I begin by scraping out the true titanium. The sensation of resistance doesn't feel as awful as it used to, and watching the silver mist fade doesn't sadden me so much either. This is a little worrying. Can I really allow myself to become so blasé to the waste of metal? It feels wrong not to care, and yet, maybe all runeknights, after the shock of having to mine eventually wears off, stop caring about the waste as well. I doubt Runeking Ulrike sheds tears over the massive amounts of metal that vanishes within his foundry-palace. How could he, without being driven to despair?

A few hours of this work and I have the thirty-six grams of true metal I need. I look around at the glinting remains of my last craft and decide I must add more. I gather the fragments up, and my usual depression comes upon me at full force when I turn them to so much dissipating mist. This metal was meant to be a proud craft, and now it is nothing at all.

I melt the grains into a bead. There's still some more preparation to do, however. I cut open one end of the hose and convert it into a mask, a bit like the ones that fitted over our helms under the magma sea. Then I wedge the door open with an empty container and push the other end of the hose out. To test, I take a few breaths, and find that it's more difficult than breathing through the enruned cables was. But it should keep me conscious.

Now I can start. I cut the new titanium sheet into shape, put the off-cuts into the furnace. I place the strange coal beside it and switch on the heat. Dark smoke billows out. Peering in, I can barely see the color of the piece. Runic ears really would be a help here, though since the smoke isn't completely opaque, I think I should still be able to forge under it.

Once I judge the metal to be the right shade, I place it on the anvil, place the smoke-emitting block beside it too. The false blackness whirls when I raise my hammer, spirals as I bring tool down to metal. Dim sparks fly from the cloud.

The clanging is a little sharper than usual, a little more pure. If I had runic ears equipped, I'd be able to make out what's changed more clearly. But this is a good sign, nonetheless. I can feel that the smoke is having the desired effect.

I beat away. The off-cuts have only just begun to flatten out properly, yet my arms are already starting to tire. I struggle to suck in more air—not enough is reaching my lungs. I'll have to slow the pace a little. Yes—I need to slow down.

Once all the off-cuts are flattened out, I place them on the main piece of metal, and it into the furnace. I inspect the smoke-coal and see that it's only decreased by a small fraction. This is good, for I still have no idea what it is, nor where I might be able to acquire more, nor for how much.

Heat, meld, curve. My eyes are good enough that the twisting black it doesn't affect my precision so much, and since my shortness of breath forces me to go slowly, I end up making only a few errors, which I correct with no trouble. Now for the true titanium. I heat the bead up to the right redness, hammer it under the smoke.

The note that rings out is clean and has a melody to it that's almost happy. I grimace. It might still be trying to trick me. I inspect and see that although it's better shaped than any previous first attempt, it's not quite perfect.

I nearly take it out, stop myself. It should cool under the smoke. I wait. Once the red turns to silver, I nearly take it out again, but something tells me to wait. Only when I'm sure it's completely cooled do I place it back into the crucible and reheat.

Hammer, heat, wait, and again. After only ten attempts, the true titanium looks to be shaped perfectly. I hold it up and out of the fumes to inspect more closely.

It really does seem to be perfect. What's more, it's a little shinier than I remember, and a little lighter in color.

I place it into the vise. Does it need smoke around it while I cut it, too? I don't think so, for the book said that only when heated does titanium need protection from the air, yet just to be on the safe side, I heat the smoke-coal up more and place it beside the vise while I cut. This is true titanium, after all.

After many hours work, the disc is in sixteenths. Very carefully, I repeat what I did on my last attempt, heating the main piece, securing it at the right angle, then carefully tapping in the true titanium. Except, of course, everything is made twice as hard by the black fog—which has started to fill up the whole forge—and by my inability to breathe easily.

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If things are twice as difficult, that just means I have to go three times as slowly and four times as carefully. Time does not exist, I remind myself. Not in this place of metal.

Segment by segment, the true titanium melds into the mundane. Each tap brings out a melodious, joyful tune. The color, once the piece has cooled, makes ordinary titanium look dull and dirty. I will have to reforge the other section of the helmet using the smoke, I decide. I can't pair it with this piece.

Something is beginning to bother me, though. Why were the deep dwarves ignorant of this technique? It's puzzling—was the knowledge lost, somehow? The shape of their forging places, sunk into the floor, makes me wonder. I can imagine that dwarves in ages past might have filled the pits to chest-height with a gas similar to Runethane Yurok's smoke, and forged their titanium pieces within it.

Why did Runethane Yurok not share the secret? Perhaps he didn't want to make public that he was using some kind of darkness to help him forge. Or maybe he didn't know either. Yes, that seems more likely. Perhaps when the Runethane before him perished, he hadn't yet told Yurok of how to use the coals. Or maybe it was in the generations before that the knowledge was lost—it's impossible to know how many have passed down here. There are no records.

All this speculation—I'm wasting time, I chide myself. I'm just trying to distract myself from the fear of the next task: the quenching.

I imagine my craft cracking apart, screeching, screaming. I might be about to throw away all my hard work yet again.

But then I'll just repeat everything. I have patience, don't I?

I pry open the barrel of dithyok blood and pour it into the bucket. Both color and smell are sickening—I'm glad I have the leather mask over my nose and mouth. I stir it up. It's lumpy, partly clotted. Has it been preserved properly? How is blood preserved, in the first place?

I'm trying to distract myself again.

I heat my craft, turning it regularly and carefully in the swirling darkness. A dim glow arises, pleasing in its uniformity. Until now, the glow of the titanium has always been a little alike to a flame seen through vaguely smudged glass. Now, rather than a flame through a lantern, the glow is like flame laid bare.

To quench! I pull the piece from the furnace and thrust it into the blood. For a few moments, nothing, and then the blood begins to violently bubble. I turn the piece over, wait another second, wrench it out. Foul steam battles with black smoke. On the metal, purple gunk turns to black dust and falls away.

Tongs trembling in my fearful grip, I take the visor to the nearest brazier and peer at it under the flame-light. My heart swells with happiness. There are no flaws—then I spot one, a hairline crack. I apply some force to the piece, bending it with one half in the tongs and the other in my hand.

It comes apart, clean in two.

But I manage to suppress my anger. I have the technique, now. I have enough money for a few more repetitions, and most importantly, the requisite patience to keep me going through the process of perfecting. I can do this. The end is within sight—titanium's secrets have been revealed to me.

Over the next few long-hours, I do what I've resolved to do. I purchase more ingots, slice them down. I forge. My second attempt fails when I misalign the true titanium before melding. The third breaks in the blood. The fourth breaks when I pull it from the blood.

I pull my fifth attempt from the blood. Foulness and false blackness fight against each other. Purple liquid turns to solid, then to black dust that flakes away. In the flame-light I examine the metal once more, and find it to be perfect. I apply pressure. The piece feels strong beyond measure. I take it in both hands, bend as hard as I can. It gives only a little, then springs back into shape.

I've done it!

Only one more task remains. I melt down the other section of the helm into an ingot, melt and hammer it into shape, again and again, apologizing every other breath for not forging it with the right technique, and for forgoing adding true metal out of cowardice.

After just two attempts at remaking it using true metal, it is perfect. I fit visor to helm, then fit them over my head. They need a little padding, yes, but other than that, I would be honored to walk into battle wearing them, even unruned.

I take them off, lay them back on the forge. All that's left is the poems, and I can feel that they'll be powerful. And once this craft is finished, I'll have enough runes that the others can start to work with the script as well. Great wealth and fame will come to my guild and, more importantly, we'll have a new weapon to use against the deep darkness.

"Is it finally time?" someone says, in an odd accent. "You've been quiet for a while."

"Yes. Time to enrune. Time to plunge once more—"

I rush to the wall, grab Life-Ripper. The voice is coming from the cracked-open doorway. I angle my weapon at it.

"Who are you!" I shout into the swirling blackness.

The door opens. A sphere of golden light expands from the corridor and the black smoke is blown to shreds as if by a gale-wind. I cover my eyes.

"Who are you?" I demand.

The light dims enough for me to lower my forearm. In the doorway, I see a figure with long white hair, a long face, and a tall, stooped body. Her pale eyes reflect her arcane light.

The witch has come for me.

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