The spiral was made for dwarven feet. Stronric stepped onto the first stone, and though the air was still and cold, the stone beneath him felt alive. Not humming with magic, not pulsing with fire, but ready. The stones were worn and grooved as if a group of dwarves had walked down these steps moments ago.

He moved carefully. There were no torches on the walls lighting his way. Stronric looked at the walls as he descended, the walls were seamless. No toolmarks, no seams, not even mineral striations. Just a smooth, dark stone that drank in details of the pathway before him. The spiral led him deeper. No twist of wind, no change in temperature, just the steady descent into stillness.

He glanced once over his shoulder. The world above had already vanished. Spinning off into nothingness when he took each step. He would not return from this way, even if he wanted to. Eventually, the staircase ended at a small stone platform.

Ahead was a doorway. There were no doors set on the hinges, just a clean arch set into deeper stone. When Stronric stood in front of the door there was a flash of a blueish white light. Along the rim of the arched doorway, runes began to flicker to light, instantly halting Stronric's progression into the room. Dozens of runes had been carved along the archway. There were some runes that tugged at his memory but most runes he didn't recognize. Stronric could read what some of the different runes said. Others had accents marks and stray lines that distorted what the rune would originally mean. Stronric knew reading a rune of power could have little effect on what the rune was intended to do. However, these runes' intentions were carved alongside those runes of power and were carved with such precision that he felt his throat tighten with anticipation.

Stronric lingered at the threshold, eyes tracing the runes circling the arch. Some were worn by time, others chiseled so cleanly they still held the ghost of the tool that had carved them. He reached out and ran his fingers across one near the base—its edge was sharp, precise. A rune for shaping, if he wasn't mistaken. But the bottom curl was too long, and the stroke too hard. Something about it leaned toward destruction instead of refinement.

A warning? Or a lesson?

He stepped through.

The space beyond wasn't large, not like the grand vaults of kings or the echoing holds of old legend. The small enclosed circular space felt somehow, personal. It held no dramatic power, like a smithy built for armies, but instead the calming sense of a personal craft room. It wasn't a blacksmith's room, there was no great forge to heat the metal, but across the room was a worktable and tools like the curved walls. The walls were smooth and sloped slightly inward, drawing the eye from the workspaces and towards the center of the room, where a single squat black anvil sat.

Stronric took a step forward the anvil, he could see it was embedded in the floor as if it had sprouted from the stone itself. It wasn't polished or decorated, and it bore no stamp of name. He took another hesitant step toward the anvil, and he could see it was dwarven, utterly and completely dwarven. He approached faster now, calmed by the presence of lost dwarven kin from something as simple as an anvil. The anvil's shoulders were wide, its face flat but pocked with years of careful abuse. Lines of scoring—some shallow, some deep—cut across its surface like a journal written in metal.

It had seen work, but the lines and dents where softer, more precise. This was not an anvil that took a beating while shaping steel and iron. No, this anvil was used for something no less mighty, rune-smithing. Stronric pulled his eyes from the anvil and took in the rest of the room. Tools hung on the far wall, old ones. He noticed a bench on the back side of the anvil where a craftsman would sit while working.

Stronric stepped forward, his slow footsteps whispering against the smooth stone. The sound was almost swallowed by the small room, no echoes answered, no hum of enchantments. This place held the feeling of grounding, of being here and now, even if long forgotten and lost.

Stronric approached the work bench before him. He had approached in the middle of the workspace, the bench extending left and right. Tools hung on small hooks inlayed into the stone wall. On the wall an old set of tongs hung with one arm longer than the other. Unequal tongs? What is the purpose of useless tongs, Stronric thought. He ran his hand over tools resting on the work bench. Hammers with chipped heads of various sizes and weights.

He followed the bench to the left and found a chisel rack. Each chisel marked with runes far older than his bloodline. He lifted the instrument examining the craftsmanship, master grade, the metal poured and shaped perfectly, and the tip still held its blade. This was master craftsman's work, but it was not for show, it was for use. He returned the chisel and looked over the others. Each held the signs of wear, worn down by the hammer's strike and the work of honest hands. One rack was empty. Starkly out of place with the organization and care for the workspace, as if it was waiting for something or someone.

Stronric turned back around to face the anvil, taking in the room, its space and in its meaning. A world of crystal golems, gem and stone mining Dwarves long since passed, and here in its core a Runesmith sat bringing purpose to this clan of ancient dwarves. Stronric thought. His eyes roamed over the anvil again, catching a thin plate of metal affixed to the front edge. The metal was so dark it blended in with the anvil itself, so he missed it. Stronric leaned down and saw an inscription.

Words carved with exquisite care, so fine it looked grown rather than cut.

"Knowledge is a community, to share and learn from. Give us knowledge, and you shall receive knowledge."

He stared at the words for a long time, taking in the words and formulating them to a meaning. Stronric knew he was here for another test, but he had yet to discern what that test might be, what Rune this room wanted him to offer. He pulled the low bench sitting beside the anvil out to sit on, when he noticed a small bundle the size of a thick tome. The bundle was not there before; there is little chance of his sharp gaze missing it before. "Are ye leavin' gifts now?" He asked out loud to the room. He sat, lifting the oilcloth bound item onto his lap. He felt smaller objects shift in his lap as he untied the three tight knots at the top. He pulled the string, and the cloth fell away revealing three unmarked rune stones.

He turned each stone over, all uncarved, perfectly shaped, flat and oval, like the winning water skipping stone. He sat for a long moment, remaining still with the stones laid across his lap. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, Stronric was calm and still. There were no enemies to fight, no flickering of lights, no sounds echoing off the stone wall. He was just a dwarf in a smithy, with unmarked stones waiting for a purpose.

If it had a soul, it did not stir. The room remained quiet and steady. Stronric breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and reached slowly into his satchel and drew out the thick leather-bound book Dovren had given him. He let it rest on his knees, the spine heavy with age, the corners worn soft from a hundred hands before his.

He didn't open it right away. Instead, he looked at the stones again. All three surfaces were smooth as still water, but differences in weight, texture and color separated them. Stronric flighted the oilcloth from his lap and placed it and the stones on the anvil then flipped open the old tome. The familiar lines of dwarven script greeted him tight, angular, full of weight and purpose. Dovren's notes filled the margins. Sometimes his words were instructive, but other times they were caustic. He could feel the old ghost's excitement through the frantic scribbling of the key to a breakthrough and the exhaustion of his hands when documenting the many paths to failure.

Stronric flipped through the pages, Stillness, Echoes, and others yet learned. He paused briefly on Resonance, his fingers gliding over the rune while his mind passed over the memory. He continued flipping from page to page, waiting for a hit or feeling. He started to rush through the pages, agitation building and time seemed to weigh down on him. A Rune flashed before his eyes, and he stopped. Turning back, he pages until the page slowly falls, leaving the book open a rune upon the page.

Severance.

The rune was harsh. Stronric could feel it through his spirit as he looked upon the rune. It was hard in appearance; on the contrary its lines were clean and surgical. A simple design of a single downward slash, split at the bottom into two mirrored hooks turning away from each other, like twins forced apart sharing the weight. The rune itself didn't scream with power or in warning, it didn't feel like a demand either. It simply said: "Enough."

Stronric stared at it.

He knew what it meant.

More than any other rune in the book, this one lived in the marrow of his being. The weight of his old clan sat behind his ribs. Names unspoken, their doors shut forever. Stronric closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, almost in an attempt to hide from the memories that came crashing down on him. The smell of his old clan's halls filled his nose, and he could almost hear the laughter coming from the dining halls. Then the cold pain as he mentally rounded that corner and found them all dead. Their bodies, broken and shattered, strewn across a place he loved and lived. Then he stood at the cliff's edge, the cold wind biting deep into his flesh and soul, just as he was about to say "enough".

A tear slid from Stronric's closed eyes as he remembered sitting with his axe across his lap, deep in the mountain, when the last torch burned low. He was alone, he had already laid his clan to rest. His body was on the verge of collapse with exhaustion and a pain so deep within his heart and soul the very idea of breathing life in and out of his lungs felt impossible. He sat wondering if it would be better to let the cave take him. To lie back and let the stone be his tomb. He blamed himself for not being there to die protecting his kin and clan. Flashes of the orc ambush on him and his patrol blurred through his mind. A large orc landed a lucky blow to the side of his head, dropping him unconscious. They must have thought him dead, leaving him and the others dead in the frost. He was so tired now, he could just give up the fight and sleep, severing himself from the pain and exhaustion.

Stronric's heart pounded in his chest, another tear falling onto the open book on his lap, as he drifted through another memory. The wind, the edge of the cliff, and darkness so much within himself and below that he wanted them to be joined together and snuff out the light that once burned bright though him. Then she had come, with all her grace and beauty, to lead him down another path. Her frail body, not so different from the heart with himself, covered in light. Her light burned through the blackness enough to stop himself from severing himself from life and offer a different path. One where he might repay the sins of his failure by rebuilding the dwarven race, not in his world but this new one.

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

He remembered when he first opened his eyes in this new world the sky had been wrong. It was too wide, too blue, with stars that spun above in unfamiliar patterns. The earth felt thinner beneath his boots, like it hadn't settled yet. Even the stone didn't speak to him the same way. The air smelled different, tasted different, as if the mountain itself hadn't decided whether it wanted him here.

New sky.

New mountains.

New weight.

Stronric opened his eyes then, looking at the palms of his hands resting on the open book. He came here with no clan, an old broken-down hold and not a single dwarf to call brother or friend. He hadn't died, but something had been severed the moment he crossed through the rip between worlds. No one of this time or place would ever recall the names that were left behind. His old oaths crumbled like bad mortar, as there was no clan or king to hold them. His axe and knowledge were the only bridge connecting his old life with his new one. He tried to rebuild, one door and mushroom at a time. Peace and purpose slowly crutched the weight of loss and regrets. After all this time, he still only had three dwarves and a herd of goats though. The hands still obeyed. But the soul? The soul wandered.

He was a smith without a forge. A dwarf without a stone to carve his name into and the silence of that loss lingered longer than any wound ever had.

Severance.

He ran his hand down the page, tracing the rune. He could feel the rune didn't judge the sins or gifts. There was no cruelty or hatred in its actions, it was simply a clean end.

Just freedom.

His father's voice came back to him then. A quiet memory softly blowing though the air or his mind, unsure at this point.

"Ye want the forge to answer ye, ye better ask it the right questions, son."

Stronric closed the book gently.

He looked again at the anvil, then to the tools and back to the stones laying upon it.

Then he stood, shutting the book gently and balancing it on the anvil next to the stones and turned to the workspace behind him. He gave the room a slow turn, bare feet brushing against cold stone, the quiet clicking of his steps the only sound. The smithy had a presence, but not a voice. Its power was in its presence, not from unknown hum or whisper, but from waiting for a craftsman to speak though it with their tools and creations.

The racks along the walls held more than just iron. They held stories of every item crafted, of every dwarf stood here before to create.

Stronric moved to the nearest set—chisel racks, mounted with care and precision. Each chisel was slightly different. Some longer, others squat and square-headed. One had a twin-blade edge, forked like a snake's tongue. He tilted his head, studying its markings. A rune for division? For branching patterns, maybe. That wasn't for stone—it was for wood, or bone. Perhaps someone had carved into antlers once.

He moved on.

There were forging hammers lined up by size and weight. A few were thick-headed, meant for heavy strokes and anchoring blows. Others were small, light and elegant, forged for control and precision. There was one with a rounded grip and no proper handle—made to fit in a palm, for light scoring or working tight curves.

All the tools here were mundane. They were master crafted but not enchanted. None shimmered, glowed or buzzed with power. They were ancient and used but they held true, waiting for the next dwarf.

He paused beside a hammer whose grip was wrapped in cracked leather. The leather was stained with the sweat of generations. The head had worn smooth on one side, not from neglect, but from repetition. The same angled strike, the same swinging motion, repeated again and again over hundreds of times.

He reached out and touched the hammer with two fingers. The stone was cool and the leather was dry but intact.

"No," he murmured, almost apologetically. "Not mine."

He walked further, passing a line of tongs, each shaped with purpose. Some had long, narrow jaws for holding thread-thin metals. Others had wide flat grips, likely used for steadying large rune-plates or volcanic stone during tempering. One pair had an almost delicate lattice built into its hinge—made not just to hold, but to suspend.

Stronric frowned at that one. A rune made mid-air? Risky business.

He circled back to the workbench with empty space. He reached into his bag of holding on his hip and pulled out the roll that held his carving tools. He unrolled the roll, and the familiar steel met him. He lifted the hammer Dovren had passed down to him. It was compact, front-weighted, slightly chipped along the striking edge. It was simple and not adorned with flair or decorations. It was just well used and cared for. Next, he picked up one of the chisels. He chose one that was thick and squat, meant for simple runes, not flourishing, or artistry. It was made to deliver a proper bite a straight firm line. He practiced so much with these two simple tools he knew each handle like he knew his own beard.

A small smile separated his hairy face, and he turned back to the anvil. "Good."

Before he started, he pulled the crystal axe from the sheath on his back and leaned it against a workbench, not needing the extra weight while carving. He replaced the book with his tools, sitting as he pulled the bench to the anvil. He noticed a small lip on the far side of the anvil that allowed him to prop the book open on the page he needed. "I'll take that gem of ingenuity home with me" Stronric said, taking the unmarked runestones into his hands.

Three perfect pieces all untouched. He ran his thumb along the edge of the first one. Cool, dense, but fine-grained. It would take a mark clean, but not too deep. He lifted the second. It was lighter, slightly hollow if he was interpreting its weight right. Probably not suitable for a rune like Severance. The third felt wrong immediately. It was too slick and polished too far. He cringed at the thought of how many cracks would form on the first impact of his chisel.

The first stone. Yes, that was the one he needed. He placed the other two stones back in the oilcloth, tying the top before sliding into the bag of holding.

He noticed an indent in the center of the anvil and placed the remaining stone in it with both hands. The stone lay flush in the groove only its face lay above the anvil's solid surface. Stronric tested the stone, it didn't wobble or shift, it just looked up at him waiting.

He took a breath.

Then he turned to the open book.

The page showed Severance. The clean lines and that downward split.

He pulled a bit of chalk from his belt pouch. Dovren's voice echoed dimly in his memory:

"Draw it first. Always draw it. Ye wouldn't try to split a beam before ye've measured it, would ye?"

Stronric held the chalk and began the outline. A simple practice, not needing anything but patience and a steady hand.

He was just a dwarf with a stone, and the hope that the marks would form runes and the runes would hold.

He held the chalk like a scribe might hold a quill, careful and measured. A grip for alignment not decorations or imagination. This rune was nothing but precise. He started at the top—one steady vertical line, straight down the center of the stone. Not too long, just enough to anchor the form. Then came the split and the mirrored hooks at the bottom, curling away from each other. He had to lift his hand and redraw one side. The chalk didn't take evenly on the grain, and the right curve buckled slightly. He took in a steadying breath. He erased the lines, adjusted and redrew it.

When it was done, he looked down at a clean chalk outline of the rune. He felt pride in his work, but he also knew drawing a rune and carving one was as far apart as ink and iron. Stronric placed the chisel at the top of the line and took the hammer in his other hand. The grip felt familiar. Comforting. The weight of it centered him. He tapped lightly once, just to set the bite. The chisel chipped into the surface with a sharp tick. He adjusted the angle, drew a slow breath and then struck.

TINK.

The sound rang clean, no echo. Just the metal, the stone, and the stillness that followed. He dragged the chisel downward, scoring the central line, tapping along its length. He wasn't carving the depth of the rune, not yet, he was setting the foundation. He continued down the line and at the curve, he adjusted the angle again. That's where the trouble began and his first mistake.

The chisel skipped.

Just a hair out of place, but enough. He tried to recover and struck again. His motion was rushed and uneven. The next groove dug too deep. A crack formed along the underside of the hook, hair-thin but visible to his trained eye.

Stronric froze.

He set the tools down. Touched the fracture with his thumb. The crack hadn't reached the center stroke, but it had compromised the symmetry. One hook now held the tension the other did not. The rune had become imbalanced. The stone knew it and he knew it. He let out a breath. "Damn it."

Still, he lifted the hammer again. Maybe he could deepen the centerline, ground the rune better. Take some pressure off the split. He struck once more, and the stone snapped. Not loud or violent, just a clean break straight through the central axis.

The stone didn't shatter; it just released into two perfect halves. He stared at it for a moment, the two halves lying motionless on the anvil, then quietly reached down and gathered the pieces in both hands. He placed them on the floor beside the anvil. He was going to pull a different stone from his bag when the split stone vanished from the floor.

It did not happen instantly. It faded slowly, like fog lifting in the sun. One moment it was there, then the next they were gone as if it had never been placed at all. He blinked, a breath later, a soft clink sounded from the anvil. Stronric whipped his head to the anvil and in the center a new stone lay. He lifted it and it was identical, in shape, size, weight and finish. He let out a chuckle, "I'll also be needing a magical anvil that allows me to rest on my arse when mistakes are made." He lowered the stone back into the holding groove. He looked around the room, waiting for some sound or sign but the room remained silent. The lesson was clear.

Try again.

He didn't move for a while. Instead, he stared at the stone and then at his chisel. He turned the hammer in his palm, feeling the weight of it. He reached for the book again, pulled it close, and scanned the Severance page once more. He wasn't looking at the rune or its shape, he was looking to see what guiding words Dovren had left. Dovren's script filled the side margins.

"Clean angles. No wobble. The soul follows the line. Severance is not violence. It is clarity. Do not carve in anger. It should feel like release." Stronric narrowed his eyes at that last line. He hadn't noticed it before. It was tucked under a smudge of charcoal, nearly hidden. Release.

He exhaled through his nose and looked at the anvil. The new stone sat there patiently. Not daring him or mocking him, just waiting for Stronric to form its purpose. He reached into his pouch, pulled out the chalk again, and began the outline a second time. The curve became easier this time. He didn't try to force it. Just follow the grain. Trusted his hand. When it was done, he nodded. Then he picked up the chisel again. He tapped the bite gently. Just enough to set the point. The hammer rose, then fell.

TINK.

He made the first stroke, clean and controlled.

He repositioned, adjusted the chisel by a degree or two. Then tapped again. He wasn't rushing, not this time. But halfway through the centerline, the chisel snagged on a micro-ridge. He felt it stutter. The motion carried a tremor into his wrist. His next strike landed off-kilter. TINK click.

The groove twisted ever so slightly. It wasn't visible unless you squinted but Stronric knew. The rune was flawed again. He scowled, turned the stone slightly, and tried to compensate with the left hook deepening it, evening the weight. But as soon as he struck again, a fissure raced along the underside. He didn't even bother finishing it. He picked up the stone and placed it beside the anvil. It vanished just like the first.

Another clink. Another replacement.

Stronric shook out his arms and leaned against the anvil. Twice now he has failed. He wasn't tired, not physically, but his hands felt… uncertain. Not clumsy or weak like they did after a lengthy battle or day spent mining. They just felt out of rhythm. He looked back at the tools at the empty rack and then to the anvil back down at his own tools. His tools were familiar and trusted, but maybe that was part of the problem. He picked up the chisel again, holding it against his palm.

"It's not just the stroke," he muttered. "That's the reason behind it."

He looked up at the rune carved above the bench, mirroring the one on the avil, the ancient inscription again:

"Give us knowledge, and you shall receive knowledge." He nodded once.

"Alright then."

He picked up the chalk again.

Time for the third try.

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