Brezakh knocks on the door to his Runethane's private quarters. There is no reply, but he opens it and steps in anyway.

"The rumors were true, my Runethane."

"Hmm? What rumors?" Halmak does not look up.

The Runethane is deep in study of Bezethast runes, his face lit scarlet by the lantern fixed to his great slab of a desk. He frowns, turns the page. He's been through this tome many times before, but each time he re-reads it, he always hits upon some new inspiration. Bezethast script is truly a wonder.

"The ones about Zathar Once-Traitor beginning a guild," says Brezakh. "Elder Yulethd confirmed it to me."

"And so what?"

"I made sure their loan for a guildhall was denied, but it hasn't stopped them. They've set up in a cave about half an hour from the city borders."

Runethane Halmak throws down his tome of runes onto the floor beside his desk. It makes a loud thud. He stands up, glaring violently.

"You did what?" he snaps.

"I had their loan denied," Brezakh says coolly. "They are a threat, my Runethane."

"I thought I told you to ignore them."

"You told me to stop bothering you by talking about them. You never forbade me from taking action against them. And as an elder of the guild, I have the authority to decide who gets to borrow from what funds. I have not broken any laws."

"You are not to interfere further, Brezakh. Do I make myself clear? Zathar may be mad—and he is not unique in this—but he has done no wrong."

"I will not break the law to interfere, my Runethane. But in the interests of you and our new realm, I cannot stand idle." He clenches his fists. "I cannot!"

"What in hell is your problem?"

"Have I not told you? Several times? He is a liar, a deceiver."

"He was found innocent."

"Not about the dragon—that's all past. These claims of false runeforging—you know it is they that worry me."

Halmak scowls. "Why? They will be shown to be false in time. There will be a scandal, but nothing disastrous. Only a very few believe him."

"More than a hundred."

"A drop in the bucket. And have you considered the possibility, my elder, that by interfering, all you're doing is giving his claims legitimacy?"

"I'm crushing them at their root."

"Don't make me repeat myself: do not take action against him."

"Like I said, I will break no laws. But equally, I cannot ignore him entirely."

"Oh, for goodness' sake! He's a second-degree."

"A second-degree who fought Runethane Vanerak and still lives. Who else has that claim? Runethane Broderick's first-degrees, perhaps—and Vanerak is far stronger now."

"You call Zathar a liar, and now you trust his tale of fighting a Runethane?"

"You trusted it too."

"To an extent."

"In any case," continues Brezakh, "he will start to create more true metal soon. He will rise to first—that is inevitable. After that, his ambitions will grow further. I can see it in his eyes. He's obsessed with himself. He believes he's been chosen, blessed, by the Runegods or something greater."

"That is speculation formed from uncontrolled emotion. Control yourself, Brezakh. You are one of our elders."

"It is a conclusion formed from experience and observation, my Runethane. He's dangerous. Mark my words as if they are runes in metal."

Runethane Halmak throws his hands up in exasperation, slams them back down on his desk. He sighs. He knows he shouldn't permit any runeknight to talk to him so rudely, to disobey him, but Elder Brezakh is his strongest warrior and his most trusted friend. The gap between the two in terms of power is not so large, either. The Runethane may have more true metal in his stores, but Brezakh is a genius with metallurgy. He makes better use with what he has than any other runeknight Halmak has yet commanded.

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"Fine! Do what you will. If you want to have a competition with him, Red Anvil against so-called runeforger, fine. Just don't embarrass us, and don't kill anyone. Who knows? Maybe it'll make the realm stronger. Provide extra impetus for some to improve their equipment."

"I do not think so. They will be easily crushed."

"Very well, very well. If you say so."

Halmak, irritated, turns back to his studies. He has more pressing concerns than one mad, delusional fraction-degree. It seems that Runeking Uthrarzak has been cleaning up what remains of Halajatbast's kingdom rather faster than anticipated, and Runeking Ulrike shows no sign of leaving his forging trance. If anything, he's sunk into it even deeper.

Brezakh turns and leaves his Runethane's chambers, fury raging in his heart. How dare this upstart make such claims, deceive so many? How dare he try and throw this beautiful realm into chaos right under Runethane Halmak's nose? How dare he take advantage of their Runethane's kindness? Did he learn nothing from the black dragon and his subsequent trial? Nothing at all?

Apparently not. But the lesson Brezakh is about to teach—it will be imprinted with force unforgettable.

The guild has been founded, but I know it'll be a while until the promised profits start to flood in. In the meantime, I study light. Nearly every hour is spent in Brightdeep, staring into some lantern or another. The light begins to burn my eyes, which ache even in the darkness while I'm resting them. The black scars through the centers of my pupils grow blacker by the long-hour.

But just studying light is not the creation of runes. I ache to craft, and decide that even without gems, there is something of worth I can create.

Using a portion of Runethane Halmak's reward, I purchase a small length of titanium of very high purity, a thin length of platinum wire, and some hytrigite. I also acquire a large stock of crimson jammy for the furnace.

It's time to craft—I can't hold back any longer. I insert the titanium into the furnace, turn on the heat. The sharp and intoxicating scent of the crimson jammy fuel fills the air. I breath it in deep. My mind focuses. The air around the furnace shimmers with heat. As soon as the titanium has reached the correct hue, I draw it out and place it on the anvil.

Strike! The sound of metal on metal rings out. Again, again and again! It is like music.

But this music, which I have focused on so deeply during my previous forgings, pales in comparison to the visual spectacle that I can now appreciate.

The sparks dance, and their dance is a pattern created by the heat-currents of the air. Each minuscule metal fragment shines slightly differently, and is a slightly different shape, and this also affects the dance. Their scintillating light reflects on the leather of my gloves, illuminating the imprints of scales even into the recesses between each. The overall glow, cast by the glowing titanium bar, slowly shifts and decreases as my hammer-strikes continue to rain down.

Truly, this is light as I have never appreciated it before. Each time I have to place the metal back into the furnace, and the forge goes dark, I cannot help but feel sad.

Strike after strike, I continue. My arm moves easily into its old rhythms. My cheek-scar stings as sweat runs into it, but I ignore the sensation. Slowly, my craft is taking shape. The metal extends and curves, becomes a knife. I shape a handle, using a smaller hammer to indent in where my fingers will go.

Everything I do by feel and instinct. I know the shape of my hands well-enough and do not need to make complex measurements. The blade I make the same shape as I remember; it has no stabbing point; its sole purpose is to scrape chaff from truth.

This knife—it is to be my new tool to extract the true metal. The mining tool, the base pickaxe, yet far beyond that also.

Never do I eat nor sleep until my throat and mouth are cracked and my belly like a sucking void. Then, I'll limp down to the eating hall and take a few bites, down a couple skins of whatever I can find. None of the deep dwarves are ever there—I don't stop to worry about this.

For sleep, I take my naps next to the anvil near to the warmth of the furnace. Then, as soon as I awaken, it's back to forging.

Since I cannot judge the finer details of the craft with no runic ears, I must rely on my eyes instead. I observe the form of the light and how its reflected hues play across the anvil and attempt to use this to plan my strikes. But it's tricky work. My ears, when augmented, are far more sensitive than my injured, naked eyes are. Each time I run my bare hands over the cooled metal, I can't help but feel that everything's slightly the wrong shape.

I persist. Time has no meaning, I remind myself. I'll hammer away until the shape is perfect, no matter how many long-hours it may take.

After many sleeps, I finally come to a point where I can improve upon the knife no further. I sigh, hold it up to the bright braziers, turn it over and around. Good enough, I think bitterly. It's good enough. A third-degree quality craft at best, but there's still hope. My runes should elevate it. I think I understand light enough that the poem I make will be a brilliant one.

One hearty meal and a heartier drink of beer later, I am in the right frame of mind to begin. First, to prepare the hytrigite. Once this task was nigh impossible for me, yet now, heating the blue spheres to the correct temperature and hammering them into sheets of bright cyan glass is simple. I don't need to calculate the exactly respectful amount of force in each strike—as soon as my hammer makes contact, the hytrigite knows what sort of runeknight wishes to work it.

I ready a sharp knife and some clippers. I bring my unadorned craft a little closer. Metal, tools and reagent are ready, yet I have no idea what I'm going to write. I have no runes to write down yet, of course. I must compose entirely while in the depths of the magma sea.

I shut my eyes and will the power to take me. Heat crushes down around me. I gasp—or whatever the bodiless equivalent is. I sense the sphere ahead of me, a looming edifice of aeon-ancient power.

Light reveals truth—with this thought in mind, I begin.

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