In the brief moment I'm able to keep my eyes open, before the blinding line of light forces me to shut them, I see everything I need to, and understand exactly what alterations have been wrought to my original design.

From the tip of the glaive a thin white line extends, cutting the room in half. It is fully concentrated; very little ambiance glow from it. The metal around where it originates from is pale silver in color, but the hue of the metal dulls and darkens down the blade. Where it joins to the haft, the metal is the color of plain titanium.

And then the haft is like a line of dark, as dark as the scars in my eyes. The runes, telling of a world of eternal darkness, where all light has long been driven out and destroyed, hunger to take in and devour even more light.

Apart from the thin line proceeding from the blade, there was no light in the forge. The haft had taken it in.

Shading my brow, I dare to open my eyes again, just to confirm what I glimpsed. There was no illusion; the haft has taken nearly all light from the forge. Only the glow of the smoldering furnace remains visible, and even that has been dimmed greatly. The only illumination is the line of light from the blade.

I groan, lay the weapon down, and sit down with my back to the anvil. The heavy steel is cold and hard against my back. What is this thing? What is its purpose? Yes, it will surely slice through the voids that reach for us. But it will also render those around me defenseless. Their weapons will be dimmed to mere torches; they will become easy prey for the sorcerer's magics.

Dare I even show this to my guild? What will they say? Many will think I've gone mad. Some may begin to suspect that Brezakh was right, I'm sure—that I truly am in league with the darkness. I can be sure of just one thing—very few will dare to follow me down to the battle.

I should hide this thing. Wrap it in heavy cloth and bury it in the stone. I can wait, take in more profits. Eventually I can make something else, something I'll be proud to show my guild.

But if I take that course of action, won't I just be repeating the error I made with my mace of light? I rejected darkness there and my weapon, weakened by my lack of resolve, broke in the vital moment. Dark and light together—that's the strength of this script, and my glaive is the apotheosis of this theme. It is strong to the extreme!

Yet strength, aimed in the wrong direction, applied in the wrong way, results in the same consequence as weakness—defeat. My original battle-plans—and doubtless Runethane Halmak's plans too—have been thrown completely awry

I spend a long time sitting here against the anvil, thinking deeply about how to apply the strength of my weapon in a way that will result in victory, but come up with nothing.

My stomach begins to groan. My throat becomes dry as paper. My head begins to ache, especially behind my eyes as I stare into the darkened floor. I need to eat and drink—and then return to the guild as promised. I have to tell them something.

What to do with my weapon, though? Do I really dare show it to them? I can't—can't! Shall I conceal it here? I force myself to get up and find some light-obscuring gauzes, throw them over, but they have no effect on both the light and the darkness. The line pierces right through them, and the black haft continues to pull in and destroy in the room's illumination regardless. The braziers' flames are ghostly.

I suppose I could conceal it under the tiles—but how desperate am I getting? Am I really going to mine just to hide my craft? I become angry at myself. I am insulting my work—insulting the very efforts of my guild! I did not earn the gold for its creation on my own, after all. My funds were gained by the hard work of my followers.

They trusted in me to create something powerful. Thus, I must show them it. Show them what their trust has resulted in. Then I'll have to persuade them that this weapon will lead us to victory. There must be some words I can find to convince them. Am I not a poet?

But, somehow, even if I succeed with my own guild, I don't think I'll be able to persuade the Runethane, nor Nthazes.

I cannot bring myself to imagine how they will react—especially the latter.

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After a meal and too much ale—to give myself courage and free-flowing thought—I leave the forge.

The moment I enter Runethane Yurok's old hall, the light beyond my shut eyelids abruptly dims. I panic for a second, thinking the darkness has come; I slash wildly. The light dims further.

Yet no cold comes upon me. I pause my slashing. This is not the darkness, just a mere lack of light. I open my eyes and see that the line of light from the glaive has dimmed to nearly nothing. I stare at the dull metal, aghast. My breath has stopped in my throat. What has happened?

Then I realize. The nature of my glaive's power is revealed to me—its deeper nature.

Quickly I return to the forge. The flames in the braziers darken once again, becoming almost invisible, tongues of translucent gray-red. The line of light from my blade blazes back to glory. Yes—I see what is going on. I read down the haft, turning it carefully, taking in each and every dark rune.

As the world of darkness consumes more light, becomes ever more destructive, the cave of last-light must fight all the harder. This is not stated directly, but the implication is clear. Neither can ever attain victory—thus, the stronger the darkness becomes, and the more light it erases, the brighter the light must blaze.

In effect, ambient light becomes fuel for the weapon. That's its duality—light is not destroyed, just redirected. Unlike the maces of Nthazes and his dwarves, and of every other weapon of light, my weapon brings no new light into the world. It just changes the balance.

A vision comes to me of the guild at my back, the light of nearly a hundred weapons redirected into a single cutting beam. It'll slice the darkness into pieces!

Yet who would agree to give their weapon's power to another, even to their guildmaster? Would I not be using their crafts by doing such an act?

I drink some more ale, exit the forge again. I now know exactly what I am going to say to them. I know exactly what our plan must be.

I rush up the tunnels, taking care not to use the main passageways. The guardians can't see this, not yet. Not until I have my guild behind me, until I know that I can at least convince someone that this weapon holds the potential for victory.

Eventually I come to the stairs up, and my ascent is a charge, my own footsteps deafening in my runic ears. The sound of my panicked breathing and wheezing makes it hard to make out the shape of the walls around me, or perhaps this difficulty is a result of my drunkenness.

Brightdeep opens up around me. Dwarves cry out in shock—whether from light or darkness, I cannot tell. Paying no attention to them, I run down the street. It clears at my advance, and the crowds' movement is accompanied by further screams of panic and pain. I hope I have not blinded anyone.

"Stop there!" someone shouts. By the shape of her armor, she might be one of the Red Anvil guild. "You, Zathar, halt!"

I slow down a fraction, just so I can talk. "I cannot halt!" I shout. "But I am not trying to flee the realm. Tell the Runethane about my craft freely. I've made nothing evil."

She protests, but I continue to run. I make it down the tunnels, turn at the right place. I slow down, breathe deep. My entrance must be dignified.

"Guildmaster?" a guard says when I reach the gate. He and his partner draw their weapons and cross them before the guild entrance.

"Let me through," I demand. "There's no time for passwords. You know only I could make a craft like this. Look at the runes."

They do not dare to disobey. They pull away their weapons and push open the gate. Eyes still shut tightly, I stride on through into the guildhall.

Cries of shock and horror greet me in place of the usual cheers. The ranks part as I walk through them to the dais. My runeknights crash into each other in their panic to avoid the dark and the light. It's a shameful display, yet can I blame them for their fear? Whatever kind of craft they've been expecting, this is not it. Not by a thousand miles.

I reach the first step of the dais. Before it stand my most trusted runeknights.

"Zathar?" whispers Hayhek. "What is this?"

"Silence, all of you!" Ithis commands the ranks. "Dwarves of the Runic League, silence! You shame yourselves by your panic!"

But the panic continues. I can hear many shuffling back, and others holding firm to stop them. It is nearly a brawl. It must end. I power up the steps, turn and hold my glaive up high.

"Silence!" I yell. "Cease your panic! If the power of my runes scares you so, how are you going to be able to face the darkness without fleeing? Well? Stand firm as if you were in the midst of battle!"

Many still don't shut up, so I slash the line of light over their heads. The more cowardly duck down and stay there, trembling in terror. With these most noisy silenced, a quiet falls.

"What can you see, Ithis?" I ask. "Do you have your eyes open?"

"I do," Hayhek answers. "The room is nearly black, guildmaster, but for your light."

"I can see that our crafts are nothing compared to yours," says Ithis. "They are outshone."

"Disrupted," Hayhek whispers upward. "Zathar, what have you made?"

"What have I made?" I say. Then I laugh. "What have I made, indeed!"

No one answers. They're not sure what to make of this—and I am obviously drunk.

"I have made," I intone, "a weapon of great strength. Nightcutter is its name, for my poem describes the battle that takes place upon the surface every day, the eternal duel of night and day. Though, upon my craft, this theme is magnified and made fantastical for greater power, light greater even than what night on the surface must contend with. My night is blacker than any real night, and the darker it becomes, the more the final vestiges of light must strengthen. Nightcutter is a weapon of balance. Light is redirected to where I will it to go. And you know where that is—to the foe deep below!"

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