The homestead greeted him with the soft hush of an old place that had learned to hold its breath. Moss along the lintel drank in the lantern light turning the soft glow a gentle green. The hearth's last coals gave off a coppery glow that made the air feel warmer than it was. Stronric stepped through the doorway with his two-handed crystal axe strapped across his back and the new bracer attached snuggly to his forearm. The anvil trial still clung to his bones, not as pain, but as a settled weight. He breathed through the memories and allowed the smell of stone and spent smoke of the humble home before him steady him.

A chir sliced the quiet. It was quick and bright, like a pebble tossed into a still pool. The Mountain Canary launched from the rafters. Its raptor-like body was all lean curve and sinew, its plume and crest flaring with a pearly sheen. It landed lightly onto the ground and sprang up at him. It pressed its beak to his shoulder with an eager clack. He laughed, surprised by how much the sound felt like relief.

"Aye, there ye are," Stronric said softly, rubbing along the length of the bird's neck. "I am back."

The creature danced a half step, tapped his chest with the top of its head, and then hopped around floor to peck at a scatter of iron filings Dovren must have left out. Its throat worked as it swallowed, content as only a canary that eats ore can be. It looked back at him, bright eyed and expectant. The simple joy of that gaze washed the last of the forge's severity from him.

Dovren shimmered into view near the table. The ghost had a habit of arriving on the edge of perception, like someone you already knew was in the room and had finally turned his head to greet you. He stood very still at first. His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in careful assessment. He took in the bracer, the set of Stronric's shoulders, and the way the axe rested perfectly in the sheath as if it had always known that spot.

"You are early," Dovren said. His voice had the calm of an archivist who did not expect to be surprised by a ledger. It carried a current of quiet awe. "Too early."

Stronric cocked a brow. "Early for what."

"For failure," Dovren said softly. "Or for being sent where Severance could be taught without breaking you. The Hidden Anvil was not meant to be found. Not by you. Not yet."

The canary chirred, as if agreeing that schedules were for other people. It patted to Stronric's boot and tugged at a loose lace with cheerful insistence. Stronric nudged it away with the side of his knee and kept his eyes on the ghost.

"I found it," Stronric said. "It was the way I felt I was being lead."

Dovren's gaze sharpened. He folded his hands behind his back. The gesture was absent-minded and old, something he must have done when he still had lungs and blood. "You did more than find it. You passed it."

Stronric gave a short nod.

Dovren's composure faltered for the span of a breath. His mouth worked and he hummed under it, a dry sound like parchment sliding over wood. He stepped closer, studying Stronric as if reading a rune that did not wish to be read. The ghost's eyes had no pupils, only a shift of pale blue fire, but they held the same careful focus, which a master gives a student who has come back from a task that should have broken him.

"Show me your hands," Dovren said.

Stronric held them out. The knuckles were raw and split in fine lines. Crystal dust sat in the creases, and a faint tremor ran through the fingers of a craftsman who had pushed past the body's patience. Dovren did not reach, because he could not, but his gaze traced each mark with grave attention.

"You did not pass by learning a pattern on stone," Dovren said at last. "You passed because you cut the chain that tried to name you. You severed yourself from the script that would have sorted you. That is Severance in its truest shape."

Stronric drew his hands back and flexed them. The ache was honest and clean. "Aye. I would not be penned in. So, I made the cut."

Dovren looked up. Warmth and sorrow sat together in his features, not pity, but respect for the kind of wound that is chosen. "I had meant to send you to the River Cut. The cataract teaches how to split stone without breaking it. It would have shown you the edge. It would not have taught you to free your own name from a binding. The hidden anvil was not meant to reveal itself, yet it did. It answered you because you refused to be led."

Stronric shrugged, then winced at the memory of a dwarves. "I stumbled upon it," he said. "After meeting the kinsmen in the mines, I pushed forward."

The canary hopped up to the bench, butt high in the air as it tilted its head as if it was looking for something that tasted good ahead. It chirped and rattled its throat, then pecked Stronric's bracer as if testing the metal. Stronric let it, and the bird vibrated happily, as if the steel's whisper pleased it.

Dovren's eyes softened. "You are changed," he said. "Not your face, or your stance but you center line. I did not expect that to shift so soon."

"Hardly," Stronric said. "I have been stubborn my whole life. Ma used to say it was in our bones."

Silence settled, untroubled and full. The ghost regarded him for a long moment, then inclined his head, the slightest degree, not a bow, something quieter than that. A mark that a teacher gives when a student has walked past the edge and returned without losing himself.

"You should rest," Dovren said. "Eat. Wash. Your inner fire is thin. I can hear it in the way your words land."

"I could eat," Stronric admitted. "And I smell like a mine after a cave-in."

Dovren's mouth tugged at one corner. "Go, I'll heat the cistern. If you don't have a pipe, I have one you can use. I cannot use it. The one who used to own it would be more than happy to share it with you."

Stronric smiled. "I'd be honored, if only we had some beer."

He dropped his pack on the table, unbuckled the sheath, and set the axe carefully against the leg of the bench. The canary paced the bench in a circle and then sprang onto the ground. It pressed its neck against his neck and trilled a low note that he felt more than he heard.

"I will be back," he told his bird friend. "Guard the house."

The canary flared its crest and settled like a piece of living ornament. It made no move to follow him. He found the shower just where he had left it, an alcove polished smooth by use and time. The copper tank above pinged and flexed as the heat soaked through, and a thin veil of steam curled from its seams. He turned the silver nozzle. Warm water spilled from the stone vent high on the wall in a steady, generous stream, striking the copper catch-basin and draining away at once through a hidden pipe. He stripped with a grunt at each knot of sore muscle, then stepped into the basin and let the heat sink through him until the ache at his joints began to ease.

He tipped his face into the fall of fresh water and came away with his beard soaked and heavy, water running from his hair in dark ropes. He scrubbed the grime from his neck, wrists, and elbows, then set his forearms against the cool stone and simply stood there, breathing until the rhythm of his breath matched the soft rush from the vent.

Stronric leaned against the wall of the shower. Without Dovren prying eye Stronric let out a moan. His legs shook and he could barely keep his weight up. He opened his skill list and looked at the axe mastery. The world shifted and Stronric held onto the walls to keep from tipping over. The skill screen floated in his vision, but the runes were broken, changing between words, font, size and even language. Stronric gasped and grabbed his head, it felt like his head was splitting in half.

As the script in front of him kept Stronric saw a consistency between all the changes.

Input new skill.

The command flash away and Stronric didn't even know if it was real. Stronric needed one more burst of strength to get through this moment, so he closed his eyes and breathed in a small pinch of Ruhna. He then gently nudged the Ruhna towards the broken script flashing before his closed eyes. The system resisted it at first, but then a tendril of cool energy entered Stronric mind. Stronric could feel it pouring through his mind and memories. Stronric screamed but the pain was so immense that no sound came from his mouth. The tendril slowly left his mind and Stronric collapse into the corner of the shower.

New skill acquired: Master of Axes.

Like a trap slamming shut, his mind was pulled back into place. The lines of pain that split his mind were now filled with new understanding.

The canary chirped in the other room. The sound carried faintly through the doorway, and it calmed him. He found that odd, he hadn't known the canary for long, but the beast had grown on him. He took a few more breath making sure his feet were steady and then stood slowly.

He closed his eyes and went inward to his forge. He moved through that inner place with less confusion than he had a week ago. The main forge was banked, a good bed resting deep coal under thick ash. The side vent where he had pulled too hard was still warped, and the gathering channel he had widened yesterday throbbed with a dull red pulse, like an overworked muscle. He did not touch any of it. Not now. He noted what needed work and let the forge rest.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He let his mind drift to the party. He conjured them one by one and set them along the far wall of the forge in his head like the tools on the homestead rack. Rugiel, tall for a dwarf and iron sure. Bauru, eyes too sharp for peace. Serene, quiet focus and a healer's grit. Dane, steady hands and the wall unbendable wall for the team. Armand, chivalry that had teeth. Giles, trying to be more than the weight of his name. Even Kara drifted through his thoughts. She, however, did not settle. He did not ask why, he had enough hard questions inside his chest already.

"You lot better be alive," he murmured, voice muffled by steam. "I am coming."

His purpose was not to give a speech. It was a simple line drawn on a simple stone. He needed to get back to them by cutting the thing that held him. Then walk the dungeon until his boots found the sound of their steps again. He leaned his head against the stone and felt the mountain answer with its own version of regard. It did not love him, but nor did it hate him. It recognized him as a person who did work here.

He climbed out when the tips of his fingers had wrinkled and the fog in his mind had thinned to a usable clarity. He dried with a rough cloth, pulled on clean clothes that were laid out, and strapped on the bracer again with slow care. The leather warmed at once.

When he stepped back into the main room, the canary sprang to meet him. It launched with an eager chirr and landed next to him in a smooth sweep that ended with it nosing his jaw, as if making sure the beard was truly clean. He fed it a nugget of iron from a dish near the door. It cracked the bit with happy precision and swallowed in two quick jerks.

"Good beast," Stronric said. "Stay close."

He set water to boil for tea without thinking about it. The act made the room feel like his again. He searched for his pipe but saw the one Dovren had laid out for him. He lit it off a coal with a twist of tinder and stepped outside to the threshold where the air was cool and smelled of wet earth.

Dovren drifted after him and stood at the threshold of the door. Stronric passed him the pipe by habit. The ghost looked at it as a man looks at a cup from a time before a drought, then tipped an imaginary draw that did nothing to the ember. They sat like that for a while. The mountain breathed in the small sounds that always come when people sit without hurrying. A wing rustled. A small stone clicked. The tea pot inside popped a lid and settled again.

"I meant what I said," Dovren offered at last. "The Hidden Anvil is not for the first weeks. Some say it lost to the mountains, some say it doesn't exist. I was planning to send you after it after you had finished what little training we could do here. You were not supposed to find it yet."

Stronric rolled the pipe back and forth in his fingers. "Well, I made some choices down there I don't know will pay off for me. It wasn't even the anvil that forced me into what I felt was a corner."

Dovren huffed quietly. "Well don't be to crypt."

Stronric and Dovren both chuckled and after a moment, "How did ye find it," Stronric asked. "When ye were alive."

"I did not," Dovren said. "I found notes about it. I tried to find it three times. It stayed hidden. That is how I knew you had walked a path it rarely reveals. You wear it, your success, not like a badge. More like the smell of rain after iron has been struck."

Stronric nodded slow. "What comes next."

Dovren's gaze turned toward the slope where the ground dipped, and the trees thickened around a scatter of old stones. He folded his hands again. "The anchor," he said. "We have spoken it through."

"Aye," Stronric answered.

Dovren inclined his head. There was no surprise in him, only the steadiness of a man confirming measurements. "You will need to return to the anchor."

Stronric nodded at him as he drew in another puff from the pipe.

"You remember the lines," Dovren went on. "Stillness to fix. Echo to renew. Severance to cut away what does not belong without touching the heart. The work was sound. The intent was not clean."

"We will answer it with clean intent," Stronric said. He drew from the pipe and let the smoke climb. "Stillness on myself. Echo in the timing of the swing. Severance at the edge. All in one breath.

"At once," Dovren said, more thought than question.

"Aye," Stronric said. "Not one after another. The same breath. I will not swing blind and hope."

Dovren gave a small laugh that surprised them both. "You never swing blind. You pretend that you do, but you never do."

Stronric made a face. "Ye sound like my sister."

"Then she is wise," Dovren said.

They let the plan sit between them until the words settled. Stronric tapped the pipe out on the step. The canary trotted out, peered at the smoke, made a sharp cluck at the taste, and then chased a beetle into the grass with fierce joy.

"There will be a cost," Dovren said at last. "We have said it before."

"We have," Stronric answered. "The cut is never free. I will pay the price that buys back breath and a road to my people. I will not pay a price that leaves them without what I promised."

"What have you promised them?" Dovren asked.

"I promised to come back," Stronric said. "I promised to lead the dwarves back into an age where they are respected. Where they could live without fear."

Dovren's mouth pressed thin, but his eyes were steady. "That's a large promise, I know not the lands you come from but that is a hard promise for any dwarf, man, elf, or king to make."

Stronric nodded solemnly, "I came from a land where I could not keep that promise."

Dovren stiffen, then nodded, "I know the feeling."

Stronric nodded once. "Then we do the work."

"You should sleep," Dovren said. "A few hours at least. Then eat and go, it will be quieter then."

Stronric rose. He stretched until his ribs protested, then rolled his shoulders until the vertebrae set in a clean line. "That bed is calling my name, it will be the only good sleep I will get for some time," he said. "The rest I will take on the move."

He lay on the bed in the corner with his pack as a pillow, because old habits that keep you alive are worth more than comfort. The canary hopped to the footboard, chest puffed, eyes half closed. It watched him like a sentry and did not blink. He slept the clean sleep a man earns. When he woke, the room was the same, the bird had slumped and was half on the bed and half off.

He ate the last of the dried meat and a slice of hard bread that tasted better than it should have, then drained a cup of lukewarm tea. He packed and spoke the list out loud. "Axe, chisels, chalk, rope, waterskin, a blank rune stone."

The canary came crashing into the kitchen where Stronric packed, made in panic as if was afraid of being left behind.

Dovren waited at the door. He had no cloak and no pack. He watched Stronric with the careful stillness of a man ready to release what he has guarded. "Follow your feelings, rune smithing is double bladed trade as you have learned. Let the letter of the rune guide you but guide that rune with your instinct.

"Roger," Stronric said.

Dovren opened his mouth, hesitated, and then spoke like a man who knows small words can carry a lot of stone. "I did not expect to trust you this much," he said.

Stronric adjusted the strap on his sheath. He looked Dovren in the eye. "Same, ye feel like a lost cousin."

They stood like that for a moment longer. Dovren held out his hand holding something clasp inside of it. "When you get home, please place this in the hall of your ancestor. He deserves rest."

Stronric took a golden necklace that had a broach seal with a golden clasp. Stronric tucked the item into his pouch and nodded.

"Ye cannot smoke," Stronric said, reaching for levity. "But when I come back, I will let ye pretend again."

Dovren smiled, small and true. "I will set the kettle," he said.

Stronric stepped out into the hush. The world at that hour has its own manners. It does not blare. It does not crowd. It gives a path if you do not stomp. He walked across the small yard where the old fence had fallen to one side. He passed the arch. He paused at the edge of the well. Vines draped its mouth like the hair of a sleeping giant. Cold breathed up from it. It was the kind of cold that is not temperature alone. It was the memory of cold. He set his hand on the stones. They were misfit. Two kinds of rock forced to sit and pretend they were kin.

He looked back once. The homestead hunched against the slope with the stubbornness of stone that refuses to be told it is forgotten. The canary came sprinting down the path after him squawking and screeching at him. The bird nuzzled against his leg, then turned and looked back. Dovren stood at the doorway and waved to them. Blinded by the light of the rising Stronric could not see the tear that ran down the sides of Dovren's face.

Dovren turned around and shut the door to his home, he walked into his living room and opened a hidden compartment on his chair. He drew out a picture frame. His tears dropped from his face. They couldn't wet the painting. Dovren stroked the picture.

"I hope I haven't kept you two waiting to long."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.