Reaper of Iron and Blood

Doran followed the tracks to the outcropping, moving steadily despite the weight of his hammer and the soreness in his legs. The hills were quieter than he liked—no birdsong, no rustling of small animals. Just the occasional whisper of wind against the stone. It made the emptiness feel heavier, more deliberate, as if the land itself was waiting for something to happen.

As he crested the final rise, the outcropping came into view. It was no natural rock formation; this was an ancient, crumbling watchtower, its stone walls worn smooth by centuries of weather. A faint curl of smoke rose from within, suggesting life—or at least, something that still burned.

Doran adjusted Skarnvalk on his shoulder and scanned the area. From this vantage, he could make out movement. Two figures patrolled the base of the tower, their heads turning cautiously as they circled. They wore mismatched armor and carried cheap, blunt weapons. Raiders, most likely. Simple thieves who'd stumbled upon something they didn't fully understand.

He dropped into a crouch, watching them for a few minutes. They moved in lazy patterns, obviously not expecting trouble. Even from this distance, he could tell their gear was poorly maintained. Dents in the helmets, rust streaks along the sword blades. The Path had better discipline than this. If they were connected at all, it wasn't directly.

Still, he couldn't ignore the possibility. The Path had layers, and not every agent was a rune-carving master. These could be hired thugs tasked with protecting something more important. Or they could be scavengers who'd lucked into a fragment of ruin knowledge they didn't know how to use. Either way, Doran had learned never to leave loose ends.

He slid back behind the ridge, shifting Skarnvalk's weight as he considered his approach. Direct combat would draw attention, but it was the fastest way to clear the path. He had no intention of sneaking in only to get cornered inside. Better to draw them out, deal with them quickly, and see what they were hiding.

Doran knelt by a sharp-edged stone and adjusted one of his rune-forged throwing spikes. He whispered a quick command, and the rune etched into its surface flared briefly before fading. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the dirt just inside the patrol's path.

The spike landed silently, its rune now barely visible. It wouldn't detonate—Doran didn't waste good tools on thugs—but the energy it held would be enough to draw their attention. The air around it seemed to shimmer faintly, a distortion so subtle it might be mistaken for a trick of the light. Just enough to make them curious.

Sure enough, one of the patrolling figures stopped and squinted toward the spike. "You see that?" he asked the other.

"See what?"

"Something… moved over there."

"You're imagining things. Probably a rabbit."

"A glowing rabbit?" The first figure stepped closer, his head tilted.

Doran tensed, Skarnvalk in both hands now. As the first thug approached the spike, his companion sighed and followed. "If it's just a rabbit, you're buying drinks tonight."

The moment they reached the spike, Doran moved. He stepped over the ridge, quick and silent, and closed the gap before they had time to react. The hammer came down hard on the first thug's helm, shattering it and dropping him instantly. The second spun, his mouth opening in shock, but Doran drove the haft of Skarnvalk into his gut before he could call out. The man fell to his knees, gasping for air.

Doran didn't hesitate. Another sharp blow sent the second thug sprawling. The entire skirmish lasted less than five seconds, and now the way to the tower was clear. He retrieved the spike, its rune dimming as he tucked it back into his belt, and stepped carefully toward the crumbling entrance.

Inside, he found what he'd expected: more debris, more signs of squatters, and a faint glow from deeper within the structure. It was faint, but unmistakable—ruin energy. Weak and scattered, but present. Whoever these thugs had been, they'd stumbled onto something they didn't understand. Something they weren't smart enough to keep hidden. Doran adjusted his grip on Skarnvalk and pressed onward.

In another part of the world, Lisett sat alone at a campfire, staring into the flames. The rest of her party had turned in for the night, leaving her to her thoughts. The mercenary life was never what she wanted, but after the Path had taken her family, it was all she knew. Healing others, even in the worst conditions, gave her a purpose. A reason to keep going.

But recently, she'd heard whispers. Stories of a dwarf wielding a hammer so powerful it could shatter ruin wards, cutting through Path agents like parchment. Some said he was a myth. Others said he was a ghost. Lisett didn't know what to believe, but she knew one thing for certain: if this dwarf was real, and if he was fighting the Path, then he was someone she needed to find.

The Path had taken too much from her. She wanted to help end them, even if it meant leaving her current group behind. Even if it meant facing death again. Lisett stared into the flames, her resolve hardening. She didn't know who this hammer-wielding dwarf was, but she intended to find out.

As Doran pushed deeper into the ruins, the glow of the rune-energy grew stronger, illuminating the cracked stone walls with an eerie, shifting light. He moved slowly, Skarnvalk at the ready. The last thing he wanted was to walk into a trap—not when this place reeked of desperation and poor planning. The tower's interior was as decrepit as the exterior, with sagging support beams and uneven floors that creaked ominously underfoot.

The room ahead opened into what once might have been a storage hall, though the barrels and crates were long gone, replaced by crude sleeping rolls and piles of scavenged goods. In the center of it all sat a jagged shard of black stone mounted on a makeshift wooden pedestal. Faint green runes snaked across its surface, twisting and reforming as Doran approached.

"That's not supposed to be here," he muttered, his grip on Skarnvalk tightening. The shard was no relic of some bygone age—it was fresh, jagged, and still resonating with faint, chaotic energy. If the Blightened Path had a hand in this, it was amateur work. Sloppy. Rushed. But dangerous all the same.

As he stepped closer, a low voice echoed from the shadows. "You should've turned back when you had the chance, dwarf."

Doran turned, and from the darkness emerged a thin, wiry man with a face half-obscured by a crude iron mask. His mismatched armor clattered as he stepped forward, wielding a blade that hummed faintly with the same green energy as the shard.

"Is this your mess?" Doran asked, gesturing to the stone. "Looks like you barely know what to do with it."

The man snarled. "I don't need your judgment. You won't live long enough to give it."

The attacker lunged, faster than Doran expected. The blade's green glow slashed through the air, aimed straight for his chest. Doran parried with Skarnvalk's haft, the runes flaring brightly. The impact sent sparks flying, the hammer's weight absorbing the blow, but the man was quick, spinning into another strike. Doran had to step back, the blade grazing the edge of his armor, leaving a faint green scorch mark.

Doran countered with a brutal overhead swing. The man dodged, barely, the curved blade of Skarnvalk slicing through the air and shattering a wooden beam behind him. The room trembled as dust and debris rained down, but Doran didn't stop. He pressed the attack, hammering at the man's defenses with precise, bone-jarring strikes. Each blow forced the attacker to retreat farther into the hall.

"You're not bad," Doran grunted, "but you're out of your depth."

The man didn't answer. Instead, he twisted, slamming his glowing blade into the stone shard. The runes flared violently, and the air around them grew heavy, oppressive. Doran felt the pressure in his chest before he saw it: the shard pulsed once, twice, and then erupted in a wave of green energy.

Doran braced himself, Skarnvalk's runes flashing bright as the energy hit. The hammer absorbed the brunt of it, but the force still drove him back a step. The attacker, too close to the shard, was thrown across the room, crashing into a pile of debris. The shard's glow dimmed, its energy spent, but the room continued to tremble. Cracks spiderwebbed along the walls, and the floor beneath Doran's feet groaned ominously.

"Damn it," Doran muttered. He turned, spotting the attacker struggling to stand amidst the rubble. Skarnvalk hummed in his grip, urging him forward. He stepped toward the man, ready to finish this before the entire tower came down.

Meanwhile, far to the north, Lisett packed her belongings in silence. Her companions were asleep in their tents, their steady breathing lost beneath the howling wind outside. She had made up her mind. She couldn't sit idly while the Path continued to grow in power, not when there was a chance—however slim—that the rumors were true.

If this dwarf, this hammer-wielding ruin master, was really tearing through the Blightened Path, then she needed to find him. She needed to see if he was as skilled, as driven, as the stories suggested. Because if he was, Lisett wanted to stand beside him. And if he wasn't… well, she'd find a way to end the Path on her own.

She cinched her pack tight and stepped outside. The cold wind cut through her cloak, but she didn't falter. One step, then another, she began her journey, her heart heavy but her resolve unshaken. The dwarf's path was still a mystery, but she would follow the trail, no matter where it led.

The tower was falling apart around Doran, and every step shook loose another layer of stone and dust. The attacker was sprawled against the rubble, clutching at his side where a jagged piece of timber had lodged itself during the blast. Skarnvalk's runes hummed softly, as if ready to put a final end to the fight, but Doran hesitated.

"You're lucky that shard was as unstable as it was," he said, walking toward the wounded man. "Another few seconds, and you might've blown yourself—and me—to the abyss."

The masked man coughed wetly, the green glow in his eyes dimming as he slumped against the wall. "You think you've won, don't you?" he rasped. "You've only slowed us down."

Doran shook his head, lowering Skarnvalk. "You say that like it's a bad thing. I don't need to wipe you all out at once. Slowing you down is plenty good for now."

The man's head lolled, his strength fading fast. "The Path… doesn't need… me…" he choked out before his breathing stilled.

Doran glanced at the ruined shard, still faintly smoking on the makeshift pedestal. It was a reminder of what the Path would resort to—desperate measures, reckless experiments. If they were willing to toss away lives like this just to protect one unstable fragment of ruin energy, what else might they have in store?

He took a long breath, letting Skarnvalk's weight rest against the floor. The hammer's runes were dimming now, calming as the fight ended. This wasn't the first time he'd stepped into a collapsing ruin, and it wouldn't be the last. But the people behind the Path were becoming more reckless, more dangerous. If this man was telling the truth, and the cells didn't need their leaders to keep operating, then something bigger was keeping them in motion.

The entire tower groaned as another section of the ceiling caved in. Doran turned away from the corpse and started toward the exit. He had answers, but not enough. The questions that remained—what the Path's ultimate goal was, how far they'd go to achieve it, and what kind of ruin they'd leave in their wake—were only growing more urgent.

Far from the crumbling tower, Lisett paused at the edge of a campfire, her hands trembling slightly as she passed a bowl of stew to the weary-looking soldier sitting across from her. They were strangers, travelers passing one another by, but even this brief interaction felt heavy.

"The Path," the soldier murmured after a sip of the stew. "You said you're looking for them?"

"Yes," Lisett replied simply.

The soldier frowned. "You're not the first. There's been word of a dwarf, a forge master. They say he's… well, some call him a saviour, others say he's just another warlord cutting his way through."

Lisett's hand tightened on the edge of her cloak. "What do you think?"

"I think," the soldier said slowly, "that anyone who can hurt the Path is worth finding. If he's real."

"He's real," Lisett said softly. "And I intend to find him."

The soldier nodded but didn't push for more. The wind howled through the trees, and Lisett pulled her cloak tighter. She had a long road ahead, and each step felt heavier than the last. But if this dwarf truly was what the rumors claimed, then she'd find him. And if he wasn't? Well, the Path would have to answer to her anyway.