Karrion's heavy, resolute back was like a slab of iron hammered by grief and years, burned into Raine's and Thalia's retinas. The dwarf did not look back; he simply drove his battle‑axe into the twisted vines ahead, each step planted with brute force as if to crush the very filth underfoot. The sickly sweet stench and faint, maddening whispers in the air seemed to recoil from the aura of sorrow and determination radiating from him.
Silence enveloped this makeshift trio. Raine and Thalia followed wordlessly—after their ordeal and Karrion's sudden outburst, the mood was oppressive. Raine opened his mouth several times, but had nothing to say. Words of comfort or sympathy felt hollow before so much pain. He gripped his sword hilt tighter, his vigilance sharpened, and stowed that heaviness away.
Thalia walked between them, her hooded face unreadable. Yet Raine sensed a subtle shift in her usual icy presence. Though she could not fully fathom the dwarf's loss, she seemed to recognize the despair of being consumed and the stubborn will to fight on.
They slogged through the Corruption Wood's gloom for nearly another hour. Dusk deepened; the sickly green patches of light drifted across the forest floor, lengthening the trees' monstrous shadows. The air grew damper, heavier, and the whispers coalesced into something like invisible tendrils probing their minds.
"Up ahead… something's there." Karrion's voice cut the silence, weary but sharp. He halted, beard quivering as he strained to listen.
Raine and Thalia froze too. Beyond the rustle of warped foliage and distant, hoarse cries of nameless creatures, came an unusual tremor from beneath the earth.
"It's not living," Thalia's ice‑blue eyes scoured the undergrowth. "It's… residual energy. Very old—and very faint."
Karrion nodded, raking aside a bramble‑like fungal growth with his axe. "Follow me, watch your step."
They veered toward the energy's source and, after another quarter hour, emerged into a small clearing deep in the woods. Unlike the surrounding twisted vegetation, this ground was oddly level, paved with broken stone slabs marked by the hand of builders long gone. In the center stood the remnants of collapsed walls and severed columns—ruins of an ancient outpost or temple annex.
The structure was modest: perhaps a small watch station or auxiliary shrine. Most had fallen into ruin, overgrown by black‑purple vines and moss, but a few core walls remained, hewn from rough, massive stones. The style was neither the starborne's finesse nor the dwarf's precise engineering, but something more primal, more ancient.
"This will do for a rest," Karrion said, surveying the ruins, letting some tension drain from his shoulders. He strode to one intact wall, brushed away the moss to reveal faint, geometric carvings. "Stone's solid enough," he tapped the wall with his axe, echoing in the clearing. "We've got wind cover and some shelter."
He set to work like a tireless worker-bee, checking the rubble perimeter. He cleared brambles hiding stinging insects or small corrupted vermin, used rope and spare stones to reinforce a breach that looked like an entrance, then brought out glimmering metal powders, sprinkling them at key corners of the ruins.
Raine quietly admired the dwarf's methodical thoroughness. Though rough in manner, Karrion's attention to survival and security far exceeded his own.
Thalia stood at the clearing's heart, eyes closed, feeling the energy flows. Moments later, she opened her eyes. "The field here is more stable, with milder corruption. Those ancient symbols on the walls still have a repellent effect—though very weak."
"Hmph—old protective runes," Karrion responded without looking up, sketching something with a pointed stone at the entrance. "Basic stuff. Drives off mindless corruption. Better than nothing."
He finished carving a simple angular sigil on the ground. "That'll buy us some breathing room. We take shifts keeping watch—me first, then you, Thalia, and you, star‑born boy, get the darkest hour before dawn."
They divided watches and cleared a small patch behind the walls. Karrion even produced a bundle of treated wood—low‑smoke kindling—and lit a small fire. The flickering blaze drove away some chill and lent them a rare sense of warmth and safety.
Raine and Thalia ate their rations in silence. Karrion sat by the fire, taking up his battle‑axe and sharpening its blade with a whetstone. In the firelight, his weather‑scarred features softened, his eyes—once filled with pain and rage—now held a focused, almost reverent expression.
"Karrion," Raine ventured, "those runes on the ground, and the stone you used on the Corruption Wolves—are those… dwarf runic magic?"
Karrion paused his sharpening, glancing up at Raine with mild surprise. "Sort of. Dwarf runes differ from human wizardry or starborne magic. We don't manipulate elements directly; we… guide and solidify forces. Etch patterns that, when inscribed on objects, produce certain effects."
He lifted a half‑finished wooden talisman engraved with a shield‑and‑radiance motif. "This is a 'Ward Rune,' a basic defensive glyph. On a shield it adds toughness; on a charm, a little protection against curses or blunt force."
Next, he held up a flat stone with a spiral carving. "A variant of the 'Purification Rune,' like what I used. It disperses corrupt energies in a small radius. But its effect is limited and wears off fast."
He tapped the axe's engraved blade. "Truly powerful runes—'Armor‑Piercing,' 'Evil‑Cleaving,' or the legendary 'Seal Runes'—act on deeper cosmic laws. Dwarven masters once built gates inscribed with 'Everlasting Barrier' or forged 'Mountain‑Splitting War‑Axes.' But that was in the past—stories now."
His voice darkened at mention of Stoneheart Keep.
"Can these runes truly eradicate corruption?" Raine asked, hope flickering in his eyes.
Karrion was silent a long moment, then shook his head. "Eradicate? No. Corruption isn't mere dark energy—it's a twisting and denial of existence itself. Our runes seal, purify, or drive away—like dams against a flood or boots through plague debris. They hold it back, but the source remains; the flood and plague can return."
He set the axe aside, tracing patterns on a piece of obsidian with a small tool. "Still, dwarf ingenuity is no joke. We're studying how to better fight this. Advanced 'Anti‑Evil Runes' or 'Soul‑Binding Runes' help against corrupted beasts and undead. And there's 'Order Rune,' said to repair the very fabric of reality—though that demands enormous power and a prime conduit."
Karrion paused, staring into the fire, lost in thought. The forest around them seemed alive with sinister rustles, making the little ruin feel like an island amid a storm.
He went back to his forge, pulling from his pack a portable furnace and tools, then rummaging through the rubble for metal shards and special clay. Bending over the flames, he began to hammer and shape with ringing clangs, sparks flying in the gloom. He inlaid his rune‑engraved talismans into arrows' fletching, coated stone powders on Raine's scabbard for a faint protective layer, and carved several diamond‑shaped throwing stones, inscribing crude purification runes on each.
His work was meticulous and driven, as though he were performing a ritual as much as crafting defense. At times his gaze drifted to the forest beyond, recalling a sunlit mountain kingdom of hammers and song.
"…My master said, every hammer strike must carry respect. Iron has a soul, fire has spirit, runes are the language that binds them…" he murmured, as if to an unseen audience. "…He said a dwarf's hammer not only forges weapons but protects the home and kin…"
His voice cracked; his hammering faltered briefly. Raine saw him close his eyes, veins standing out on his neck, knuckles white. Finally he drew a deep breath and resumed, each strike now heavier, laden with sorrow.
Raine watched in silence. He imagined the memories flooding Karrion—Stoneheart Keep's fall, burning homes, twisted brethren, the deafening wails, and his own helpless despair. That anguish, like maggots in bone, gnawed at the dwarf's soul.
Sensing Raine's gaze, Karrion paused, handing him a finished rune‑tipped arrow. "Here, boy. For those low‑grade corrupted beasts—might help. Aim for their energy core or weak spots; the rune needs contact to activate."
Raine took the arrow; it felt weighty. The rune glowed faintly with power. "Thank you, Karrion."
Karrion waved it off and held up a star‑like glimmering mineral shard. "All this is a drop in the bucket," he said grimly. "To truly fight the corruption at its heart or sever the Void's Throat, we need weapons and runes far stronger."
He looked up at Raine, eyes settling on the slight scar from their earlier fight. The flesh around it looked paler—almost luminous. "The most powerful anti‑corruption tools, or the mightiest seal runes, often require the infusion of great life force or… exceptionally pure magical energy to awaken them and keep them alive."
His gaze bore into Raine with a complex intensity—respect, inquiry, even a hint of… greed: desire for power and vengeance. "And of all energies, one stands supreme…" he intoned.
His eyes, so deep they could be bottomless mines, settled on Raine. "That energy is… Starborne blood," Karrion finished, his voice clear in the crackling firelight. "Because it carries the purest, primal power to combat the shadows."
Raine's heart plummeted; a chill raced down his spine. He gripped his fist, and his scar seemed to ache. Karrion's knowing look was an invisible key unlocking Raine's own doubts and fears. He recalled Thalia's earlier reaction to his blood, the Fallen Stone's visions and backlashes… Could his family's thin, long‑cursed blood truly hold such pivotal power?
The clearing froze in silence. Thalia's downcast eyes flickered open, her ice‑blue gaze reflecting a complex spark. She glanced at Raine, then swiftly looked away, fingers tightening on her water skin.
Karrion, realizing the weight of his words, turned away and hammered again on a red‑hot ingot, shattering the hush with reverberations as if to break the suffocating stillness.
"Don't overthink, boy," he rumbled, not looking up. "I'm just… stating a fact. That's the dwarven lore. As for using it, how to use it… that's another story."
Though he said it lightly, the seed of that revelation had been planted deep in Raine's heart, stirring panic in his veins: his body had become both a vessel of immense power and a magnet for calamity.
Silence descended once more, heavier than before. Only the fire's hiss and Karrion's steady hammering echoed through the ancient stone.
After a long while, Karrion finished and distributed the crafted gear to Raine and Thalia. Then he stepped to the edge of the ruins, staring into the pitch‑black forest brimming with unknown dangers, wordless.
Just as Raine thought he would remain silent, Karrion turned, his face set in rare solemnity and resolve.
"Boy—and witch," he said, his voice low and firm as an oath struck on an anvil, "do you know why I'm here? Why I've waded into this mess with you?"
Raine and Thalia fell silent, gazing at him.
"After Stoneheart Keep fell, I escaped. I'm one of the few survivors," Karrion said, pain restrained into iron. "I watched my home—and my kin—twisted into those abominations. I swore an oath."
He raised his scarred, calloused fist as though clutching an invisible hammer. "I, Karrion Anvil, one of the last runesmiths of Stoneheart, swear on my hammer and on these broken mountains: I will find a way to utterly destroy this corruption! I will forge with my own hands a weapon mighty enough to sever the Void's Throat itself!"
His words rang through the ruin with a dwarven stubbornness and unyielding spirit. Firelight danced in his eyes—anger and grief, but more than anything, a heavy sense of duty.
"This is not just revenge," he said, looking at Raine with blade‑sharp intensity, "but protection—for those like you who bear hope's spark, and for a world not yet wholly devoured!"
His oath struck Raine's heart like literal metal. A warmth flushed his chest, dispelling his earlier dread. He witnessed the solid core beneath the dwarf's rough exterior: a resolve that now kindled his own.
"I understand, Karrion," Raine stood and joined him. "I don't know what the future holds, or what my blood truly means. But like you, I will not bow to darkness."
Karrion grinned, revealing strong, crooked teeth, and slapped Raine so hard on the shoulder it nearly staggered him. "Aye, that's the spirit!" he boomed, laughter chasing away the gloom. "But forging a divine weapon takes skill, material, magic—and luck. Especially with that 'Starborne blood' of yours… you best be ready to bleed plenty! No crying later!"
Raine's lips twitched—Karrion's vulgar humor unchanged. This time, Raine said nothing but firmly nodded.
Thalia watched them, her hooded mouth curving into a barely perceptible smile.
Night deepened as the firelight danced among ancient stones. The Corruption Wood's whispers still stirred beyond the clearing, but here—protected by dwarf runes and three steadfast wills—a darker, stronger bond had quietly formed: a shared oath transcending race and grief, bound by common enemies and flickering hope.
The Anvil Oath was forged. Though the path ahead lay in deepest darkness, they would stride it together.