If the titanium won't bend cold, then I'll just have to hammer it into shape while it's hot. I place the combined true-mundane metal into the furnace and watch, pleased, as it starts to glow evenly. The true metal has melded perfectly—at least this has gone right.

Still, beads of sweat form on my face. I can't shake the feeling that the true titanium has a few more tricks to play on me.

I pull the sheet out the furnace and inspect. There are no flaws. I hold it against the horn of the anvil in my tongs, brace myself, and lift the hammer. I strike, extremely gently. The hammer bounces off. The titanium shivers, shakes. I look carefully to see if it's bent at all, and it has not. It's sprung back without deforming even slightly.

A little harder, then. I strike with some more force. The sheet curves double, squealing and hissing. I pull my hammer back, horrified.

"No!" I yell.

Not only is the sheet bent, but I've struck a terrible gash into it, a great glowing wound. It's ruined. Utterly ruined.

"No!"

I dash my hammer to the floor. A chip of stone flies up. I leave the metal sheet balanced on the anvil's horn and walk over to the wall. I kick hard.

"No!"

I kick again.

"No!"

How could but a touch more force have led to such a disaster? I look back at the sheet, draped on the anvil's horn like so much fabric. It's cooled already, and the reflection of my face is once more twisted into a mocking leer.

True metal is alive. I fully understand this now. It is alive, and it opposes us. Only when bent with sure strength and skill will it form a kind of begrudging respect for the smith, and my abilities remain insufficient.

I sigh and slump down against the wall. I clench my fists until they feel like they're going to burst, relax them. I shut my eyes and try to imagine something calming. I'm patient, I remind myself. And I have a steady income, too. More metal can always be bought.

One of the main problems, I decide, is that I don't know the first thing about true titanium. Well, then, all I have to do is find out. I have many questions, but the first is this: what exactly happens when true metal is melded with mundane? Can it be extracted again?

I stand with new vigor. I snatch up the warped sheet, heat it to yellow, then hammer it into a miserable, crumpled wreck. Treating such a precious material like this is appalling, but if I'm to avoid further disasters, I simply must know more. Sacrifices must be made. I'm sure other runeknights have done the same; I'm sure Runethanes do this, and even Runeking Ulrike.

I get a larger mold and place the mass in. Then I heat it to white and beyond. The metal glows, softens, melts. I switch off the furnace and pull the mold out, let everything cool. I turn the mold upside down and tap with my hammer. There's a clank as the ingot falls out.

It screeches as I scrape my knife along it and then back. Silver mist boils up into the air in about the same quantities as before, though there's more resistance than there was when I burned just mundane metal. The sparks dance more frantically, too. Some leap off the anvil. I catch them and they burn tiny holes into my skin. The pain makes me wince.

Once the ingot has been fully boiled away, I scrape the pieces into my palm and then onto the scales. I frown. Out of thirty-six grams of true metal that there was, plus the extra gram or so that should have been produced from the sheet it was mixed into, there are only twenty-five left.

Where have the rest gone? Perhaps I have managed to purify it further into an even truer, even more alive kind of metal. But when I melt the grains into a singular bead and stare in, it looks no more alive than before.

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"You cannot fathom the tools I use," said Runeking Ulrike, or something to that effect. If he really can purify true metal even further, he'll have some greater knife to do so with. Perhaps one entirely made of the first degree of true metal—again, if there are degrees to it.

So, I haven't accidentally made some more powerful substance. No. I've just wasted it in some fashion. Probably, I insulted it so much by my failure that it couldn't abide my presence any longer. That bitter conclusion is the only one that seems to fit.

I sigh. What to do next?

I won't give up on my craft. Never. I have patience. No matter how much effort it takes, my duty is to create a piece of armor worthy of both my rank and my runes. It's just time for a slightly different technique. Patience is well and good, but stubbornness can sometimes be a disadvantage. If I can't bend true titanium into shape even with great difficulty, why persist?

There are other ways to make a curved piece of metal.

But before I continue with my forging, I must check on the deep dwarves. My worry for him is beginning to eat away at me again, distract me. I'm sure they've won a victory, but equally sure that they've paid some price for it. The darkness has devoured Runethanes. It is fully capable of doing the same to any one of my old friends.

Cautiously, I make my way down to the Shaft. I see no bright flashes of light in the corridors preceding it, and neither is the darkness as stifling as before either. It seems like the battle has finished.

When I exit the corridors into the hall, this is confirmed. The deep darkness has gone from the center of the pit; six maces' light shine into it and remain uneaten.

I recognize Nthazes by his armor and breathe out in relief. If they've had to pay a price, it wasn't the life of their guildmaster.

"Guildmaster Nthazes?" I call as I make my way down the steps. "I see you won."

"Yes," he says, voice echoing. "At a price."

I stumble a little, quickly steady myself. "I'm sorry. I'd expected as much. Who?"

"Polkud has fallen. The others are interring him."

"Again, I'm sorry."

"You needn't be. He fought valiantly."

"He was one of the newer recruits, wasn't he?"

"Yes. I hope his loss will raise in those above a desire to come down and fight to avenge him. Though, I fear that the effect will more likely be to the contrary."

I shake my head. "My dwarves will help avenge him. Just as soon as the script is good enough, flexible enough—I'll order them to start on their weapons."

"That will be appreciated. And what of your weapon?"

"My script isn't yet... It's not good enough for anything like you wield yet. And I want my runic ears done before it too. I want the precision they give me."

"I see."

He sounds a little impatient. He's deathly worried—although the darkness might indeed be weaker than it once was, it's clearly regaining strength faster than his guild is.

"Why don't you ask Runethane Halmak for reinforcements?"

"I plan to." He lets out a deep sigh. "Perhaps I should have done so earlier. Maybe it's pride—or maybe I simply doubt the strength of their weapons."

I reach a point where I can see nothing for the glare and stop walking. He's still staring down into the pit.

"But it's only senior degrees who've made weapons of light, no?"

"Yes, but his guildmembers have only ever worked with bronze, and only ever with one script, too. Bezethast is far different from the three of light, and runes of light don't take well to impure alloys either. The crafts they've made are not as good as ours. They cannot compare. If they are ever to come down—there will be great losses."

"I see."

He turns around. His pale blue eyes meet my darker ones. Like those of my guildmember's did, they feel like daggers directed at me. Daggers forged from expectation in the highest heat of hope.

"Which is why I'm putting my faith in you, Zathar Runeforger."

"My dwarves' crafts will be strong." I try not to tremble under the pressure. "You can count on that. Compared to tungsten, titanium is not so hard to work with."

He nods. "I'm sure their maces will be just as bright as ours."

"They will be."

Remembering something, I glance back up at the exit. There's no one there. Was the witch, the female wizard, just an image from my imagination? I don't think so, somehow.

"When I was down here before," I say nervously, "there was someone else here with you, watching the fight. A human holding a wooden rod. She had long white hair. Was that, perhaps..."

"That was her," Nthazes confirms. "Jaemes' daughter. Alae."

"What was she doing?"

"Just watching. She often watches, when the darkness comes out."

"You don't have a problem with it?"

"It makes us a little uncomfortable. But we owe Jaemes so much—so what can we do?"

"She frightened me. I think I told you about the wizard I met on the surface, and his apprentice. They were fierce foes."

"Her magic is different to theirs, and for the good."

"Magic of light, yes. You told me. But she didn't use it to help?"

"Never. She doesn't trust in her power as much as we do in ours, I don't think. Maybe if we had more dwarves, a squad to dedicate to her protection, she might add her strength to ours."

"Have you suggested it to her?"

He shakes his head. "No." He laughs softly. "I'm just as unnerved by her as you are."

"I wonder if she really will come to me, once she hears of my runes."

"Oh, she will. I'm sure of that. Be ready for her, Zathar. Be ready."

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