I return to the forge, shivering from the chill. I had my visor up while Alae performed her spell, so the water has run down and soaked me to the skin through my padded clothes. I turn on the anvil to a low heat, strip down, and spread my clothes in it. I squeeze water from my beard while I wait for them to dry. It splashes on the stone.

When I put my clothes back on, they are nicely warm, yet they cannot quite heat me through. Unease remains in me: how effective will this spell be against the darkness? More to the point, how will the Runethane react to the idea that a human is going to join our expedition? Will he reject her, and deny us a weapon against the darkness? It is possible. Especially if she lets slip that it was my runeforging that inspired her spell's form.

He might make the same mistake Runethane Yurok made: to put pride over good sense. Even if Halmak is fair, he is still stubborn.

I shake my head. All there is to do is forge. That's how it's always been. If I create a powerful enough weapon and strong enough armor, the expedition will succeed. I have to believe this. And I have to trust in the others' forging too. Nthazes will make something truly bright—and the work of the dwarves of the Runic League will be masterful too.

I have to believe this.

I take quick meal in the eating hall and check up on the several dwarves of the Runic League—the darkness is preparing for another surge, they say, but they believe they can handle it. I tell them that I trust so too, that I am sure they'll fight well, and then make sure to order one to take some food to Alae. She really was too gaunt.

This all passes in a rush. Now I'm back in the forge with my mining-knife in my hand, feeling that I never even left. Have I really not returned here since my duel? These surroundings seem too familiar for this to be the case, but, after all, this is my true home: the forge. There is nothing more familiar.

The first ingot shivers as I touch the mining knife to it. They're of the highest purity titanium available here in Brightdeep and, as always, I'm saddened by the knowledge that I must destroy them—though not as much as I used to be. No longer do I weep tears of shame while I perform the task.

The familiar screech of evaporating metal fills my ears. Silver smoke boils over the anvil. White sparks fall and I collect them. Once the ingot is gone, I weigh them. They come out to but two grams. Now for the next ingot. Another two grams. The next, and the next yield the same. The one after yields a little less, the next a little more.

I wonder briefly at why, but can come up with no explanation. I continue. The bending of the heavily laden shelves grows less pronounced. The number of grains in the weighing-cup increases. Twenty grams, thirty. Fifty, and finally a hundred.

I swirl the cup, watch them glint. Hundreds of Zathars look back up at me, their expressions varied images of madness. My facial features are distorted wildly. I grimace, and the copies grimace back.

This is still not enough material. From Runethane Halmak's words to me before the duel, I now understand that within first-degree there are many degrees: fraction, quarter, half and more. Up to full at least, and then perhaps beyond.

A full suit of steel weighs around twenty kilograms. Titanium is half as heavy, so about ten should be enough to cover me. I need a kilogram of true metal, then, to be able to call myself a respectable kind of fraction degree—a one tenth degree. I don't think anyone would count anything less as being worthy of first.

I remember the calculation I made back in Vanerak's realm—for a weapon of a kilo and a half, I would need to destroy a full ton of mundane metal. For the kilogram I need to be a one-tenth degree, then, I'll need a bit under that. A bit under a ton, however, is still a truly massive amount of metal.

Can I afford it? I think that I can, now. Money continues to flow in Brightdeep. Despite Runethane Halmak's seclusion, his elders continue to put out jobs for clearing and guarding, as do many other organizations of dwarves—farmers, caravaners, tanners, gem-finders, masons.

So, I continue to scrape down the ingots. When I march in front of the Runic League down to the depths, I must be clad in armor that is unmistakably of first-degree quality.

The silver smoke cloaking the anvil becomes a silver haze throughout the whole forge. The screeching continues to echo in my ears even when I still my knife. But no matter how much pain the metal feels, no matter how choking its death-gasps become, I must get to the true substance. Without it, the Runic League cannot succeed.

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Two hundred grams. Three. I'm nearly out of metal now. This will have to do for my first few crafts—starting with the runic ears.

They will be of the traditional sort. I let my pride get the better of me with the echo-eyes—I did not need to make something so unique. Sometimes it is best to go with a design that is traditional and reliable. It was foolish of me to try and one-up Nthazes.

Once I finalize the sketches and calculations, I prepare the forge, readying the smoke-coals in the furnace and the leather pipe leading out the door. I secure the mask to my face and pick up my helmet and echo-eyes.

I turn them over in my hands, feeling sorry for them. They are going to be used to make their replacement. But in a way, that's every craft's duty. Their maker uses them in pursuit of more gold, more materials, better runes. Sorrow is the wrong emotion here. I should be feeling pride in them instead; they served their task well. They won me the duel.

I put the first of two ingots of mundane titanium into the furnace and switch it on. Heat and smoke billow forth. Through it, the shades of texture are clear in blue and green.

I measure out fifty grams of true metal. When the mundane ingot is the yellow of hot flame, I pull it out, hammer an indent into it, and pour in the grains. They start to melt, bubble. I am a little surprised to notice that the dozens of reflections remain visible to me. Though I cannot see their light, they are strangely indented in texture. A hundred helmeted dwarves stare back at me.

All of a sudden, they resolve into one bead, its features distorted grossly. Its metallic eyes stare up at me with accusation.

I cry out and hammer hard. The green-smooth ingot shimmers and brightens. The texture on its surface seems to disappear, and for a moment the room around is reflected as if in mirror. I step back, fearing some disaster, yet none comes. Its heat fades.

I take a cautious step forward, hammer raised. Can I begin in earnest yet? When I strike again, is it going to shatter? Yet to make, I must strike. Gently, or with force?

With force! I must bend the metal to my will. I aim, bring the hammer down violently. The metal flattens, odd parts bulging out. I strike once more, angling more carefully this time, yet still the metal moves unpredictably. It's refusing to obey me. It's fighting me!

Forging is always a battle. I continue the contest, striking as best I can. I calculate, choosing carefully how much force to exert and where. The true titanium defies my logic. At first it does the opposite of what I expect, and then when I catch on to this, and begin to strike opposite to how I would normally, it starts to disobey in different ways. It is impossible to predict.

Yet for all the true titanium's tricks, it is still metal. The more I beat on it, the flatter it becomes. It cannot resist my will, only delay it, and delays mean very little to me. Slowly it comes into shape, into the distinctive half-bowl that most of the dwarves of the deep make their ears.

It becomes time for the carefully-calculated whorls and creases. This proves to be the main part of the battle, the bloody, chaotic melee that always ensues after the first few ordered clashes, when all the generals' carefully ordered plans come to waste. This is my element, though.

I cease trying to calculate and predict, and instead let my instincts guide me. They serve me well. Millimeter by millimeter, the true titanium caves to my desire. The shape I designed becomes apparent on the anvil. Now for the final smoothing. I tap with firm gentleness, over and over again, and the blue of the metal turns to magenta.

One ear done—and now for the other. It proves more difficult, for the titanium seems to sense my will, and refuses to become a copy of its sister beside it. Yet difficulty just means time, and again, time proves to be no challenge. My skill and patience are not pushed. I do not grow frustrated.

Done. I lay both ears next to each other for comparison. There seems to be no difference my echo-eyes can make out. I remove my helm and examine with my eyes of flesh. Again, no difference. Their shades are identical also.

But what about within the metal? I raise the crafts up, one to each eye, frowning. There must be invisible flaws. If not on the surface, then within. And each half of this craft will contain different flaws, naturally. I cannot help but feel vexed at this realization, yet how could such unseeable imperfections ever be remedied? Surely such precision is impossible.

All the same, if such a feat of total perfection could be accomplished, the power of the craft would increase a thousandfold. And not just this craft. I imagine a weapon where the very arrangement of the tiny crystals that all metal is made from, is crafted to reflect the theme of the poem. The wire of the runes could be formed differently too, then twisted with far greater precision than fingers of bone, muscles and skin can manage—or at least, than my fingers can manage, dexterous and experienced though they be.

I put down the twin crafts. They appear to be masterworks, yet still they could be made better. My technique with the hammer is expert, yet there must be something more I could do.

True metal cannot be the only secret to the skill of Runethanes and Runekings. There is still too much beyond my understanding. I can feel this. There must exist techniques that only the oldest and most expert runeknights could ever hope to grasp. The growing of crystals like Runeking Ulrike's eyes, the polishing of Vanerak's hideous mirror-mask, and the secret behind the Red Anvil that gives Halmak's weapons and armor their power. These are such techniques, but how to develop such abilities, I cannot fathom.

It's frustrating. Although I may ignore time, it still exists. Right now, I can only continue to forge how I know and hope this is enough.

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