As I walk down the drab, dull corridor-street, memories begin to intrude. They are small ones, at first—of walking into this pub or that, then stumbling out and into the next one. Of strolling down the street next to a comrade, talking of forging. Of returning from some job or other, tired, my armor weighing me down heavily.

Then the memories grow more intense:

I pass the entrance to the forge I used to rent, and remember stepping out of it clad in runes of ice, a skull-mask over my face—I don't remember what I said, but I remember what was in my heart: desire to kill and to die.

A little further, and I remember Braztak. He was more committed than I was. Into his armor he wrote runes of his own destruction. They proclaimed that when he was subsumed in dragonflame he would gain power equal to it. He smashed its jaw, yet that was still not quite enough.

Then all of a sudden, there they are—the doors to the guildhall. They remain as they were. In fifty years, no one has dared to touch this place. Who would lay hands on the old guild of a Runethane? And even before my rise to power, who would dare lay hands on the hall of a guild who'd perished to the last slaying a terrible threat? No one would be so dishonorable.

The gates are barred and locked, as I'm sure Wharoth left them. The key is likely on his skeleton, in the cold wastes somewhere, buried alongside his warriors in deep ice and snow.

I raise Steelpierce and lay the blade against the rusted chain. I push down, and the metal parts easily. I briefly wonder what Wharoth would think of me doing this. I'm sure he would see that I have no choice, if I'm to retrieve what is mine.

Still, I do not like to defile another dwarf's work. I'll have to pay recompense. I'll forge a new chain myself later, and have carved into the wall here that no one will enter or repurpose this cavern on pain of death.

"Stay out here," I order my guards. "No one is to follow me in. Not even if they're a Runethane. Lantern, please."

A guard passes me one. I light it, push open the gates, and walk in.

The lantern's white glow spreads over the wide courtyard before me. As I walk through, I can almost see the specters of the dead, and visions of my greatest errors. I walk around the side of the solid square of stone that is the main hall, and see the second courtyard where I did most of my teaching. I stop and stare, remembering all those initiates who put their trust in me, in the traitor who'd won forgiveness against all odds.

Did I train them well? Not particularly. I showed them how to fight, but never properly. I seem to recall that I spent most of my time boasting. And in the forge, I was not much help either. I said words, but they were never the right ones.

Well, a dwarf must forge his or her own path. There's only so much a teacher can do. My failure was not in any instructions about battle or metal, but in giving them false hope. Was it here that I promised Guthah I'd keep them safe? Or was it inside the hall, or in some drinking house? I can't remember.

It doesn't matter where I promised it, only that I broke that promise.

I can almost see his face, as I turn around and walk past the spot we used to spar. It was a face of determination and hope for the future. After the dragon, it became one of despair. Then he gained hope—which was snatched away. Finally, when I met him during the battle with the beasts, after I'd fought through a horde of screaming chitin to save him and the rest of the refugees, his expression was one of hatred.

He even tried to stab me. He knew it was me in front of him. I'm sure of that.

That was nearly fifty years ago. What is he doing now? Is he even alive? Did he seek his death somewhere, out of despair for lost Pellas? Or his he still out there in another realm far from here, forging and fighting? Gaining strength—for what purpose, though? Has he found a new one, or is he fixed on revenge against Vanerak?

Or revenge against me?

I shake my head sadly as I approach the doors to the guildhall proper. He's almost certainly dead. I can't imagine him going off to live some ordinary life in another realm. He'll have forged, and fought, and fought too hard. That's the sort he was.

These doors are locked too. I stab through the mechanism. Sparks burst out and runes squeal. I rip Steelpierce out and the doors swing open.

I step in. Long tables and benches stretch out before me, my lantern casting long shadows from them. They seem familiar, but the room itself does not. It looks too small. Is this because there's with no one in it, or just because it is small? The Association of Steel was never a very large guild. Wharoth never managed to grow it by much, though maybe that was by intention. He didn't want things to become uncontrollable. He preferred a guild where everyone knew each other's name.

Maybe that was a mistake. If he'd grown it further, been more aggressive with his money collecting, he might have proceeded past second degree. He never unlocked the secret of true metal, I'm sure of it. I never felt the power of it in his armor, even if it was well-made. Braztak knew—surely it was some true metal in his runes that was able to give him his final burst of strength as he burned alive.

As I proceed through the hall, I wonder at what could have been. What if Wharoth had kept the guild together, and agreed that we had to seek revenge, together?

Nothing would have changed, I think glumly. Vanerak would still have caught him, or else he would have been slain by the black dragon. In the end, nothing would have changed. His kindness led him to take me in, and then his kindness led him to try and save me from the black dragon—from my own madness.

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Then he perished for it.

I sigh. I'd expected to feel more sad, coming here. I had visions of collapsing and weeping upon the floor of the guildhall. I thought my sorrow at what's gone past would overwhelm me with floods of tears.

I sit down on one of the dusty chairs. So much time has passed since my life here. My memories seem all a blur, all vague. I have my own guild, now, and I think I run it better than Wharoth did.

But then again, if he'd run his guild better, I never would have been let in. I'd have been kicked out back into the tunnels, probably to starve. His kindness was his weakness, yes, but it was also what saved me.

I shake my head. There's no more lessons to be had here. I know what I did wrong, all those years ago, and have moved passed it. No longer do I make promises I can't keep. Each time a new recruit enters the guild, I tell them this:

"You're part of us, but you're your own dwarf, too. We will fight alongside one another. We will share knowledge of runes and metal. But I cannot promise you success. You will have to find that for yourself."

I look to Wharoth's chair. The last time I saw him on it, he was pleading with us to give up on revenge. He was desperate to keep us alive. I understand that feeling better now than I did back then. How would I feel if my army decided to disobey my orders and march to their certain doom?

Unlike Wharoth, I wouldn't let them. I don't allow those who disobey me to go without punishment. My dwarves know this too, and so none of them push their luck. Should he have had Braztak punished, then? Punished for wanting revenge? Wharoth thought revenge was wrong, a waste of blood.

What would I have done, had I been guildmaster? Unlike him, I do not think revenge is a waste. Revenge is necessary—if you do not punish those who wrong you, that only invites further harm. So, would I have allowed half the guild to go along?

I would have led the whole guild there, I think. Led them to their doom. Staying back was the right decision, for survival, if not for honor. If Wharoth had just stayed behind in Allabrast, where Vanerak could not have reached him—then perhaps we would be talking, right now. Discussing the past and the future, Runethane to first degree, the rank he surely would have reached by now.

It would have been a shamed guild, though. A broken one. Who would choose to follow a guildmaster who fled his best chance at revenge?

Sensible runeknights, maybe. I laugh quietly. Are there such? I suppose there are—those who earn their coin through business, trade, and getting others to do the dirty work for them. Wharoth wasn't one of those either, though. He didn't care so much for coin, or else he would've squeezed more out the guild.

I find myself shaking my head again. It's a sad place, this. The story of the Association of Steel is a tragedy. Broken twice, and both times I had a hand in the destruction. Shame weighs down on me. I slam my fist down on the table. The bang echoes from the dust-coated walls. How could I have been such a selfish fool? Twice over!

The feeling passes as soon as it comes. I've castigated myself so many times for my mistakes that the memories no longer affect me. In the end, I can't go back and change things. And in the end, those mistakes made me who I am today: the Second Runeforger, who so many believe to be the last hope for dwarfkind.

I stand up. Before I leave this gray place, there is one more thing I must do. I head out of the hall and into the back tunnel, and make my way to my old quarters. The way is familiar, and the door, for all its degradation, is too. I open it—the hinges are rusted and it creaks loudly.

My quarters are as gray as the rest of the guildhall, coated thickly with the dust of years. I look around. I still do not feel much. Compared to other sections of my life, the one I spent here did not last so long. A hundred long-hours? Three hundred, at most. I spent more than a thousand in Vanerak's cruel realm.

Beside the bed is a case, which I open. I pick up one of the armor fragments for examination. It's hard to tell that they once were a breastplate that saved my life from the crushing stomp of a troll. They have no power about them anymore.

I set the case aside to carry back later. They saved my life, and deserve respect, even if they're not the item I've returned for.

"Been a long time, hasn't it?" I whisper to the weapon leaning against the corner. "And you still hold your power."

Darkness glows through the cloth. With careful hands, I unwrap the weapon. I hold the lantern up to its blade. All but a fraction of the light vanishes into it.

For the first time in more than six thousand long-hours, I am looking upon Heartseeker—my first real weapon. I smile, and my scarred face is reflected on the black metal. This spear served me well for a long time. Many a life has it taken. Dwarf, salamander, troll—nearly a hundred have fallen to this blade. And it's still sharp, even now. I run a finger down its head. Its glow dulls my gauntlet.

Ah, but was it really so poorly crafted? The head is slightly asymmetrical and the blade's edges misaligned. Its power is uneven where I crudely re-welded blade to haft it. As for the poem, it is uninspired, almost trite, with a decidedly inefficient runic flow. My altered runes haven't even been altered correctly, and the power is unstable, especially along the haft.

I've come a long way from the hour of this spear's creation. A memory comes back suddenly, vivid and sudden, of Wharoth bursting through the door, and staring at this weapon in awe and horror.

Heavily, I fall back onto my old bed. Dust whirls around me. It stings in my eyes and, finally, tears come forth.

"Oh, Wharoth," I whisper to the dust. "You poor old fool."

He was the first to recognize me, kind old Wharoth. He was the only one who saw the potential in me, a ragged, dirty miner clutching the very crudest of crafts. He was the first to see the power in my runes. They are now changing the very fate of dwarfkind. So many use them, now—but he was the first to, on his shield that ate dragonflame.

I shut my eyes and see him standing before the burning guildhall. I see the black dragon, borne aloft above him. Fire lances down, and Wharoth raises his shield. It takes in the heat and light. It begins to melt—but he's frustrated the dragon for long enough. Bolts rain down and the beast flees.

My runes saved him that hour. In the end, though, they proved his undoing. He saw in me what no others saw, tried to protect me, and died for it.

I wipe the tears away on my armor. Many more have died for me since then. More will, in the coming war. I'd prefer if they didn't have to. But they've chosen me to put their faith in, and I won't disrespect them for it. If they choose to follow me to the ends of the underworld and beyond, just as Wharoth did when he set out to the surface—me and Braztak and all those other revenge-bent mad dwarves—well, I will just have to try and live up to their faith.

From the blood of the world, I will create more runes. They will make us strong, and none will be able to stand before us.

And in the great carvings of history, Wharoth will stand as the dwarf who first saw them for what they were. He only ever reached second degree, yet he was one of the greatest. Few dwarves have been so brave. Fewer have been so kind.

I leave, Heartseeker under one arm, case of armor fragments clutched in my hand.

"Stay here, you ten," I order half the guards. "No one is to enter. I will make a new chain and lock, and only once it is complete will you be relieved of your duty. Understood?"

"Understood!" they reply sharply.

"Within here is history and memory. It is never to be disturbed. Not even I will enter, since I am no longer part of the Association. Only one dwarf, by the name of Guthah, has the right to. I will carve that on a metal plate and hang it from the chain." I turn to the other ten guards. "Now, let us turn away from my past, and to the past of the dwarves. We head to the great libraries. I have answers I must seek."

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