Chapter 26

Doran moved through the streets of Vraknheim with deliberate caution, every step measured, every breath slow. The city's heavy air was thick with forge-smoke, damp stone, and the ever-present stink of too many bodies crammed into too little space. The Black Anvil was close—he could almost hear the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel through the murmur of the streets.

Lisett walked beside him, hood pulled low, her sharp eyes scanning the alleys and doorways like she expected trouble. She wasn't wrong. Trouble was exactly what followed men like them.

Karvek and what remained of his mercenaries trailed behind, a sorry-looking bunch, battle-worn and restless. They needed rest, proper food, and weapons that weren't on the verge of breaking. But they had nothing left—no coin, no supplies, no easy way to rebuild. And Vraknheim was not kind to the desperate.

Doran adjusted the strap of his pack. The obsidian shard and the iron-bound book rested inside, wrapped tight to keep their wrongness contained. But he could feel them. Even now.

He had too many unknowns. And he hated unknowns.

The Black Anvil wasn't much to look at from the outside. A squat, reinforced stone building with a single, soot-streaked sign hanging above the heavy iron door. No windows. No nonsense. Just a forge built for work, not for show.

Doran rapped his knuckles against the metal.

No response.

He frowned and knocked again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Karvek stepped closer. "You sure this friend of yours is still breathing?"

"Not sure of much these days," Doran muttered. His fingers twitched toward Skarnvalk's grip as unease crawled up his spine.

Then, finally, there was a noise from inside—something heavy scraping against the floor, a lock turning.

The door creaked open just wide enough for a single eye to peer out, bloodshot and lined with exhaustion.

"By the Deep…" The voice was rough, cracked from too much pipe smoke and not enough sleep. "If it isn't Doran bloody Thargrimm."

Doran exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "It's been a while, Varrik."

The door opened the rest of the way, revealing a burly dwarf with a burn-scarred face, a thick salt-and-iron beard, and arms covered in faded tattoos of runes and hammer-marks. Varrik's apron was smudged with soot, and the unmistakable scent of burning oil clung to him. His gaze flicked over Doran's group, his smirk fading.

"Who are they?" he asked.

"People who need a roof and a drink," Doran said. "And I need a forge."

Varrik grunted, then stepped aside. "Get in before someone gets ideas about picking your pockets."

Varrik locked the door behind them, shooting a look toward Karvek and his men. "They look like they're two steps from dropping dead."

"They are," Doran admitted. "We need food. Rest. And I need to see what I can do with what's left of their gear."

Varrik scratched his beard. "Coin?"

Doran gave him a dry look. "You think I'd ask for favors if I had coin?"

The old smith grunted. "Figures." He turned toward the forge, rolling his shoulders. "You still know your way around the tools?"

Doran flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar ache in his knuckles. "Better than I know my way around people."

Varrik smirked. "Then get to work."

Doran shed his cloak, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped toward the anvil.

He had steel to mend. 

And an old war to prepare for.

Elsewhere.

The rain hadn't stopped. It slicked the stone streets of Varngard in a glistening sheen of filth, running in rivulets between broken cobbles, carrying rot and blood into the gutters. In a shuttered corner room above a disused apothecary, Tavren Coil watched the water drum against the glass, one hand resting lightly on the worn cover of the journal before him.

The spiral-within-a-circle was faint now, ink bled with age and weather. But it was the same. Exactly the same as the one on the ring. The one on the coffer. The one in his memories.

The room was spartan—just a desk, a narrow cot, and a brazier burning low. A half-drunk cup of something pungent sat untouched beside the journal. Tavren didn't look away from the page.

Because he'd found a name.

One that hadn't been spoken aloud in centuries, buried beneath misdirection, half-truths, and rewritten records. A name etched into the deepest layers of Path archives, known only to those who had been part of its first formation.

"Orsendar," Tavren said quietly, the word tasting like ash.

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

Danik, still pale from the coast, stood awkwardly in the doorway. His scarred jaw worked soundlessly before words caught up with breath. "You said we'd be moving soon."

"We will." Tavren didn't turn. "Did you get what I asked for?"

Danik hesitated, then stepped forward and placed a bundle on the desk. Wrapped in oilcloth, it clinked faintly—glass or metal, hard to say.

Tavren unfolded the bundle. Inside were five vials, each filled with a thick, dark liquid that didn't reflect the firelight quite right. Alchemical. Rare. The kind of thing the Path confiscated and studied. Or destroyed.

Tavren studied one, swirling it gently. The viscosity was wrong. Alive, almost. Not blood, not entirely.

"Where did this come from?" he asked.

Danik swallowed. "Black Hollow Market. South of Harrow Bend. They said it came from beneath the ruins of Fennak's Cradle. Old mining town. Collapsed during the War of Ash."

"Did they say who brought it in?"

Danik shook his head. "Only that he had a brand on his tongue. Said nothing. Just took his coin and vanished."

Tavren's eyes narrowed. A tongue-brand meant old Path. The kind of mark given to traitors or prisoners who'd seen something they shouldn't have.

He unstoppered one vial and dipped a silver-tipped needle into it. The metal hissed softly, and the sigil around his throat pulsed in response.

"Yes," Tavren murmured. "It's reacting."

"To what?" Danik asked, unease creeping into his voice.

Tavren finally turned to look at him. "The same thing that's drawing ruin masters out of their holes. The same thing your old employers pretend doesn't exist."

Danik frowned. "I thought this was about the book."

"It is," Tavren said. "But the book's just a ledger. A record of what came before. It won't stop what's waking up. But it might tell us how to slow it."

"And this?" Danik gestured at the vials.

"Insurance."

Tavren wrapped the bundle again and stood. "We leave for Gorshen Pass tomorrow. There's a vault buried beneath the northern wall. Pre-Path. Pre-Kingsblood Accord. I want what's inside it."

"And if someone already found it?"

Tavren smiled faintly. "Then we take it back."

He blew out the candle.

Outside, far across the sea, the coast still bore the scars of that silent ship. A new tide lapped against the shore now—one that had not been seen in centuries. Salt and shadow mingled in the breeze.

A blade that wasn't a blade lay buried in the sand, its hilt humming with latent heat.

And something beneath the waves stirred again. Waiting.

The forge roared like a caged beast behind me, its breath hot on my neck as I hammered the edge of the blade into submission. Sweat stung my eyes, and each swing sent tremors through my shoulders, but I didn't slow. This wasn't just work—it was survival.

Varrik had let me into the Black Anvil without asking too many questions. He always had a nose for trouble and the good sense to keep it to himself. But he wasn't running a charity. I owed him for the steel, for the roof over our heads, and for the fact he hadn't thrown Karvek's half-dead mercenaries back into the street. Coin had to come from somewhere, and fast.

So I was making swords.

Not the kind I'd forge for myself. No runes. No clever mechanisms. Just sleek, gleaming steel with clean lines and an edge sharp enough to fetch a merchant's admiration—or a sellsword's coin. I'd shaped the blades to look expensive. Fancy crossguards, polished fullers, the kind of superficial touches that drew high prices in a city like Vraknheim. Showpieces that cut just as well, but didn't hint at deeper purpose.

Karvek sat nearby with a bottle of something harsh, one boot off, inspecting a swollen ankle. He hadn't said much since we arrived. His men were healing, slow as it was, but Jorren was still dead, and none of them were taking it lightly. I didn't blame them. The Hollow had cost us more than blood—it had shaken them. Even Lisett was quieter than usual, though I could feel her watching me from the shadows of the forge whenever she thought I wasn't paying attention.

The stack of finished blades grew slowly. I was careful with each one. Even if they were meant to sell, I wasn't about to put my name to garbage. Varrik had offered to call in a few favours—said he knew a couple traders who might take the blades off my hands in bulk if I kept them plain-looking. No rune glow, nothing to catch the eye of the wrong kind of buyer. The Path had ears in Vraknheim. Best not to let them know I was back.

"How many more?" Varrik asked, his voice cutting through the clang of hammer on steel.

"Three, maybe four," I said, not looking up. "Should cover the steel, the roof, and a bit left for gear."

He grunted. "You always were the responsible sort. Shame you're terrible at making friends."

"I've got you, don't I?" I smirked.

"Unfortunately," he muttered, walking off to check the stockroom.

Truth was, I'd been thinking about reaching out to someone else—Thorin Grelt, a retired coin broker who used to fund ore expeditions before the Path made mining a suicide job. I'd traded with him once, years ago, and last I heard, he was still alive and bitter in Vraknheim's lower quarter. Might be willing to broker a few deals, get us some coin faster if I played it right.

Lisett finally stepped into the light, her arms folded across her chest. She'd changed into a clean tunic, but her eyes were still tired.

"You planning on sleeping tonight?" she asked.

"When there's coin in the lockbox and food on the table."

She didn't argue. Just leaned against the wall, silent for a moment. Then, "I heard talk in the market this morning. A man asking around for ruin-touched weapons. Quiet-like. Doesn't sound local."

I set the hammer down, my hand flexing.

"Who?"

She shook her head. "Didn't catch a name. But he's got coin. And he's not just a collector. He's trying to find something."

I frowned, wiping my hands on a cloth. That wasn't good. The last time someone came asking about runes, we ended up waist-deep in a ruin bleeding green.

"Keep an ear out," I said. "If he starts asking about dwarves or hammer-wielders, let me know."

She nodded once. "You think it's Path?"

"Could be. Or someone worse."

I didn't say it aloud, but I was thinking about the book again. The spiral-within-a-circle. About the man who'd dropped that iron ring at my feet, back near the Hollow. Whatever that symbol meant, it wasn't done with me yet.

Vraknheim was just a stop. A place to rest, to earn, to rebuild. But the next step wasn't far off. The others needed better gear. New armour. And more than that— we needed answers.

But first, I had to get us out of debt. One blade at a time.

Elsewhere, in a smoke-drenched chamber tucked behind Vraknheim's eastern slums, Thorin Grelt poured over a page torn from an old trade ledger.

The ink was smudged, but the name was still visible: Thargrimm, D.

Thorin grunted, rubbing a calloused thumb over the entry. He hadn't seen that name in years. But if the rumours were true—if the dwarf with the hammer was really back in the city—then this might be his chance to settle an old debt of his own. One that went far deeper than gold.

He rose, donned his battered cloak, and stepped into the cold, ash-swept street.

Time to see if ghosts really did return to Vraknheim.