They leave to return to their own work. I leave the old hall also. When I make it to the old forge, I slump down against the anvil, breathing heavily. I feel exhausted, and I'm in pain. My leg still hurts quite a lot, especially after I put weight on it. Thin healing chains still wrap my flesh, but I don't think they'll ever be able to heal the injury fully. The jagged scars where bone and metal pierced through my flesh will never fade—they'll join the collection along with those in my eyes from the almergris, the one on my cheek from Vanerak, the burn on my ear from the lava troll, and all the other smaller ones whose origins I can no longer remember.

How many fights have I been in, I wonder? I can't recall. Most of them seem so distant, especially those from before my wandering down to the fort. My imprisonment by Vanerak, too, is like a pane of clouded glass, obscuring the memories behind it.

It's like I've lived too long—but I'm not yet fifty, I don't think. How must it feel to be a hundred, or two hundred? The scars—how many does Halmak have, both on his skin and in his heart?

But this is simply our fate. This is what it is to be a runeknight, to be a dwarf who fights until he is slain. Our only solace, our only escape from the things that have been wrought on us, is the forge.

I pull myself up and examine my armor, placed carefully on the stand a few short-hours ago by some of the initiates. It's a right mess, even worse than I remember it being. There isn't a single plate that hasn't been dented or scratched somehow, and the left shin-plate is totally ruined. I bend down to examine more closely. It's covered in dried blood, both inside and out. My left toe plate is about as bad too. Just looking at it makes the pain in my foot return.

I start with the least damaged plates. The first is from the upper arm. I switch the furnace on at a medium intensity, put in the metal, and wait for it to glow red. Then I take it out and carefully beat it back into shape. Doing this will, I know, weaken the metal. But runes don't take well to being misshapen by the surface they're laid on. I have no choice.

Armor and weapons are at their best when first made. After that, there is only long, slow degradation, either from battle or the elements—salt, water, scratching stone. Even the greatest crafts, after long enough, become rusted, broken, or warped, their runes barely readable. Even true metal, I'm sure, eventually dies.

It's a runeknight's sad job to slow that process for his own armor. I recall, once, Nthazes telling me that repairing was his least favorite kind of work. Much more interesting, he said, to make something new.

I can't imagine him saying the same now. That Nthazes, with such wonder about the upper world, is gone. Perhaps if we manage to kill the darkness he will return. I can hope. But I don't dare to hope too much. After all, once his purpose is lost, what remains for he and his Guardians?

That is still a long way off, I remind myself. If it is ever to come to pass at all. I clear my head and refocus on the repairs. Dent by dent I go, smoothing the metal out, straightening it. Try as I might, I can't get anything perfect. Already annealed, it's hard to work, even for tungsten.

Eventually I come to the broken pieces. Now I must weld. As I trace the breaks with glowing lines of heat, I notice other scars, very fine. Those were the ones Vanerak gave it. Nazak as well, maybe—I can't quite remember.

This armor has done its job many times over. It is the best I have ever made, and yet, it does not have true metal. My next armor will. When I descend into the Shaft once more, I will be clad in true titanium. Upon it will be a masterpiece of the runes of light.

But more important than my armor, which will not, no matter how well I make it, defend much against the darkness's onslaught—more important shall be my weapon. Yet I am at a loss for what to forge. My mace was a failure. Not only did I fail to commit to the runes properly, maces are just a kind of weapon that I have little skill with.

My preferred weapon has always been a spear. I don't know why, exactly. My tired hands pull away from the repair work, and once again I become lost in thought. Why did I choose make a spear in the first place? I struggle to remember—I had made a dagger, I think, and then I welded it to a pole so I might have something better for the examination. Yes, I think that's it.

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It seems so dark, that time. As if obscured by smoke.

Why not make my next weapon a spear as well? Maces and hammers might shine better, but the most effective weapon against the darkness was without a doubt Galar's trident. Light shone in an annihilating cone from its points. Could I not design something similar?

A vision comes into my head: a spear flashing with light and dark, and the light is terrible to behold.

It will be hard to create. The runes especially must be powerful, but I know I can make them so. I still have the gold Runethane Ytith gifted me. I will use that for the runes. Gold and incandesite will form the runes. My preferred combination, though not traditional down here.

I stop my idle dreaming and continue the repair work. I come to a particularly tricky break; my fingers must trace the lines exactly while I hold the fragment of tungsten in place with a pair of tweezers. Sweat forms on my face, drips down into my unkempt beard. Eventually one edge is bonded. I put down the tweezers and push the fragment into place.

Once this piece is done—my breastplate—I must repair the two worst damaged pieces. I start with the toecap. First, I clean off the blood. Thinly red water runs over the floor. I dry it in front of the furnace, then I examine the breaks closely to decide where I ought to weld first.

A few pieces are missing. I curse, but I should have expected this. Likely as not, they're lying up in the gravel of the arena. Will I be given permission to search for them? Probably, but I really don't want to go up into Brightdeep until my armor is fully repaired. As Hayhek warned, I must be careful. In particular, Guildmaster Rothok still has his grudge against us—and it's worse than before, according to Ithis. His dwarves threw themselves at us the most violently after my defeat of Brezakh, and some were slain.

No, I won't go searching for the fragments. I have no choice but to reforge them instead.

I call in some runeknights and order them to find me some tungsten from the storerooms. I don't have any gold on me, but I promise to pay them back double for whatever Nthazes demands for it. When they return, they look somewhat disappointed. The deep dwarves gave them it for free. I laugh, and promise them ten golden wheels each anyway.

I heat the ingots out and hammer them into a flat sheet. Working the notoriously hard tungsten is less challenging than I remember. Now I've hammered out true metal, mundane poses no problems for me.

Should I incorporate some true into it? I pause, then shake my head. This forge won't get nearly hot enough. Simple repairs will have to do.

I cut it, slowly so that only a minimal amount of dust is lost. Now to quench. Unfortunately, I have no salamander's blood and must use water instead. Worse, although I have some gold wire here on the shelves, it's not exactly the same thickness as that I used in Vanerak's realm. But it'll have to do.

Once I finish the making, grafting, and final welding, it is very clear that the armor is weaker than before. The runic power emanating from it is diminished. I equip the plates and pace around the forge three times. I stop, sigh sadly. Before, I felt like an onrushing magma-flow. I still do, but one that rushes a little slower, burns a little cooler. I don't think I could beat any first degree in this. Not Brezakh, and certainly no one as powerful as Vanerak, even in an injured state.

It really is time for new armor. Armor of first-degree quality—armor of true titanium.

I begin to sketch. What kind of armor should this be? I think back to our battle against the darkness. Mobility was key. Once the darkness had you fully in its grasp, there was no escape. So I need the ability to avoid the worst of its blows, and also to quickly leap to the defense of my guildmembers. Yet I also need to factor in some degree of protection. Not just against the darkness, but physical as well—I need to earn more gold for my weapon, which will be my most expensive piece, as well as for new runic ears—I've decided that being unable to speak with my echo-eyes on is too much of a disadvantage for a commander.

Light plates, with fine maille around the joints. That's what I'll make. I'll take full advantage of titanium's lesser weight for this set. The chainmail will be difficult to create, especially since it is going to have true metal in it, but I am confident that I have the time and the skill to do a good job of it.

As for the poem, its many stanzas will relate to light's instant speed, as well as reflectivity. I come up with a few ideas for it as I sketch, though nothing quite good enough to commit to.

I'll think further on the walk back up. I step away from the anvil and stretch. As much as I'm dreading it, it's time to talk once more with the Runethane and see about getting my guild back up in their proper place. It's time for us to return to Brightdeep. This time not as objects of hatred, but as hope—the hope for the city against the darkness below.

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