in a brutal arc.

The hammer's curved blade struck true, carving into Goryn's weapon and cleaving it in two. The severed pieces hit the ground, their glow fading instantly. Goryn froze, his mouth opening as if to speak, but I didn't give him the chance. I stepped forward and drove Skarnvalk's head into his chest, the impact lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into the edge of the platform. The stone cracked, and he slid backward, his arms flailing as he fell into the water below.

For a moment, the only sound was my breathing and the faint crackling of runes as Skarnvalk's glow dimmed. I stood over the crumbling edge, staring down into the murky water. Ripples spread out, but Goryn didn't surface. I waited, gripping Skarnvalk tightly, but after a few minutes, it became clear he wasn't coming back up.

I stepped back from the edge, wiping sweat from my brow. The tower groaned one final time before collapsing further into the swamp, leaving nothing but the shattered ruins behind. Skarnvalk rested heavy on my shoulder, the hammer's hum steady and calm now. Goryn was gone, and Tharn's Hollow was no longer a threat.

But I knew this wasn't the end. The Path didn't begin or end with one man. Goryn had been a strong opponent, but he was just a piece of something far larger. The fight was far from over. But for now, the swamp was quiet, and I was still standing.

I turned away from the ruins and began the long walk back through the swamp.

Far away from the swamp's oppressive stillness, a different scene unfolded. In a mountain pass choked with early snow, the mercenary known as Karvek Ironhand crouched beside a dying fire. His battered plate armor lay in a heap nearby, the steel dented and stained from countless battles. Karvek himself leaned forward, hands outstretched toward the weak flames, his breath puffing in the frigid air.

He glanced over at the two figures sitting opposite him: Grel, a wiry archer with a face marked by an old burn, and a young woman named Lisett, a healer whose talent far outstripped her years. Grel was sharpening his blade with a slow, methodical rhythm, while Lisett stared blankly at the fire, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"You've been quiet since we left the fort," Karvek said, breaking the silence. His voice was low and rough, like gravel underfoot. "Something on your mind, Lis?"

She didn't look up right away. When she finally did, her green eyes were troubled. "I'm wondering how many more of these damned contracts we'll have to take before we can stop running."

Karvek grunted, poking the fire with a stick. "If you're waiting for the day we don't have to fight, you'll be waiting until the stars go out."

Grel smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Some of us don't mind the fight, Karvek. It's not the work that's the problem."

"Then what is?" Karvek asked, his eyes narrowing.

"The work," Lisett said bitterly. "You know what I mean. Raiding tombs for relics we don't understand, following orders from nobles who barely remember our names, losing good people for causes we don't believe in. This isn't what we set out to do."

Karvek sat back, his broad shoulders shrugging under his cloak. "We do what we have to. Same as everyone else. Better to live with blood on your hands than not live at all."

"Maybe," Lisett said softly, her voice barely audible over the wind. "But we could be doing more than just surviving. We could make it mean something."

Karvek and Grel exchanged glances, but neither man replied. The wind howled through the pass, and the fire crackled feebly. Lisett drew her cloak tighter around herself, her expression distant. Her mind was already drifting—to another group of fighters, perhaps. Another way of living. A way that didn't leave her heart so heavy with regret.

Meanwhile, in a fortified manor deep in the northern plains, a woman sat at a table piled with maps and notes. The room was warm, the fire roaring in the hearth, but Kallien Arrod felt a chill settle over her as she reread the letter in her hand. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and her sharp, calculating features were set in a deep frown.

"Another cell lost," she muttered to herself, her fingers tightening around the paper. "Goryn, of all people."

Her lieutenant, a tall man with a shaved head and the posture of a soldier, stepped forward. "The reports from Tharn's Hollow were… unclear," he said carefully. "We don't know the exact details yet."

Kallien's piercing eyes flicked up to him. "Unclear? What's clear enough is that Goryn is dead, and someone is carving a path through our people. I want to know who."

The lieutenant hesitated, then nodded. "I'll send word to the eastern scouts. They may be able to track—"

"Don't waste time tracking," Kallien snapped. "Send reinforcements to the next cell. Strengthen our defences. And for the gods' sake, make sure our… special projects are well-guarded. Whoever this is, they'll come for them next."

The man saluted and left the room, leaving Kallien alone with her maps and her fury. She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Losing Goryn wasn't just a blow to their operations—it was a sign. Someone out there was stronger, smarter, and more dangerous than she'd accounted for. And that meant she'd have to adapt.

Her fingers tapped against the table as she stared into the fire. She'd find out who was responsible for this disruption. And when she did, she'd make sure they regretted ever crossing the Path.

Back in the swamp, Doran pushed through the muck, his thoughts lingering on the battle. Skarnvalk's runes pulsed faintly as though sensing his unease. He didn't know it yet, but his actions in Tharn's Hollow were already sending ripples across the land. Allies and enemies alike were taking notice, and the story of his hammer—the ruin master who carved his way through the Blightened Path—was beginning to spread.

Every swing of Skarnvalk carried weight, not just in the moment, but in the echoes it left behind. Doran wasn't just fighting for survival anymore. He was becoming something more—a force others couldn't ignore. A force that both sides would soon have to reckon with.

Days later, Doran emerged from the swamp's endless muck into higher, drier ground. The constant hum of bugs and the suffocating humidity finally eased, and for the first time in what felt like an age, he saw solid stone beneath his boots. The landscape shifted into rolling hills, dotted with rocky outcrops and sparse trees that reached skyward like ancient sentinels. This new terrain felt less like a trap and more like a challenge, one he could approach on his own terms.

The problem was, he didn't know what lay ahead. The swamp had been straightforward, in its miserable, clinging way: a clear threat, a clear enemy. The rolling hills, though beautiful, carried the unease of unknowns. He had no map, no path. Only rumours of Path cells farther east, whispered half-truths gathered from dying enemies and fleeing informants. The only certainty was that the Blightened Path wouldn't let his disruptions go unanswered.

It wasn't long before he stumbled upon the remnants of a small caravan. The waggons sat at odd angles, their wheels shattered, their contents spilled and scattered. Doran crouched beside the debris, his gloved hand brushing against the broken pieces of what once looked like crates of fine cloth. No bodies, no blood—just the eerie, quiet aftermath of an attack.

He scanned the area. Skarnvalk's runes glowed faintly, as if sensing something lingering in the air. Whatever had happened here, it hadn't been long ago. Tracks led away from the site, heading toward a distant outcropping that looked large enough to house a small band of raiders. Or, perhaps, something worse.

"Should've stayed in the swamp," Doran muttered, though his grip on Skarnvalk tightened. Whatever was out there, he'd find it. And once he found it, he'd deal with it the way he dealt with everything: one swing at a time.

Meanwhile, leagues away, Karvek Ironhand sat in a cramped, smoky tavern that stank of wet leather and spilled ale. The fires in the hearth couldn't quite keep the chill out of the air, but Karvek barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the hooded man seated across from him—a wiry, sharp-eyed figure who went by the name Taron.

"So," Taron said, his voice low and rasping. "What do you know about this dwarf everyone's whispering about?"

Karvek's lip twitched, more grimace than smile. "Not much. Just that he's got a hammer that glows like a damn torch and a knack for making people disappear."

Taron chuckled. "They say he's after the Path. That he's already torn through two or three cells. Your type doesn't usually care about things like that."

"My type cares about gold," Karvek replied flatly. "And when the Path's trail starts drying up, so does the coin. So if this dwarf is messing with them, I need to know if it's true. Means the jobs might get scarce, or—" his grimace deepened—"more complicated."

Taron leaned back, his hood falling slightly to reveal a face marked by a dozen small scars. "Oh, it's true. He's a forge master, they say. Makes weapons that don't just cut flesh but carve through ruin wards and curses. Path's scrambling to figure out how to stop him."

Karvek drained his tankard, the wooden mug slamming down on the table. "Well, that's just what I need. A bloody ruin master running around, breaking everything I work for."

"Maybe you could find him," Taron suggested, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "See if he's as good as they say. Might be worth your while."

Karvek snorted. "And if he's not?"

"Then you'll have your answer."

Karvek didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached for his helm, his broad fingers brushing the worn steel. The dwarf's name—Doran Thargrimm—meant nothing to him yet. But if this hammer-wielding forge master was truly tearing through the Blightened Path, it wouldn't stay that way for long. Karvek always kept his ear to the ground, and when whispers turned into rumours and rumours turned into offers, he'd be ready. The only question was whose side he'd end up on.