End due to too many changes, will make new story that is more consistent

I stood at the highest point of the rebuilt keep, the cold wind tugging at my beard and biting at the exposed flesh of my arms. The stones beneath me had been shaped by hands far older than mine, carved and set by a dwarven clan long before the world above had fallen into its current chaos. The keep wasn't just stone and mortar; it was a living thing, weathered by time but unyielding, much like my kind. Its broad, squat towers and thick, sloping walls seemed more like an extension of the mountain than a separate structure. From up here, I could see the smoke from our forges curling into the sky, the clang of hammers faint but constant, a reminder that even now, there was work to be done.

The men and women below moved like ants, bustling from the training yards to the granary, carrying lumber and iron, preparing for what would come next. Darian stood near the eastern wall, directing the construction of another watchtower. Eilwyn perched on a parapet, scanning the horizon with his bow resting casually over one shoulder. Grim, silent and steady, sharpened Soulreaper beside the forge, the eerie glow of the weapon's edge catching the firelight. Even Varka had found a quiet moment, though his version of quiet involved shouting at recruits until they could barely stand. They were all working to turn this keep—our home—into something formidable.

But no matter how high the walls or how sharp the weapons, I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't enough. This place, as solid and enduring as it was, couldn't grow beyond what it was now. And neither could I.

I'd spent my entire life in forges and battlefields, perfecting the art of shaping steel and ending lives. I'd carved a legacy into these stones, forged weapons that could cleave armies, and raised a brotherhood of warriors who'd follow me into the jaws of death. But something was still missing.

As I stared at the horizon, I knew what had to be done. "This isn't all I can be," I muttered to no one in particular, the wind snatching the words from my lips and carrying them into the endless expanse.

I turned and made my way down the winding stairwell into the keep's heart. The corridors were wide, built for dwarves, with low, heavy arches and walls that seemed to hum faintly with the memories of my ancestors. The air smelled of hot iron and damp stone, a scent that had followed me from one forge to the next. I strode into the main hall, where a fire burned in the center and a circle of my closest companions waited.

Darian was the first to speak. "You're planning something, I can see it on your face. That look usually means we're about to get dragged into some ridiculous fight or wild scheme. So, what's the play this time?"

I smirked. "No schemes. No fights. Not yet." I looked each of them in the eye, one at a time. "I'm leaving."

The room fell silent. Even Varka stopped chewing whatever piece of smoked meat he'd been gnawing on and stared at me like I'd just grown a second head.

"Leaving?" Darian leaned forward, crossing his arms. "You can't be serious. We've only just gotten this place back together."

"I am," I said, voice steady. "Ironhold's in good hands. You lot don't need me looking over your shoulders every second. And I…" I hesitated. "I need to see more of the world. I've spent too much time in one place, hammering out blades and teaching the same lessons. There's a bigger world out there, with knowledge and challenges I can't find here. If I'm going to lead Ironfang into something greater, I need to grow as well."

Grim nodded slowly, his face unreadable behind the mask, but the slight incline of his head told me he understood.

Juno grinned, leaning back in her chair. "Well, that's a first. The big boss admitting he doesn't know everything. I guess we're rubbing off on you."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't get too comfortable. When I come back, I'll expect this place to be stronger than I left it. And that means all of you need to step up."

Silkfang, ever the pragmatic one, tapped her fingers on the table. "What do you expect to find out there that we can't handle here?"

"Something more," I said simply. "All my life, I've worked with the materials at hand—iron, steel, what I could find in the mountains or buy from traders. But there's more out there. Metals and techniques I've only heard of in stories. If I can bring something back—something rare, something powerful—it'll raise Ironfang to a level no one can challenge. And I mean to craft something… different. Not just another blade or hammer. Something that'll remind me what it means to stand on the edge of everything."

"Armor," Darian said quietly. "You're talking about forging armor for yourself."

I nodded. "Aye. But not just any armor. I've heard rumors—whispers of a metal called Veinsilver. It's said to run deep beneath the old mountains, harder than anything we've ever worked with and alive with a power of its own. If I can find it, if I can shape it, I'll have something that's not just protection, but an extension of what we've built here. Something that'll give me what I need to face whatever comes next."

Eilwyn spoke for the first time. "And what if you don't find it? What if it's just a myth?"

"Then I'll learn something new trying," I said. "And I'll come back stronger for it. That's all I can promise."

The room was quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire. Then, slowly, Darian nodded. "Fine. Go find your metal. Find whatever it is you think you're missing. Just don't take too long—we'll only hold this place together for so long without you."

I turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, glancing back at the faces of my companions. "When I come back," I said, "we'll see what Ironfang can truly become."

The next morning, I set out alone, my hammer at my side and the open road ahead. There was no telling what I'd find, but that was the point. I needed to leave the walls of Ironhold behind, if only to know what lay beyond them.

Page 37: The Price of Veinsilver

I've worked metal my whole life. Iron, steel, even the occasional bit of enchanted ore. I know how it bends, how it breaks, how it screams under the weight of a hammer.

But Veinsilver?

It was alive.

I ran my hand over the thin streak of metal running through the rock, feeling the faint hum beneath my fingers. It wasn't like normal ore. It didn't just sit there waiting to be mined—it resisted, as if it had a will of its own.

I grinned. "You'll fight me for it, then?"

Good. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Mining Veinsilver wasn't like pulling iron from a mountain. It wasn't something you could just hack away at with a pickaxe. The moment I struck the rock, the metal vibrated, shifting just slightly—as if it was dodging me.

I muttered a curse. "You stubborn piece of—"

I adjusted my grip, slowing my swings. I had to listen to the metal, feel the rhythm of the stone around it. Instead of fighting against it, I worked with the flow, cracking the rock piece by piece, allowing the metal to loosen on its own.

It took three days.

Three days of sweat, dust, and the occasional bout of swearing. Three days of hammering, chiseling, and prying the veins from their rocky prison. By the end of it, my arms burned, my back ached, and my hands were raw. But when I looked down at the chunks of Veinsilver in my pack, glimmering even in the dim cave light, I knew it was worth it.

The problem?

I wasn't alone anymore.

I had just finished loading my pack when I heard it—the unmistakable click of a crossbow bolt being locked into place.

"Turn around slow, dwarf," a rough voice called from the cave entrance.

I sighed. "Not even a minute to rest, huh?"

I turned, hands loose at my sides, scanning my new guests.

There were six of them. Well-equipped. Too well-equipped for common bandits. Their armor wasn't mismatched scraps—it was fitted. Their weapons were sharp, and their stance told me they knew how to use them. Mercenaries, then. Hired blades.

The leader, a broad-shouldered man with a thick scar across his jaw, took a step forward. "I'm guessing you know what that metal's worth."

I smirked. "More than you can afford."

He chuckled. "See, that's where you're wrong. I've already been paid. And my employer wants that Veinsilver. You can drop the pack and walk away, or—"

I cut him off by hurling a fist-sized chunk of ore at his face.

It hit him square in the nose with a crack, and he stumbled back with a curse.

That was all the time I needed.

I launched forward, swinging Ironrend in a brutal arc. The first mercenary barely had time to raise his sword before my hammer caught him in the ribs. Bone shattered, and he crumpled, wheezing.

The second lunged at me with a spear. I twisted, catching the shaft with my gauntlet, yanking him off balance. A knee to the gut sent him to the ground, coughing blood.

The cave turned into a whirlwind of steel and pain.

A blade grazed my shoulder—I ignored it. A dagger scraped against my armor—I answered with a hammer swing that turned a skull into pulp.

The leader recovered, blood pouring from his broken nose. He swung at me in a rage, but rage makes you sloppy. I sidestepped and drove Ironrend into his knee. He screamed, dropping his sword as he collapsed.

The last two mercenaries took one look at the carnage and ran.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. My armor was dented, my knuckles were bleeding, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears. But I was still standing.

I loomed over the leader, who clutched his ruined leg, gasping. "Who sent you?"

He spat blood. "You're dead, dwarf."

I brought Ironrend down—not on his head, but an inch from his face, the stone beneath him shattering on impact.

He flinched. "Alright! Alright! It was a guild. Some noble bastard in Whitefang hired us—didn't say why, just that you couldn't leave this valley alive."

A noble. That narrowed it down.

I grabbed him by the collar, lifting him just enough to meet my gaze. "Go back to whoever paid you. Tell them I'm coming."

Then, I let go. He scrambled back, dragging himself toward the cave entrance, limping into the night.

I turned back to my pack, wiping the blood from my face.

If some noble thought they could stop me from taking this Veinsilver, they were about to learn how very wrong they were.

By the time I reached the outskirts of Whitefang City, I was sore, bloodied, and in desperate need of a proper drink. The journey back from the Wraithspire Valley had been anything but restful. Between the mercenaries sent to kill me, the beasts lurking in the mountains, and the weight of Veinsilver on my back, I had barely slept. But I had what I came for.

The metal, secured in a reinforced satchel strapped across my back, pulsed with a faint energy, like a living thing. I could feel it even through the thick leather. The stories were true—Veinsilver wasn't just rare, it was powerful. And now, it was mine.

But there was one last matter to deal with before I returned to Ironhold.

Whoever had put a price on my head thought I was dead. Time to correct that mistake.

Whitefang City had changed in my absence. It was tenser, the air thick with whispers of shifting power. The fall of Lord Ulric had left a void, and the vultures were circling. Every noble, merchant, and warlord with a hint of ambition was trying to carve out a piece for themselves.

I walked through the streets with my hood up, keeping my head down. Word had spread that I was dead, so no sense in ruining the surprise.

It didn't take long to find what I was looking for.

The noble who had sent mercenaries after me was a man named Lord Desric Varne—one of Ulric's old allies, a merchant-turned-warlord who had grown too bold after the city fell into chaos. His estate sat in the upper district, well-guarded but not impenetrable.

I made it past the front gate without issue. A few coins to the right people, and suddenly the guards weren't as loyal as they claimed.

Inside, Desric sat at a long dining table, sipping expensive wine and laughing with his men.

He stopped laughing when I dropped the severed hand of one of his mercenaries onto his plate.

The room fell silent.

I stepped forward, lowering my hood. "You put a price on my head," I said. "I came to collect."

Desric turned pale. "I—I thought you were dead."

"You thought wrong." I leaned forward, planting my hands on the table. "Now, you have two options. You can tell me why you tried to have me killed, and maybe I let you crawl out of here with your legs still attached. Or—" I raised Ironrend slightly, letting the candlelight glint off the bloodstained metal, "—I turn this whole estate into a graveyard."

Desric swallowed hard. His men looked at him, waiting for orders, but none of them moved. They'd seen what happened to people who crossed me.

"I… I had no choice," Desric stammered. "The High Alliance is broken, but there are still those who want to see your sect destroyed. You're upsetting the balance—people fear what you're building. The mercenaries were a warning."

I grunted. "Some warning. All you did was piss me off."

I leaned closer. "Tell your friends that the Ironfang Sect isn't going anywhere. We built Ironhold with our own hands. We bled for it. We killed for it. And if any of you try this again, I won't come back to talk."

Desric nodded frantically. "Understood."

I stepped back. "Good."

Then, for good measure, I grabbed his goblet of wine and downed it in one gulp. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.

I turned on my heel and left, whistling as I walked out the front door.

No one stopped me.

I returned to Ironhold a week later, battered but victorious.

The keep looked different now—stronger, more alive. The walls had been fully repaired, the barracks expanded, and the forges roared day and night. My people had done good work in my absence.

Darian was the first to greet me. "Took you long enough," he said, eyeing my torn armor and bloodied knuckles. "Did you get what you went for?"

I dropped my pack onto the ground. The metal inside let out a soft hum, almost like a heartbeat.

Darian raised an eyebrow. "That it?"

I grinned. "That's it."

For the next week, I worked like a madman, hammering, shaping, refining. The Veinsilver resisted me at first, but I knew its tricks now. I listened to the metal, felt the way it wanted to move. I didn't just force it into shape—I guided it.

The final result was something I'd never made before. The armor wasn't bulky like traditional plate—it moved like cloth, light as leather but stronger than anything I'd ever touched. The pauldrons were shaped like the fangs of a beast, the chestplate carved with runes that glowed faintly in the dark. The gauntlets fit like a second skin, each finger joint reinforced for crushing power.

I donned it for the first time in the quiet of the forge, feeling the way it molded to my body, shifting with me instead of against me. This wasn't just armor. It was mine.

The war wasn't over. There were still enemies out there—hidden sects, noble houses clinging to power, forces that would rise against us in the years to come.

But now?

I was ready.

And the world would soon learn that the Ironfang Sect had only just begun.

THE END (sorry :/ ) will post better story