Ch 82: Trump Cards

Five days had passed since the fiery chaos of the Season of Fire began. The valleys were still marred by rivers of molten lava, and the skies remained cloaked in a suffocating shroud of ash. But the once-relentless creatures of the region—Lava Worms and hyperactive Galgameth—had grown more cautious. They no longer attacked indiscriminately, their primal instincts seemingly tempered by the resistance they had faced.

This fragile reprieve allowed the people of the Ironworks to regroup and organize. The forge fires were rekindled, albeit cautiously, and plans that had been hastily shelved during the initial frenzy were revisited.

In the main hall of the Ironworks, Vornar addressed the assembled crowd. His voice carried authority but also a glimmer of hope. "We've survived the worst of it—at least for now. This is our chance to reclaim some control, to push back against the chaos and make the most of what this valley has to offer."

The crowd murmured in agreement. Workers and warriors alike had been waiting for a moment like this—a chance to contribute beyond merely surviving.

Vornar continued, gesturing toward a group of seasoned smiths who stood beside him. Each one carried themselves with an air of quiet confidence. "We'll be sending out expedition teams to secure resources and scout deeper into the valley. Each team will be led by a master smith. These are people you trust, people who have proven themselves time and again."

Kalem, standing near the back, watched as the smiths stepped forward, their faces marked by soot and years of toil. Among them was Brenar, the elderly smith he had helped at the forge. Brenar's gnarled hands gripped the hilt of a weapon Kalem had never seen him carry before—a massive hammer, its head engraved with glowing runes.

As the teams began to form, a quiet buzz of curiosity swept through the crowd. The master smiths were armed, not with the ordinary tools of their trade, but with weapons of undeniable power.

Brenar's hammer was not the only enchanted artifact on display. Another smith, a stoic woman named Kaelith, bore a curved blade that shimmered with an iridescent glow, its edge radiating an aura of chilling frost. Beside her, a burly smith named Hargan carried a shield etched with intricate patterns that pulsed faintly, suggesting it was more than just a defensive tool.

Kalem leaned toward Tharic, who stood beside him. "Why didn't they use those weapons earlier?"

Tharic grunted. "These aren't just weapons, lad. They're heirlooms, crafted with ruin-crafting techniques so advanced even most of us don't fully understand them. If one of these was lost in the chaos, it'd be more than a setback—it'd be a disaster."

Kalem nodded, understanding the weight of the decision. These weapons weren't just tools of war; they were symbols of the Ironworks' legacy, trump cards held in reserve until the moment was right.

Vornar assigned teams with precision, ensuring a balance of skills in each group. Warriors, miners, and even a few magicians were paired with the master smiths.

"Brenar's team will head to the northern ridge," Vornar announced. "We've had reports of rare minerals surfacing there, but the terrain's unstable. Kaelith, you'll take your team to the eastern ravines. The frost blade will be invaluable against the Lava Worms still lingering in that area."

Hargan's shield team was tasked with exploring a series of fissures near the valley's center, where the ground was still volatile but rich with potential.

"Kalem," Vornar called out, his tone measured. "You'll join Brenar's team. You've got a sharp mind and strong arms. You'll be an asset there."

Kalem stepped forward, nodding his agreement. Brenar gave him a small, approving smile.

That evening, as the teams prepared to set out, Kalem found himself drawn to the master smiths' weapons. He approached Brenar, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

"Master Brenar," he began hesitantly, "how did you make a weapon like that?"

Brenar chuckled, his voice like gravel. "This hammer? It's not something I made—it's something I earned. Passed down through generations of smiths before me. Its secrets aren't just in the metal or the runes. It's in the stories it's carried, the battles it's fought."

Kalem nodded, his fingers brushing the hilt of his own sword. It felt ordinary by comparison, but he knew every weapon had the potential to tell its own story.

"What about you, lad?" Brenar asked. "Got a weapon you trust with your life?"

Kalem thought of the arsenal he carried—the axe, the flail, the spear. "I don't know if I'd call it trust yet. But I'm working on it."

Brenar grinned. "Good answer. A weapon's only as strong as the hand that wields it. And you've got a strong hand, Kalem. Don't forget that."

At dawn, the expedition teams gathered at the edge of the Ironworks, their silhouettes stark against the ashen sky. Each leader stood at the forefront, their enchanted weapons gleaming faintly even in the dim light.

Vornar addressed them one last time. "Stay sharp. Stay together. And remember—this valley doesn't forgive mistakes."

With those words, the teams set out, their paths diverging as they ventured into the unpredictable heart of the Peaks of Ash and Fire. Kalem followed Brenar's lead, his focus core pulsing softly against his chest.

As they descended into the valley, the air grew heavy with heat and tension. The earth still trembled beneath their feet, a reminder that the Season of Fire was far from over. But for the first time in days, Kalem felt a spark of hope.

They weren't just surviving anymore. They were fighting back.