Stronric exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his breath, letting it fall into the rhythm, like a smith hammer on an anvil even as the forge remained silent. The chalk in his hand barely scraped as he marked the stone. This time, there was no anger or haste as he drew on the Rune of Severance. He traced the vertical line and let his thoughts move with it. Memories and timelines flowing from his mind to his hand then into the stone itself. He reached the split at the base of the line and thought about the mirrored hooks curling away from each other. Each hook counter weighed the other, supporting the Rune, just as he had Bauru and Rugiel. When he pulled his hand away, the outline looked clean, balanced.

He placed the chisel and struck.

TINK.

The line bit true. He repositioned, tapped again, and again slow, careful cuts, anchoring the rune into the stone, one measured strike at a time. For a moment, he believed that he could get through this rune without restarting. He was too stiff when carving the second hook, shifting just a fraction too much, that the angle was wrong. His mistake wasn't deep or violent, but the symmetry would be off, Stronric knew the moment the hammer hit the chisel. He let out an annoyed grunt, but tried to salvage the shape by smoothing the curve back inwards. The chisel bit deep and split the grain beneath the surface causing a hairline fracture that would not hold. He stared at it, "No," he muttered, the word dry on his tongue. "No, not again." He tried grounding the line again. A final, anchoring stroke to settle the rune. He drove the chisel down and the stone snapped clean in half. Again.

The pieces faded as he set them aside. A new stone clinked into place on the anvil. Stronric didn't curse this time. He just inhaled, stepped back, and closed his eyes. Stronric had rarely known failure since coming to this new world. He felt too much rested on his shoulders to do so. Three failed runes, a small price in the larger picture, but to Stronric it felt much larger. He looked inward to himself. Aye, what am I missing? He thought as his Soul forge flickered to life around him. He could feel it now. The hot, slow-burning of the flames within the forge, like coals banked beneath damp ash. He fanned it, stepping on the barely functional billows in his mind. He reached for the presence of ambient Ruhna that settled in the world around him. He became his deep breathing coaxing the energy into his forge gently, guiding rather than demanding.

His jaw clenched and sweat prickled across his scalp. It had been some time since Stronric practiced his meditation and soul forging. The forge burned brighter in his chest, filling him with usable ruhan. Once he felt the familiar warmth bleed through his limbs, he opened his eyes and began again. He drew the outline in chalk, then lifted his tools to the stone. The fourth stone cracked along the split after a hard strike of his hammer. The fifth crumbled at the first line, his grip had wavered with frustration. He was still pulling in the Ruhna to fuel him, but the flow became increasingly unsteady. The sixth stone was over before it began. He had rushed his chalk outline.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine stones, Nine failures.

His muscles were steady, his arms sure, but his mind frayed like a rope soaked in acid. The inner forge hissed as he pulled more Ruhna in again, slower this time. Sluggishly the magic came reluctantly, as if the area around him had grown stingy. He lost track of the stones. How many had he burned through now? Ten? More? He didn't realize he was shaking until the chalk slipped from his fingers and cracked on the floor.

Stronric sat back on the bench. The silence felt heavier now, as though the anvil stood as an unreachable mountain, its high peaks stealing the air from his lungs. His limbs were heavy and his back ached, but the deep rumbling growl of his stomach is what made him flinch. He blinked and looked at his hands. They were trembling from the hunger and exhaustion gnawing at him. He hadn't eaten since he arrived. His inner forge could fuel him but not forever and there were times when the pull of energy taxed his body more than reprieved. He would have to recover his Ruhna slowly, methodically. He needed to guide the energy of the world back into his body and not use it as fuel. He recalled the time during the spider fight in the lower hold of Hearth Fire, where on the brink of collapse he used the energy to allow his body to recover.

Stronric stared at the half-finished rune stone, then stood with effort. His legs felt thick, bloodless. He left his things with the same reverence he would for a fallen comrade.

"I'll be back," he told the forge quietly. "But not like this."

Then, half-stumbling, half-walking, he left the anvil behind and went to the wall of the room. He slid down the wall until his back found a slant in the stone. Cold met bone and his legs stretched out stiffly across the smooth floor. For a long while, he just sat there, staring across the room at the anvil. It hadn't moved, of course it hadn't, but something about its posture, if stone could have such a thing, felt… still watchful. Not cruel or ominous, just patient in the Dwarven way. As if saying, we are as hard and stubborn as the rock you so badly want to shape.

He reached into his satchel of holding and pulled out a wrapped bundle. The cloth inside held dried goat, hard cheese, and half a root. He was saving this for an emergency and now seemed like the right time. He chewed slowly, mechanically. His mouth was dry, and the first bite sat heavy in his gut like a stone dropped in water, but its weight was also comforting. Bit by bit, the fog in his mind pulled back. Next, he retrieved a waterskin, he had no beer or ale, but the water felt refreshing as he took a deep drink.

His fingers still trembled as he poured a bit of water into his palm and wiped the sweat from his brow. The smell of his own effort clung to him metal, grit, and the faint sourness of strain. He didn't care, not right now.

He opened the rune book next, resting it against his thigh. The page on Severance stared back at him, calm and unreadable. It remained just ink on parchment, but the weight of the rune seemed too deep for any one page to contain. Dovren's scribbled notes were still there, curling into the margins like wandering thoughts trying to find footing.

Stronric was reading the notes when one phrase he didn't recall seeing the first time reverberated deep in his mind. "You'll burn yourself out, if you push too hard." The words were written on the top of the page. Stronric blinked from exhaustion rubbing his eyes, sure the words had not been there before. When he looked back at the page the words weren't there. The notes in the margins seemed to change every time Stronric took his eyes off the page. Most of the time the notes were drawing, unreadable, or just very mundane advice about chisel placement.

Stronric rubbed at his sternum, just below where the forge sat in him. The inner fire was dimmer now, barely a flicker. He could feel it, banked down, coals hidden under thick ash. It was always there waiting, burning low and comforting. The flames were barely a flicker above the coals as if they too were tired. He knew the costs of using Ruhna long term. Remembering the fight and pain caused when he pulled too much and broke his Soul Forge and the days spent repairing it. He had become accustomed to using it only for short bursts, like in battle when he needed strength or speed. He had been pulling and using Ruhna constantly as he tried to power through the carving of Severance. This wasn't a job for brute force, it was a steady burn, a slow leak of will and clarity that taxed more than what the surface showed.

He leaned his head back and let the silence fill him. The forge room didn't hum or whisper. It just was and that, somehow, helped more than words ever could. He let his eyes close, leaning into the stillness and silence of the workroom around him. He had practiced meditation and meditative movement before and now seemed like a good time to recenter. He let himself breathe like the billows of a forge deep, steady, unhurried. The stone beneath him didn't judge. The anvil didn't sneer. The broken runes weren't curses on his name; they were lessons. The message rang clear: You do not beat Severance, you embrace it.

His mind entered a trance, and he went through everything associated with severance he could think. Starting with the most mundane, the edge of a bladed weapon. He thought of cutting ties with family, marriages, and even one's own past and history. Severance sometimes causes great pain but could provide relief or even a new life away from the nightmares of one's past. A finger smashed and infected could be severed to save the life. The severing of a relationship used to bleed a families wealth dry ending them in poverty. He thought of the good that came from severing the life of the elven nightmare who once held Rugiel and Bauru's life in his hand. He even toyed with the idea of stopping an echo, severing the sound for silence. Could severance end a person's ability to speak? Kara and Serene both must have a vocal component to use their magic, could he remove their abilities by severing their ability to make sound?

His concentration was broken by a flurry of notifications.

Skill: Meditation rank 13

Skill: Meditation rank 14

Skill: Meditation rank 15

Skill: Meditation rank 16

Skill: Meditation rank 17

Skill: Meditation rank 18

Skill: Meditation rank 19

Skill: Meditation rank 20

Stronric gasped in surprise. "By the beard of Thoranthana, what's goin' on?"

He'd forgotten again to check his notifications, in the days spent in this god-awful dungeon. His thoughts were like smoke in the wind and now only the fatigue remained. He was too tired for notifications or deep thinking so instead he pulled out the cloak and jacket from Dovren. He balled the jacket into a pillow and laid down, pulling the cloak over himself, and closed his eyes.

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He awoke the next morning feeling better. He sat up, stretching his aching arms and sore back. He sipped from his waterskin and chewed mindlessly on his small meal while he looked back to the anvil. He could feel flames burning steadily now in his Soul Forge, a reassuring sign. He spoke to the anvil as if it were sentient, "I could go back to cracking stones on your metal hide, but I feel a lesson still needs to be learned. If ye wanted a true Dwarven solution, a bigger hammer would get the job done." Instead of standing, he shifted, sitting crossed legged on the floor. He awkwardly rested his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. He peaked through his lashes once at the anvil, still distrusting this method of mediation.

The humans had spoken about "monks" and using mediations to "clear their minds". Stronric had never heard of a monk and honestly, he still wasn't sure what exactly they were or their purpose, but when he began to ask too many questions, the explanations became boring. They went into detail of history and religion, and he stopped listening and just nodded along.

He sucked in a breath and slowed his breathing.

Entering his inner forge, he went about preparing for the day's work. Mentally sweeping aside ash and leftover coals. He checked on the different areas he had damaged in his earlier ignorance. This wasn't the time or place to attempt repairs, but even in their broken state, the inner forge felt more familiar now, more his.

He viewed the world of rune smithing with new eyes and yet even as the knowledge settled, he felt a strange discontent. The idea of being locked away for days at a time poring over dusty tomes made his skin itch. His body craved movement. Stillness felt like slow death. Finishing his inspection, he turned back to the question that had haunted him since yesterday:

What was Severance, really?

Why did it resist him so stubbornly?

He had meditated. He had drawn. He had carved. He had bled and broken and burned through stone, but he was no closer to success than when he first stepped into the forge. Stronric turned the idea over again in his mind. No great revelation came.

Just silence.

Frustrated, he exhaled and opened all his unread notifications at once.

His vision filled with messages blooming like molten script in the air around him. He blinked at the flood and slowly began pulling the mess apart.

Skill Notification: Axe Mastery – Level 24

Skill Notification: Axe Mastery – Level 25

[Alert: Axe Mastery Locked]

"Locked?" Stronric scratched his beard. "How can a skill be locked after twenty-five?"

He frowned. "System, why would ye lock my skill?"

It used to bother him, speaking to the thing. He normally avoided it, like a bad smell in a good tunnel. But this time, the question demanded an answer.

[System Response Detected]

Skill acquisition follows traditional dwarven structure sets of 25. You have reached the First Threshold of Mastery: Level 25.

Progress beyond this point requires proof of deeper understanding. Each threshold grants a unique bonus. These bonuses are minimal at first, but grow significantly with

each set: 50, 75, 100. You may now select a Discipline of Combat to continue advancement in Axe Mastery.

A new set of options appeared, written in sharper, older runes:

Discipline Selection – Required for Advancement. Choose one path. Your stance defines your mastery.

Single Axe – Balanced, reactive, adaptable

Dual Wield – Aggressive, relentless, close-quarters

Two-Handed – Powerful, execution-focused, controlling

Throwing – Precision, battlefield shaping, pressure

Adaptive – Flexible, form-shifting, non-specialist

Stronric's eyes narrowed. This wasn't a simple perk. It was a declaration. A formal step into his own fighting creed. Stronric stared at the hovering runes. Five choices, five paths, five neatly labeled boxes, the system expected him to fit inside. He scratched his beard, tension climbing his spine like a rising forge flame.

"A style?" he muttered. "What a foolish ambition."

The glow of the system lingered, patient, expectant. His voice rose, "I am an axe dwarf! I refuse to be reduced to this… to this script, this sorting!" He stood so fast his cloak slid from his shoulders. He paced, fists clenched, words spilling with the heat of molten fury, "Every bloody step I've taken in this cursed world, I've been chained! Some brat demanding glory, a dungeon full o' collars and curses, lies behind every gate and law and now even my own axe must obey?"

He turned and faced the glowing rune list. He seethed through gritted teeth, "I refuse it."

In two strides he reached the crystal axe. He lifted it into his hands, its crystal form shimmering and pulsing faintly, waiting to obey the command of its master. "Ye've taken other forms," he growled at it. "You'll do so again, my way."

He gritted his teeth and focused. The axe rippled, the haft shortened, the axe-head curled back slowly as it shifted into a one-handed form. He reached deeper, toward Severance, the rune still etched in the marrow of his thoughts. He gripped both ends of the weapon and pulled not physically, but mentally. Will against will.

"Split," he hissed. "Ye will split!"

The weapon resisted, hardened against his demand. The form locked as the one-handed axe, refusing to be torn from expectations and rules. Stronric snarled, teeth bared, the crystal trembled in his grip but held.

"Damn ye!" With a roar, he slammed it down on the anvil. The system's runes still hovered above him, unmoved, as if mocking him. He stared up at them, then down at the axe, then to his side where his runesmith's tools waited. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He grabbed the chisel, grabbed the hammer. Then he inhaled.

Deep.

Deeper. His lungs stretched, his chest a furnace. He dragged the Ruhna in, not from the just room, but from deeper in the world. The forge within him screamed in protest, then flared alight with white hot flames.

The system flinched. The hovering runes blurred, as Stronric lifted the chisel. He marked the center of the axe's spine, but not with chalk, this wasn't a draft. He was doing this now. He held the Severance rune in his mind, clean lines, split hooks. No violence, just release.

He struck.

TINK.

Again.

TINK.

The chisel bit deeper, Ruhna flooding down the handle and into the hardened crystal. The axe glowed, resisting as first then cracking.

He carved and smiled as he demanded the world to bend, "Ye will not bind me."

The Severance rune took shape, glowing white-blue.

"Ye will not define me."

He struck the final line clean, sharp.

"I am the shaper, not the shaped."

The axe exploded not in fire, but in light. The sound was like crystal singing as it tore. When the glow cleared, Stronric stood, shoulders heaving, two crystal axes sat on the anvil's top. Each was balanced, whole and separate. The pulse still hummed in synchronized sounds from each, marking them as twins, one being, but now two bodies. The runes of the room around him shattered. The stone holding them crumbled and fell like glass.

No message followed, just silence. As the dust settled down around Stronric a faint glow radiated from his neck. A line branding his flesh formed into a hammer striking a star, unseen and unnoticed. Stronric was too engrossed in his victory and the two crystal axes.

The workroom stood quiet, but it had witnessed a change in the world, rules once binding, broken. He waited, but no runes appeared, and no system spoke. Then the anvil let out a single, low chime not a magical tone or fanfare, but something final, like stone accepting a tool laid to rest. At its base, a stone drawer slid open, and Stronric blinked. He stepped forward and knelt, wary. Inside, he found a rune stone carved with Severance flawless and glowing faintly. He reached out and lifted the stone, beneath it, wrapped in thick black leather, was another object.

He set the stone on the anvil and unwrapped the item before him, a heavy forging bracer. It was made from dark steel and chased together with silver thread. It was dense and sturdy, obviously dwarven made. He turned the bracer over and found the inside lined with old runes. It was made to fit over a Smith's forearms. These were for protection against a blade during battle but instead wore as a solid surface to steady a hand. He turned it over again slowly tracing the runes and craftsmanship with a finger.

The drawer they had come from had only opened after he'd carved Severance into the axe. Only after he had made something new.

"Huh," he muttered a smile again, playing on his lips. "So… I guess that was good enough, then." He didn't boast his victory or celebrate, he even contained his smile as he strapped the bracer on with care. For a breath moment the words appeared before him before fading to nothing.

Reward Acquired: Bracer of the Bound Flame

Forged for those who shape the world, not take from it.

+10% rune carving precision.

+5 resistance to magical backlash

Passive: Ember Recall - perfectly remember the last rune committed to memory for up to 24 hours

Another shimmer followed.

Rune-Craft Skill Increased: +5 Levels

Current Level: 15

Stronric exhaled and nodded once. "So that's the way of it," he said softly.

Stronric buckled the bracer around his forearm, the leather stiff but supple, the metal cool to the touch. The fit was almost too perfect for coincidence. The moment the final strap clicked into place, the pressure in the forge changed, like a long-held breath finally released. It didn't feel overly magical or divine, it felt like the other rooms and caverns once the rune was complete. It just felt right.

He flexed his hand, testing the newly added weight. It felt good, familiar even though he'd never worn it before. The etching along the inner plate whispered the faint promise of precision, not power. This wasn't a tool for force. It was for clarity. He looked down at the rune stone resting on the anvil, carved clean with Severance. His carving hadn't been perfect, not by his reckoning but the anvil had judged it otherwise. He picked it up carefully, held it between two fingers, the lines holding the solid truth. A mirror of what he'd forced into being.

Stronric tucked the stone into his pouch, unsure if it was meant to be a keepsake, a measure of his success, or something he would need to return someday. He stood and looked back at the anvil, not even certain what he was hoping for, praise maybe, or one final test. It remained exactly where it had been all along: silent, squat, and unmoved. Yet something about it had changed. It wasn't colder or warmer, but it no longer felt like it was waiting. He let out a long breath through his nose. "It hadn't just been about passin'," he said softly to himself. "It was about addin'."

The forge didn't answer. It didn't need to.

Stronric turned and held the twin axes in his hands, then willed them back together with a slow breath. The crystal responded, the two weapons fusing seamlessly into a single, two-handed axe once more. It was no longer just a weapon, it was an extension of thought, blood, and fire. He hadn't unlocked its forms; he had forged them. Split them with Severance, sealed them with craft, and shaped them by will alone. He slung the weapon across his back, where it settled clean into the heavy sheath there, fitting as if it had always belonged.

His body ached. His knuckles still stung from the last stroke, and yet, he felt steadier than he had in days. He turned to the worktable and neatly packed his own tools away. Rolling them back into their leather case and placing them gently into his bag of holding. He turned to go back up the stairs when the archway at the far end of the forge had begun to shimmer. Faint light traced the seams of the door that had once been invisible, now revealed. The path ahead had opened not by permission, but by recognition.

Stronric walked slowly toward it, each footstep measured. He passed by the racks of tools once more, giving them a glance. Hammers, tongs, chisels, each one still resting in their place. Tools of builders, of shapers, of those who left something behind.

He didn't take one because he had his own now.

At the threshold, he paused and cast one last look back over the Rune Smith. The anvil stood silent, the room still but it no longer felt like a trial. It felt like a hall of memory. Stronric stepped through the archway without another word, and the door sealed gently behind him, as if the stone itself understood. There was no fanfare, no celebration, just a craftsman, walking forward, while behind him, the smithy held its peace, task completed, lesson passed, and his addition accepted.

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