Ironspire.
The very name breathed smoke and steel.
It wasn't a city in the traditional sense. It was a forge that never slept, a furnace carved into the spine of the mountains. Buildings were squat and built from dark stone, their walls scorched from the inside out. Narrow alleys weaved between massive workshops, each one pulsing with the clang of hammers and the roar of fire. The scent of molten metal, oil, and soot coated the air like a second skin.
Malrick, Rayan, and Orien stood at the edge of the wide stone path leading into the heart of the settlement. They were covered in road dust, their cloaks tattered, and their faces still marked by the lingering shadow of Moonshade.
Malrick exhaled slowly as he gazed at the rising pillars of smoke and the glowing forge towers."At least here," he muttered, "the fire doesn't whisper back."
Orien gave a faint nod, arms crossed tightly. Rayan, however, remained silent, his eyes scanning the blacksmiths, the soldiers, the watchmen. Looking not for danger, but for... purpose. Direction.
The clang of metal drew nearer. A towering man approached, skin darkened by smoke and muscle sculpted by years of hammering steel. He wore a leather apron and thick gloves, and soot covered his face like war paint.
He studied them with a blacksmith's eye quick, discerning, unimpressed."Outlanders," he said gruffly."You don't carry trade. You carry need."
Orien stepped forward, voice calm but firm."We need a weapon. One that can endure more than steel and strike deeper than shadow."
The man raised a bushy brow, then laughed. A low, metallic sound that rang like an anvil being struck."You and every other ghost-chaser who crawls into Ironspire thinking steel can fix what's broken."
He turned, but then paused. Glancing back, something in Rayan's eyes gave him pause. Not desperation. Something heavier."But you… you've seen something. Lost something."
He pointed a thick finger toward the western horizon, where the black peaks of distant mountains clawed at the sky."You want a blade that matters?""Then you'll need dragonhide. Not from a corpse. From a living beast. One that breathes fire older than the world remembers."
Rayan's voice was hoarse."A dragon?"
The man nodded once."Drakenshold. It's a scar on the land, far southeast of here. Ruled by an ancient wyrm. Last of the Flameborn. Its hide can take the bite of shadow, resist corruption, and hold enchantments that would shatter lesser steel."
Malrick narrowed his eyes."And what happens if we bring you that hide?"
The man's lips curled into a grim smile."Then I'll forge you something the old kings would have killed for. A sword worthy of legends."
Orien's gaze didn't waver."And if we die trying?"
The man shrugged, already turning back toward his forge."Then your bones will be just another story Ironspire forgets."
That night, as the forge fires glowed red across the sky, the three companions sat in silence on the edge of the settlement. The sound of hammering never ceased.
They were tired. Scarred. And yet, something had shifted.
They were no longer running from the past.
They were walking straight into the fire.
Next: Drakenshold.