Night spilled over the city's outskirts like aged ink, thick and suffocating. The abandoned square's confrontation and fragile pact seemed lifetimes away. Yet, the tension clung to Lian and Selya like a persistent shadow as they navigated back alleys, avoiding patrols and darker things that slithered in the gloom.
Lian's right arm still burned, the crude bandage barely staunching the blood. Weakness from blood loss made his steps unsteady. He clutched the warm Starfall Fragment hidden beneath his clothes—his sole comfort and a grim reminder of this sudden vortex of fate. Looking at Selya revealed her moving like liquid darkness, her steps light and alert, as though born to these urban crevices.
"We must leave the capital," Selya said, breaking the silence, her voice cutting through the alley's stillness with its usual dispassionate chill. To reach Skyfall, we must cross the Corrupted Woods. That place... is no ordinary traveler's path."
Lian frowned. The Corrupted Woods—the name alone sent chills down his spine. "Cross it? That forbidden zone? I've heard—"
"Whatever rumors you've heard," Selya interrupted sharply, "are likely not a tenth as horrific as the truth. The forest itself is a living curse—its creatures warped by shadow, its paths barred by corruption. Without proper knowledge, gear, or..." Her gaze sharpened. "...a guide who knows its ways, entering is suicide."
Lian's stomach dropped. Finding Skyfall's clues had seemed the greatest challenge; now merely reaching it appeared a death sentence. "Then how—?"
"I know someone." Selya's eyes fixed ahead where the slums dissolved into true darkness. "A dwarf. A runesmith. Karion Anvil. They say his homeland was devoured by the corruption. If anyone knows how to survive there—or forge weapons against its horrors—it's him."
"A dwarven smith?" Lian couldn't mask his disbelief. "How do you know of him? And why would he help us?"
Selya's lips twitched—not quite a smile, more a habitual coldness. "I have my sources. As for his willingness... that depends on what we offer, and whether he retains anything beyond hatred." She halted, pointing to a ramshackle building oozing jaundiced light and raucous noise. "He frequents there—The Anvil Tavern. Brace yourself, Morningstar. This is no noble salon."
The Anvil Tavern squatted on the city's fringes, its name as rough-hewn as its construction. More a patchwork of rotted timber and rusted metal sheets propped against a crumbling wall than a proper establishment, its sole marking was a corroded anvil dangling above the door, creaking in the wind like a hanged man's last breath.
Pushing through the greasy door unleashed a miasma of sour ale, sweat, iron, cheap tobacco, and something indefinably fungal. Lian nearly gagged. The interior swam in gloom, smoke, and dust twisting the few grime-caked lanterns' light into eerie shapes that obscured faces.
The place seethed with danger. Mercenaries in battered leathers, shifty-eyed smugglers, scar-faced thugs, and ragged scavengers—all reeking of violence—crowded filthy tables, brawling, gambling, or drowning in swill. The floor was a mosaic of sawdust, spilled food, and unidentifiable stains, the air a cacophony of clattering tankards, vulgar shouts, and sporadic scuffles.
Lian recoiled inwardly. Even in his family's decline, he'd never set foot in such a cesspit of primal brutality. Every glance here felt predatory, every stench assaulted his senses. He hid his wounded arm instinctively while gripping the Starfall Fragment like a talisman against the filth. A lamb in a den of wolves, he fought the urge to flee.
Selya, by contrast, seemed utterly at ease—flourishing, even. Her ice-blue eyes swept the room like searchlights, assessing threats and information with equal precision. She ignored the leers and challenges directed her way, an invisible barrier separating her from the squalor. Her aura of lethal cold kept even the boldest ruffians at bay. "Stay close," she murmured without turning. "Don't provoke."
Bypassing the bar, Selya cut through the crowd toward the tavern's deepest, darkest corner. There, at a knife-scarred table, sat a hunched figure facing away—a dwarf.
Even seated, his compact muscularity was evident, his shoulders straining the soot-stained leather apron. Steel-gray hair and beard were braided into thick cords studded with worn metal rings. His exposed arms and neck bore intricate runic tattoos, their ancient patterns shimmering faintly in the low light as though whispering secrets.
Unlike the raucous patrons, he sat quietly, a near-empty pewter stein beside a stained cloth where precision metal tools lay arranged with fastidious care. Currently, he was polishing a drill-bit-like instrument with ritualistic focus, his calloused hands moving with steady reverence as if it were sacred relics rather than mundane equipment.
Selya paused a few paces away, studying him. Lian held his breath behind her, observing their potential lifeline.
"Karion Anvil?" Selya's voice cut through the din without raising.
The dwarf's polishing hesitated, but he didn't immediately look up. Finishing his task with deliberate slowness, he set the tool neatly beside its counterparts before turning.
A face weathered by grief and fury emerged from the shadow. Leathery skin, deep-set eyes like tarnished silver under bushy brows—their gaze sharp yet world-weary. A bulbous nose, reddened by decades of drink, dominated his features.
Karion's scrutiny flicked from Selya's shadow-wreathed form to Lian's pale, out-of-place demeanor, his lip curling slightly. "Aye," he rasped, voice like grinding stones. "Who's asking? If it's weapons or repairs, piss off. I'm occupied." He shook his empty stein pointedly.
Unfazed, Selya stepped closer. "We seek knowledge. About the Corrupted Woods."
"The Woods?" Karion's grip tightened on his stein. His eyes flashed—suddenly, terrifyingly alert. "You mean to go there?" A bark of laughter, dry as a death rattle. "Two more fools rushing to graves."
Lian swallowed but met that piercing stare. "We have no choice. We heard you... know its dangers."
"Know them?" Karion's chuckle held no mirth. "Aye, I know how every inch of earth rots, how every tree twists, how living things become... hunger-given form." His voice dropped, raw with ancient pain. "I know how it devours all you love." For an instant, his stony mask cracked, revealing bottomless rage and loss before resealing.
The tavern's noise seemed to recede, leaving only his words hanging heavy.
Karion picked up another tool, polishing furiously as if to scrub away the emotion. "This knowledge cost my kin's blood and my home's ashes. I don't share it—least of all with..." His gaze raked them, "...a noble whelp who'd faint at his own shadow, and a woman who's more shade than flesh."
The contempt was palpable, the dismissal absolute.
Selya remained impassive. "We're prepared to trade. Perhaps something you value."
"Trade?" Karion leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the bulge in Lian's coat. "Gold? Useless here. Power?" A derisive snort. "You've none worth my time."
Abruptly, he grinned—a ghastly sight with yellowed teeth. "Know why dwarves never get lost in the Corrupted Woods?"
Lian blinked at the non sequitur.
"We're too short," Karion deadpanned. "The twisted roots can't be bothered tripping us. Waste of energy, see?"
The "joke" landed like a corpse. Lian stiffened, unsure if it was humor or a threat. Selya's brow creased microscopically.
Karion watched their frozen expressions with grim satisfaction before slamming his stein down. "Enough chatter. State your business or begone. I've no patience for games."
His stare was an anvil's weight, pressing down as the dim light etched every crevice of his grief-hardened face. The dwarf runesmith Karion Anvil—a monolith of scars and stubbornness—awaited their answer or their departure.
First contact: made of wary probes, bristling defenses, and ill-timed gallows humor. Persuading this dwarf to join their quest would be harder than anticipated.