As one, the three suddenly draw back. Their eyes widen. Their hands go to their weapons, as if they're afraid the runes will take to life and fly out at them.

"Of darkness?" says Hayhek. "Zathar—why?"

I grimace. "I suppose I should be honest with you. My runes do not always form in the way I want them to. I'm not a master of this power like the First Runeforger was. Not yet."

"So you didn't make them on purpose?"

"Yes—but also no."

"What do you mean?"

"I desired to write the concepts of shadow, and darkness, to discuss them being driven back. They take the place of enemies."

"Couldn't you have found some other way to represent an enemy?"

"Perhaps," I admit. "But it's not so easy, when you're burning alive. And these runes of darkness have power in them that I don't think I could have created just from negating words for light."

"What kind of power?" asks Ugyok. "Similar to that below?"

"No! No, nothing like that. Below here is a sorcerer. It does not use dwarvish magic, but its own."

"It's still the power of shadow, though," says Hayhek. "Zathar—can you not remake this?"

I shake my head. "I will not. Cannot. It'd be a risk to my life. Any replacement craft would come out worse, and I'd get my head staved in."

"You don't know that," says Rtayor. "It might come out better."

"No. I've attempted similar before, with my amulet. Remaking it won't work."

The three look at each other.

"There's no issue," I say. "Why shouldn't a poem about the victory of light over shadow use runes of shadow? As long as I don't create some weapon of lightlessness—though such a thing could be useful in other circumstances, perhaps."

Ugyok nods. "I agree. There's no such thing as an evil rune. It's what you do with your power that determines your worth."

"I agree also," says Rtayor.

"Even so," says Hayhek, "this could lead to trouble. Runes of darkness—surely you can see that others down here might frown on them. They could be used as evidence to say we're up to no good. We've started to arouse jealousy, you know. Some of those from other guilds have been giving us nasty looks."

"Then we'll just have to prove our strength in the service of the Runethane and the fort."

"We ought not to publish these."

"We have to. Light casts shadow—that's inevitable. The runes of darkness will accentuate our poems, sharpen the contrast between good and evil in them. If we don't use them, we're crippling ourselves."

"Very well. But only senior members can access them. Those we can trust best. We won't sell to those outside the guild, either."

I nod. "I'll accept that, for now. Start work right away. I'll give you a list of runes from another craft I made, too."

"Understood."

"And I request that you work on weapons of light once this is done. Nthazes needs reinforcements—they just lost another. No one will dare criticize us if we're helping against the deep darkness, no matter what runes we use."

"Hopefully not. Hopefully."

I stand up. "Now, is there anything else? Once I've had my beers, I'll be going back right away with my cut of gold."

"So soon?" says Rtayor. "Shouldn't you take a look at the finances?"

"I trust you with those sorts of things. My job is forging, isn't it? Of runes."

"Very true," says Ugyok. "But there is just one more thing, actually."

"What is it?"

"Your helm is very fine, but about the visor—where are you meant to see out of?"

I smile. "I'll show you soon enough."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

After some quality time spent with various guildmembers—tale-swapping with the older ones, dispensing forging advice to the younger ones, all made smooth with copious amounts of beer—Hayhek hands me a fresh sack of gold and it's back to Brightdeep to buy more supplies.

As soon as I enter the city, I start to understand what Hayhek was saying about nasty looks. Quite a few runeknights, most of them from the Red Anvil guild, step wide to avoid me as I walk through the forging district. Others glare suspiciously. I hear muttered curses from all around. Whenever I stop to pore over goods, I can always feel the gazes of nearby runeknights raking my armor.

Are these really new runes? That's what they're thinking to themselves. Are they really new runes affixed to his armor? Can it be true, or is Zathar a liar as well as a traitor?

We've made rivals. Perhaps many rivals, and certainly some strong ones. Most of our new members are not initiates and tenth-degrees, but came from other guilds. I talked to a few of these over drinks. Some worry about what revenge might be taken against them. Even though they've broken no laws in their pursuit of power, they have broken deep bonds. And some guildmasters are jealous types.

I hold Life-Ripper close to me, wary of any attack. I doubt anyone will try anything in the open—but then again, who knows?

Fortunately, the worst I get is a shoulder-barge, and then it's back down to the forge with my gems, titanium, and cutting-equipment.

It's time to forge the next piece of my armor—it's finally time to create the echo-eyes. That's what I'll call them. Not ear-eyes, but echo-eyes. They will concentrate sound according to the principal runic ears are based on, and convert it to light in a similar way to how Halax's crafts turned heat to vision.

I find the ears I created before and look over them. They're not quite right. The shape of my helmet changed subtly over iterations, and these first attempts won't fit. And, of course, they contain no true metal. All my crafts from now on must contain true metal. That's what it means to create something worthy of second or first degree.

I scrape the old crafts into silver mist and white sparks with my mining-knife, then scrape down many heavy ingots of titanium as well. I divide the true metal grains evenly and melt them into two beads which I set aside.

Now to cut the diamonds. I lay them out, all twenty of them. They don't look like diamonds at all, but dusty fragments of white quartz. The shopkeeper assured me that they were diamonds, though, and diamonds with the potential to be cut into gems of the highest grade.

I told him that if they weren't, I'd have his head, and after that he kindly offered to sign an extra guarantee.

I set up my polishing equipment. This item, funnily enough, was more expensive than the diamonds themselves were. It's a massive disc of rough stone, apparently dug up from a cavern in one of the further realms from Allabrast. No one knows how it was made—perhaps, I guess, by the magic of masons in times before the First Runeforger. When spun in the contraption it's set into, it'll shape diamond as easily as a grater can shape a block of cheese. I made sure to get a guarantee about this as well.

I sit before it and place my foot on the pedal. I push, pull up, push down again—gears whir. The stone spins, faster and faster until it's a soft blur. Yes, I think this will cut them just fine, no tricky chiseling needed.

For a sad moment, I'm reminded of Guthah. Where has he gone to? I haven't seen him since the battle up in the caverns. Probably he's left this realm already, unable to stand the sight of me. Probably, I'll never see him again. Fair enough—I failed him. All I can do to make up for that is try not to fail those relying on me this time.

Before I cut the diamonds, I need to plan out exactly how. I take up a lens and examine them closely, considering carefully the particular flaws and shapes of each. Unfortunately, it seems that I won't be able to cut them all into the same shape. I wanted each to be a square cushion-cut, but four of them have minor flaws that make that shape impossible.

Four oval-cuts, sixteen cushion-cuts. I'll have to adjust the design of the ears to accommodate, and I'll have to think carefully about the runic flows when I draft the poem, too. I suppose it can't be helped—I am not rich beyond measure, after all, simply rich.

With the cuts decided, I trace along each diamond with a specially designed pen. Black lines chart out the course my grinding will take. I am patient, though, and won't dive into cutting them right away. I have a small bag of garnets to practice on first.

I push on the pedal, in and out, and the wheel spins up, whining slightly. I affix a garnet to the end of a curved rod that came with the contraption. Very gently, I touch gem to wheel. It bounces up suddenly with a screech. I examine the garnet and see that I've made a large section flat already—a section I did not intend to make flat.

Well, this is only a test. I try again, grasping the rod more firmly. It doesn't bounce up, and I manage to carve a little more accurately. I try again, and it bounces up like the first time. I grunt in frustration.

Over the next short-hour, I shape a dozen garnets a dozen different ways. Glittering orange dust fills the air, and the high whine of the machine needles my ears. My fingers start to tingle from the vibration, and my nails and teeth begin to ache. At first, these sensations bother me, but I get used to them. It's no worse than the burn in my arms and shoulders that hammering always brings forth.

My first six attempts are wonky messes, certainly not worthy to be called gems, but my next six come together nicely. My last is almost perfect. Almost, but not quite. I take a rest, then shape the other twelve. The last three I consider perfect—or at least as perfect as I'll ever be able to make gems: two fiery squares, and one fiery oval, looking like flames crystallized and controlled.

I'm confident enough to cut the diamonds now. I affix one to the rod and nervously lower it toward the spinning disc. I pull back—I must still my nerves. You don't hammer nervously, and you don't cut gems nervously either.

I push it to the disc with confidence. Dust like a thousand stars bursts into the air. I pull up and examine—no mistakes yet. I push it down again, several more times. I hit every facet with great accuracy. Grinning widely, I examine it under the lens. It's perfect. Its greater hardness has actually made it slightly easier to shape than the garnets.

The next ones go just as well—though one ends up cracking apart when the wheel grinds against some hidden flaw. I curse loudly, but I still have enough funds to purchase one more. After a quick trip back up to Brightdeep, I have my replacement. I cut it, then lay the completed gems out before me on the anvil. They glitter brilliantly in the flame-light.

It's a job well done. This whole task is going far better than creating my helm did. Well, so far, at least. It's time to work the true titanium again, and this time, I'm going to be creating a far more complex shape.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.