Chapter 29

Pain bloomed in layers—deep bruises in my ribs, dull throbs in my knuckles, and the headache behind my eyes like someone had hammered nails into my skull.

But I was alive.

The pit-fights hadn't broken me, though they'd come close. Lisett's brews helped, bitter and hot like boiled moss, and now I sat at the edge of the forge's balcony, wrapped in my soot-stained cloak, breathing Vraknheim's bitter midnight air.

The city was a broken crown of stone and snow—towers jagged as a drunk mason's teeth, chimneys puffing black smoke into the sky like the whole place was quietly burning. Rats scrabbled in the alleys. The bell from the nightwatch tower tolled once. Faint, like a heartbeat under the stone.

Behind me, footsteps.

Felix.

He moved like someone trained not to be noticed. Slim, wiry, but not weak. His armour was mismatched leather and riveted chain—patched, stained, and mended by his own hand. He carried two blades: a short sabre worn low on his hip, and a long belt dagger curved like a fang.

"Karvek told me you nearly had your skull cracked," he said, leaning on the rail beside me.

"Nearly," I muttered. "Didn't stick."

Felix had been quiet since we reached the city. He wasn't like Karvek—who barked, argued, fought with heat. Felix listened. Watched. The kind of man who survived ambushes not by strength, but by reading the wind before it turned sharp.

"You're drawing eyes," he said.

"I know."

"Not just from the pits."

I glanced at him. "Meaning?"

"Thorin's people walk like shadows but spend coin like nobles. And Lisett's getting looks at the market. She's been buying components the alchemists don't even keep out front. Blackroots. Nightglass. Stuff that stinks of assassination or miracles."

I rubbed my brow. "We need coin. And I need better armor for you three. I'm not having another Barak Khald."

He was quiet a moment. "You planning to make me a blade, too?"

I looked over at him.

"I still carry Karvek's old one," he said, tapping the hilt of his sabre. "But it's not mine. Never was."

"You want steel that fits your hand?"

"I want steel that matches what we've become."

THREE DAYS LATER — THORIN'S HOLD, EAST VAULT

The building was tucked behind the slum markets, past a dye shop that never shut and an alley that always smelled like vinegar and rot.

Inside, it was all hard corners and locked boxes.

Thorin stood behind a ledger, brow furrowed.

"You sold three," he muttered. "Vek's buyers are circling like gulls. And now I've got a request—from a noble house, no less."

I didn't flinch.

"House Halvryn," he continued. "Old blood. Eastgate nobility. Word is they're building a private guard. Armed discreetly. Want five blades. Matching hilts. High quality—but not flashy."

"Uniforms," I said. "Blades that kill, but don't shine."

Thorin nodded. "And they want them delivered through me, not Vek."

That meant something.

Meant trust.

Or fear.

"They know who made the last ones?"

"They suspect."

"And that doesn't scare them?"

"It does," he said. "But some people want ghosts on their side."

BACK AT THE FORGE 

Lisett's workspace smelled like pine ash and acid now. The windows had been blocked with heavy cloth. Shelves lined with tinctures glimmered in the low light—green, gold, deep violet.

A mortar stone spun under her hand, grinding smokeleaf into powder.

"Painkillers for Felix," she muttered. "Tonic for Doran. Eye-clearing drops for Karvek—he's still got dust in his cornea from the forge burst."

I entered quietly. She looked up, saw the bruises on my jaw, the healing gash by my eye.

"You're bleeding again."

"Just barely."

She crossed the room and dabbed a cloth across my brow, muttering something in Neryllan—old alchemical chant, maybe a curse. Her fingers smelled like burnt resin.

"You're pushing too fast," she said.

"We don't have time to go slow."

Her jaw clenched. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

She said nothing. But I saw it—fear, buried beneath frustration. She didn't want to lose another companion. Maybe not me.

LATER THAT NIGHT — THE INNER MARKET, VRANKNHEIM

Karvek, Felix and I took turns patrolling while Lisett bartered for sealed vials of dryroot sap—powerful catalyst for nerve tonics.

Felix noticed them first.

Two men. One human. One half-elf. Black cloaks. Gray gloves. Clean boots in a filthy part of the city.

Not locals.

Not buyers either.

They weren't watching us. They were watching the forge from a rooftop across the lane.

"Company," Felix muttered.

"Thorin's?" Karvek asked.

"Doubt it," I said. "Thorin doesn't hire amateurs."

I stared at the two men for a long moment. They didn't move. Just watched.

Maybe the noble houses were curious about their new smith.

Or maybe someone from the Path had caught our scent after all.

Either way, things were changing.

Quietly.

Sharpening.

Like a blade being drawn in the dark.

The steel had to sing, but not too loud.

The forge was quiet that morning. I'd risen before dawn, not from nightmares, but from clarity—the kind that strikes only when you know you've stepped into deeper waters than before. The Halvryn order wasn't just blades-for-hire. It was a test. And not just of craftsmanship.

Of control.

No runes. No flourish.

Just perfection.

Five swords, all uniform. Not identical—no blade worth wielding ever truly was—but forged from the same billet batch, folded and tempered in tandem so they'd carry the same soul. Like brothers made in steel.

Varrik cleared a space in the backroom where I could work uninterrupted. Lisett helped sterilize the oil trough with boiled resin—said it kept the impurities down. She wasn't wrong. I'd watched her distill painkillers in less ideal conditions.

Felix and Karvek cleared out the scrap.

I took out my tools.

Each sword began with raw stock: High-carbon spring steel, bought from a dwarven caravan out of the Ironreach valleys. Cost more than we could afford, but Thorin covered the advance—"Don't waste it," he'd said.

I used a modified double-fuller design, shallow, elegant. Blades around 36 inches. Meant for balance, not just reach—enough for a thrust, but with proper weight near the hilt for parrying. No tips sharpened like razors—these weren't dueling blades; they were killers' tools. House guards needed discipline, not flash.

No runes, as requested.

But I added a subtler mark—my signature, same as I'd carved into Karvek's sword and the armor at Barak Khald. A faint triangle inside a crescent, hidden beneath the crossguard plate, engraved deep enough to last generations.

Did I feel pride?

A little.

But mostly tension.

Because this wasn't just about delivery. It was about being seen.

And seen in Vraknheim was dangerous.

Delivery Day — Three Days Later

Thorin arranged it: no names, no paperwork. Just a crate, sealed in black wax, delivered to the Halvryn estate by two of his more reliable men.

Karvek went with them.

Not because I didn't trust Thorin.

Because I trusted Vraknheim less.

Karvek returned with coin.

Not words.

He said the house guards had looked the blades over, and one of them—a veteran, scar above the lip, dead eye—had nodded.

That was it.

But I knew what that nod meant.

"You did your job."

That Night

I stared at the blank steel for a long time before I lit the forge again.

The heat hit me like an old friend. Familiar. Unforgiving.

Felix sat nearby, cross-legged. Silent. Watching.

"You sure?" I asked.

He nodded. "This is the last gear I'll ever need—so it better be the right kind."

We talked.

We didn't talk about the ambush on the Path. Not the screams. Not the way his comrades had died. But I watched his eyes when I asked him what he wanted.

"Light. Quiet. But deadly. I want something that vanishes when I don't need it—but bites deep when I do."

He paused.

"And two blades," he added. "One for each hand. Hidden. Fast."

Firstly Twin Gauntlet Blades Modelled after retractable assassins' bracers, but practical. Each fitted with a bone-hinged internal release. No magic. Just dwarven mechanics. Press the heel of the palm against a surface—shkkt—blade releases. Press again—blade retracts. The steel is high-carbon, with a dull matte finish to avoid glare. The outer housing is reinforced leather-and-mail to double as forearm guards. I etched faint runes near the base of each blade—"Marn ek Val"—"Strike from Silence" in Old Khazran script. Not enough to glow. Just enough to mean something. After that Throwing Knives six in total. Forged narrow and straight. Full tang, wrapped in linen grip. Balanced for mid-range, five to fifteen strides. I built a harness for his thigh and lower back. Silent draw, zero jingle. Lastly, Zweihander (Greatsword) was the crown jewel. A two-handed blade, yes—but only just. I kept the blade narrow, flared slightly toward the tip to add cutting power without dragging in the sheath. The crossguard was short, curved slightly back. Full-length was around 4.2 feet—not enough to slow movement, but enough to punch through heavy armour. I hollow-ground the centre to drop the weight without losing integrity. The grip: black-stained ashwood core with a tight steel-wire wrap.

I forged the final rune beneath the guard plate:

"Karth Zul"—"To End What Hunts Me."

I didn't ask what he'd use it on.

Some things don't need to be said.

The forge never lies.

It doesn't care what name you carry, or how many men you've killed. It doesn't judge your sins or weigh your worth. It just takes what you give it—heat, muscle, patience—and gives you steel in return.

That night, I worked alone.

The others had turned in. Karvek was snoring somewhere near the wall-stove, boots still on. Lisett was upstairs, grinding down ashbark or boiling some foul-smelling thing in a copper pot. Felix, as usual, had vanished into the city. Ghost-like. Watching, listening, blending into cracks between stones no one else saw.

I had no illusions about why he asked for the armour.

He wasn't looking for glory. Not for protection either. No, Felix wanted what most men too stubborn to die truly crave—an edge.

Not one you see. One you feel, too late.

I stoked the forge with care, feeding it barkless pine and blackwood offcuts soaked in resin. The flames burned hot but low, the colour of molten gold and soot. Perfect for leather curing and dye setting—not too much flare. No wasted heat.

Steel armour was out of the question.

Felix wasn't a wall to stand behind. He was the whisper between breaths. The flicker in your periphery before the world went dark.

So I started with hide.

A double-tanned sheet of ox leather, boiled in resin, hammered flat under a press stone I'd rigged from Varrik's anvil weight. Once it cooled, I soaked it again—this time in a mix Lisett brewed from ashroot and wax, stiffening it to near-ceramic hardness without killing its flexibility.

While that cured, I riveted a thin mail lining—matte-black, hand-riveted rings flattened with a war hammer. Quiet. Didn't reflect a single spark. Just enough to stop a knife if it kissed his ribs.

I stitched the brigandine by hand. Reinforced shoulders with layered wool and flat hides. Laced the sides with silent cord. Tight enough to hold, loose enough to breathe. No flared ridges. No cape flourishes. Just raw, focused design.

I built the arms to integrate the hidden gauntlet blades I'd forged days earlier. Each gauntlet wrapped with boiled leather and fitted with a hand-latched retraction system. Nothing fancy—no magic, no springs. Just a thumb catch and a release bar rigged beneath the wrist.

One slam of the palm, and the blades shkkt out like silver breath.

Another press—shkkt back in.

Practical. Lethal.

Perfect.

It took me two nights to finish the full set. I didn't sleep much. Didn't want to. The work felt pure—clean. Like the forge remembered what it was before the Path came.

I wrapped the greatsword last.

It hung on a wall rack, cloth-wrapped, the hilt bound in black-stained ashwood and oil-rubbed linen. Balanced for his build. Light for its size, but it still sang when I slid it free.

I had etched the final rune beneath the crossguard, subtle and deep.

"Karth Zul" — To End What Hunts Me.

When I handed Felix the armor the next morning, he didn't speak. Just ran his fingers over the seams. Checked the weight of the gauntlets. Felt the coat's balance.

I didn't expect a thank you.

But he paused, touching the burn-marked rune I'd carved on the inside of the chestguard.

"Thulm Varrek"—Let the Dead See Me Last.

He didn't say anything.

Just nodded once. Like a man signing the final page of a book he'd already lived.

Then he was gone. Up the stairs. Quiet as ever.

Karvek grunted from behind the forge wall.

"You forge him armor like that, you might as well start calling him 'ghost.'"

I didn't look up.

"He's earned it."

The forge was quiet again.

But my hands weren't done.

Not yet.

I still owed Lisett protection.

Karvek, too.

And with the nobles sniffing at our blades, and watchers lurking across rooftops, I had the feeling our time in Vraknheim was running short.

Steel could only buy so much silence.

But if I was going to send my people back out into the dark—

I'd damn well make sure they walked like gods.