Chapter 17

The battlefield was chaos. Goblin bodies lay in smoking heaps, their shrill cries fading into the icy mountain air. The dragon prowled through the carnage, its jaws snapping down on anything that moved. Each time it exhaled, a wave of searing flame swept across the ground, incinerating goblins by the dozen. The stench of burnt hair and charred flesh filled my nose, but I barely noticed it anymore. I'd been at this for too long, every muscle in my body burning, the edges of my vision growing darker with every swing.

My armor had held so far, the skycinder steel turning blade after blade. But even the best metal couldn't cover everything. Blood ran down my forearm from a gap between the gauntlet and my sleeve, a shallow spear wound that had caught me when I was too slow to twist away. My thigh ached from a deep cut where a goblin's black-iron sword had slipped through a chink in the plates. The breastplate had taken a direct hit from a troll's club and held, but the impact still left me breathless, my ribs singing in protest every time I drew air. Skarnvalk felt heavier with every swing, but I kept going, because stopping wasn't an option.

Lisett was doing her part, jabbing her staff into the goblins that got too close, holding them at bay just long enough for me to put them down. She wasn't a fighter—not in the traditional sense—but she knew how to keep herself alive. A sharp jab to the throat, a quick blow to the temple. Nothing fancy, but enough to buy us a few more breaths. Her face was pale, her movements growing sluggish. I could tell she was running on fumes.

The dragon, on the other hand, looked as though it was just getting started. Its scales gleamed in the morning light, steam rising from its body as the snow around it melted into pools. It moved with deliberate, almost languid grace, each swipe of its claws raking through goblin ranks like a farmer cutting wheat. When the trolls lumbered forward, their handlers shouting guttural commands, the dragon shifted its attention. It reared back, its chest expanding as it sucked in air, and then unleashed a torrent of fire that turned one troll into a screaming, blackened skeleton in seconds. The other troll roared in defiance, charging the beast with its massive club. The dragon met it head-on, its jaws snapping down on the troll's arm, tearing it clean off. The troll fell to its knees, and the dragon crushed its head with a single, brutal bite.

Despite the dragon's ferocity, the goblins kept coming. They knew no fear, or maybe they simply didn't care. They swarmed around me in a tide of shrieking bodies, their weapons flashing in the sunlight. I was drowning in them. A spear jabbed at my side, glancing off the breastplate, but the force of it made me stumble. I swung Skarnvalk in a wide arc, the hammer's curved blade catching a goblin in the neck and sending it spinning away, blood spraying from the wound. Another came at me from the right, and I drove the hammer's haft into its gut, doubling it over before crushing its skull with a downward blow. My chest heaved, every breath coming harder than the last.

And then, through the din of battle, I heard it—a shout. Not a goblin's screech or a troll's roar. A human voice, strong and clear. I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw them.

Four figures, staggering down the slope toward us. One in the lead, a battered sword in hand, his face drawn and gaunt but his posture resolute. Behind him, three others followed, their weapons dull, their armor in tatters. They looked half-dead, their movements slow and unsteady, but their eyes burned with grim determination. They weren't running away. They were running toward the fight.

Karvek.

I didn't know his name yet, but I knew what he was. Another survivor. A man who had been through hell and come out the other side, barely breathing but still standing. I could see it in the way he carried himself, in the way he held his sword. This wasn't a hero's charge. It was desperation. The last, mad swing of someone who had nothing left to lose.

The dragon saw them too. Its eyes flicked to the newcomers, its nostrils flaring. For a moment, I thought it might attack them, but it didn't. Instead, it turned its attention back to the goblins, as if acknowledging that this fight belonged to all of us now.

Karvek and his men reached the fray, throwing themselves into the melee with reckless abandon. The first goblin that came at Karvek was cut down with a single, brutal swing. Another leapt at him, and he drove his shoulder into it, sending it sprawling before plunging his blade into its chest. His men were no less fierce, hacking and stabbing with everything they had left. They didn't fight like soldiers. They fought like men who knew they were already dead but refused to lie down.

The sight of them reinvigorated me, though I wouldn't have admitted it. I clenched my teeth, raised Skarnvalk, and threw myself back into the fight. The hammer's runes flickered faintly as I brought it down on a goblin's skull, the curved blade slicing through flesh and bone. Another swing, another goblin down. My arms screamed in protest, but I ignored them. This was the moment that mattered.

The tide turned slowly, then all at once. The goblins' numbers dwindled, their formation breaking apart as the dragon tore through their ranks. When the last troll fell—its neck snapped by the dragon's jaws—the remaining goblins faltered. The few that didn't run were cut down, their bodies joining the growing pile of the dead.

When the dust finally settled, the battlefield was silent except for the ragged breathing of the survivors. Karvek leaned on his sword, his shoulders rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. His men stood around him, their weapons slick with black goblin blood. Lisett sank to her knees, her staff still clutched in one hand. The dragon stood in the center of it all, its head held high, smoke curling from its nostrils. It was bloodied, its scales marked with cuts and burns, but its eyes were sharp, almost triumphant.

I dropped Skarnvalk to the ground and straightened, wincing as my ribs protested the movement. My armor had held, but I hadn't come through unscathed. I limped toward Karvek, sizing him up as he wiped the blood from his blade. When our eyes met, he nodded faintly, the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Not bad," he said, his voice hoarse. "For a dwarf."

"Not bad yourself," I replied, though the words came grudgingly. I didn't know who he was yet, or what he wanted, but in that moment, we were just two warriors who'd survived the impossible.

The dragon shifted behind me, its massive body settling into the snow with a deep rumble. I could feel its presence like a storm cloud at my back. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. But for now, the field was ours.

The blood hadn't even dried on the snow when Lisett set about her work. Her hands moved quickly, pulling linen wraps and small vials from her pack. She muttered to herself as she went, counting out supplies, glancing at the wounded men, and then starting with the most critical. Karvek's companions were slumped against the cold stone of Barak-Khald's outer wall, their faces pale, their breaths shallow. One of them held a makeshift bandage over a gash in his side, the fabric already dark with blood. Another had an arm that dangled unnaturally, the bone clearly shattered under the weight of a troll's club. The third stared blankly ahead, his helmet split open, his scalp a red mess beneath.

Lisett crouched beside the one with the broken arm, her fingers brushing his brow. "You're not going to die from this," she said sharply, as though willing it to be true. Her voice had no warmth, only the cold efficiency of someone who'd done this far too many times. She pulled a small knife from her belt and began cutting away the ruined sleeve of his tunic. The man winced, muttering something unintelligible, but she paid him no mind. "Hold still. This is going to hurt."

Doran leaned Skarnvalk against a broken pillar and sank down to the ground nearby, his back against the wall. His new armor was streaked with blood—most of it goblin, though not all. The plates had held up better than he could have hoped, but his ribs still ached from where a spear had struck just under the breastplate's edge. He touched the spot gingerly, wincing as his fingers came away red. Nothing fatal, but it would slow him down.

He glanced at Karvek, who was sitting a few feet away, hunched over and clutching his sword. The blade was a mess—nicked and bent from the battle, the edge dull and useless. Karvek's knuckles were raw, his face pale under the grime. He'd fought like a man possessed, hacking through goblins with a desperation that had almost matched Doran's own fury. Now he looked more like a man who'd barely survived, his breaths labored, his shoulders slumping.

Lisett moved on to him next. She grabbed his arm without a word and began wiping away the blood, checking for deeper wounds. "This one's worse," she muttered, glancing at Doran. "He's got cracked ribs, a gash in his thigh, and he's lucky he didn't lose that hand. You going to sit there or help me hold him still?"

Doran grunted, pushing himself to his feet. He stepped over to Karvek and placed a steadying hand on the man's shoulder. "Keep still," he said.

Karvek's head lolled back, and his eyes met Doran's. For a moment, they stared at each other. Neither spoke, but there was an unspoken understanding in that gaze—an acknowledgment of shared suffering, of battles fought and won by the skin of their teeth. Karvek gave a weak nod, and Doran returned it.

As Lisett worked, Doran let his mind drift to the forge inside Barak-Khald. He'd barely finished his armor before the goblins regrouped, and he hadn't had time to think about anything else. Now, with the battle over and the dead scattered across the field, his thoughts turned to the weapons they'd used—the swords, the spears, the axes. Karvek's sword in particular stood out. It was garbage now, bent nearly in half, the hilt wrapped in what looked like strips of old canvas. The thing wouldn't last another swing.

He considered his supplies. He had skycinder steel left—enough for a new blade if he stretched it. There were also the weapons he'd salvaged from the goblins. Most of it was junk, rusted iron and brittle steel, but there were a few pieces that could be reforged. A goblin cleaver, its edge chipped but the core metal still sound. A dwarven axe that had been taken and ruined, its head dull and covered in nicks, but with a sturdy haft that could be repurposed. And in the ruins, there were still scraps of dwarven metal left behind—small ingots tucked away in forgotten corners, waiting for a smith who knew what to look for.

As Lisett tied off Karvek's bandages, Doran tapped the man's shoulder again. "You going to live?"

Karvek gave a grim smile, his teeth bloodstained. "As long as they don't come back for another round."

"They won't," Doran said. "Not after that." He gestured at the dragon, which was perched on a rocky ledge above them, its claws digging into the stone. The beast was watching them still, its eyes half-lidded, smoke curling from its nostrils. It had taken hits, too—its scales were scorched and cracked in places, its wings dotted with arrow shafts. But it hadn't fallen. Not even close.

"Your sword's a piece of shit," Doran said bluntly, looking back at Karvek. "Can't have you fighting with that if we're going to survive the next fight."

Karvek raised an eyebrow. "And what, you're going to hand me a new one out of thin air?"

Doran snorted. "No. But there's a forge inside, and I've got metal. You'll have a blade by morning. Better than the one you walked in here with."

Karvek's expression shifted, skepticism giving way to something that almost looked like gratitude. He nodded slowly. "If you can make me a blade that doesn't snap in two the first time I swing it, I'll owe you."

Doran didn't reply. He was already thinking of the steel he'd use, the shape of the blade, the runes he'd carve into it. This wasn't about making Karvek feel indebted. It was about surviving the next fight, because there would be another fight. There always was.

Lisett grumbled under her breath as she worked, tearing off strips of cloth and pressing them firmly against my side. Her fingers, despite being steady, carried a roughness to them that said she'd done this before—more times than she wanted to remember. The sting of some concoction she poured on my wounds made me hiss, but I kept still, letting her do her job.

"Bloody dwarf," she muttered. "You're lucky you've got that thick hide of yours. Half these gashes would have gutted someone else."

I gave her a faint grin, though it felt more like a grimace. "It's the armor. Good steel keeps the worst of it out."

"Not all of it," she shot back, wrapping a bandage around my ribs. "Try not to burst these stitches the second I'm done with them."

"I'll do my best," I said, wincing as she pulled the cloth tight. "But no promises."

She finished securing the bandage and leaned back, brushing her hands off on her tunic. "There. You'll live. Not that you deserve it, mind."

I chuckled, though it turned into a cough halfway through. "You're all heart, Lisett."

"Don't push your luck." She grabbed her bag and moved on to one of Karvek's men, who was still clutching his side like he thought his guts might spill out at any moment.

As she tended to the others, I flexed my fingers and tested my shoulder. The armor had done its job, but I'd been too slow in a few places. That goblin spear had caught me just right under the arm, and my side felt like it had been stomped on by a troll. Nothing I couldn't work through, though. I'd had worse.

Karvek was sitting nearby, his sword resting across his knees. The thing was in sorry shape, its edge so jagged it looked more like a saw than a blade. He glanced up at me as I stood, his expression half-curious, half-skeptical.

"You really planning to make me a new blade?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

"Something better than that piece of scrap," I replied. I looked down at his sword and shook my head. "If it's going to keep you alive, it needs to hold an edge. Needs to last."

Karvek smirked faintly, his beard twitching. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Then watch closely," I said, turning toward the forge. "I've got enough steel left, and the fire's still hot. By the time you've had a proper rest, you'll have a sword worth swinging."

Behind me, Lisett's voice rose sharply. "You're joking, right? You can barely stand."

I glanced over my shoulder. She had her hands on her hips now, her expression a mix of irritation and genuine concern. "I've stitched you up, but you're in no shape to work a forge."

"I've worked worse off," I said. "I'll be fine."

"Doran—"

"I'm fine, Lisett," I said, my tone firm enough to cut her off. "A sword doesn't make itself. And if we run into another fight without it, someone's going to die."

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "If you keel over at the anvil, don't expect me to patch you up again."

I didn't bother replying. I'd said my piece, and she knew better than to waste her breath on someone as stubborn as me.

I sat before the forge, the firelight reflecting off the blackened walls of Barak-Khald. The anvil waited, its surface still warm from my last work. I laid out the materials: the remains of Karvek's sword, a bar of skycinder steel, and a few scraps of dwarven iron I'd scavenged from the ruins. The goblin cleaver I'd picked up earlier rested nearby, its edge chipped and dull, but the core metal was strong enough to be reforged.

I stared at the pile of steel for a long moment, letting the weight of the task settle over me. This sword wasn't going to be just another blade. It needed to be something that fit Karvek—something balanced, reliable, and lethal. But it also needed to be more than that. A warrior's weapon. Not flashy or ostentatious, but a piece of steel that spoke to the man who wielded it. It needed to last through battles, through blood and fire, through the kind of fights that left lesser blades in pieces.

I picked up the skycinder steel and laid it on the anvil. The veins of silver running through it caught the forge's glow, and I could almost feel the metal humming under my fingertips. It was a material that demanded respect. I'd worked it before and knew its quirks—how it cooled faster than normal steel, how it needed just the right heat to stay pliable. I struck the bar once, then twice, the hammer's blows ringing out through the chamber. I felt the familiar rhythm settle into my arms, the way the steel bent and stretched under the weight of the hammer.

The sword I envisioned was simple in form: a broad, slightly curved blade with a strong, reinforced spine. The edge would be razor-sharp, but not brittle—something that could cut through armor without chipping. The hilt would be sturdy, wrapped in leather for a solid grip, and the guard would be a simple crosspiece of polished iron. I'd carve a single rune into the base of the blade, near the hilt—nothing flashy, just a subtle mark of durability, a charm that would help the steel resist corrosion and wear. Practical magic, not the kind that glowed or shone like a beacon, but the kind you felt in the heft of the blade when you swung it.

I worked steadily, the hours blending together. The hammer's rhythm never wavered, the sound filling the chamber as I shaped the steel. The dragon was still somewhere in the ruins, its presence a quiet reminder that I wasn't alone, though it kept to the shadows for now. Lisett muttered occasionally, glancing my way as if expecting me to collapse, but I didn't give her the satisfaction.

By the time I was done, the sword was everything I'd imagined. A weapon of pure function—balanced, deadly, and built to last. I held it up to the forge's light, the faint rune near the base catching a hint of the glow. It wasn't a showpiece. It wasn't meant to draw attention. But it was a blade that would cut cleanly, strike true, and hold its edge through hell and back.

Karvek would have no excuses now. If he died with this in his hand, it wouldn't be because the blade had failed him. It would be because the man holding it wasn't worthy. And as I set the finished sword on the anvil to cool, I couldn't help but smirk. I'd made sure that wouldn't be the case.