The night was like aged ink, thickly spilled over the rubble and shabby alleys at the edge of the imperial capital. The confrontation and fragile alliance formed in the abandoned square seemed like relics from a past century, yet the lingering tension in the air clung like parasites to Raine and Thalia's footsteps. They moved through the shadows, evading the sporadic patrolling guards on the main roads and those unspeakable presences that roamed in the dark.
Raine's right arm continued to ache with burning pain; the simple bandaging could only barely stem the bleeding, and the weakness from blood loss made his steps unsteady. He clutched the Fallen Stone hidden against his chest—the warm touch was his only solace at this moment, and a cold reminder of the sudden vortex of fate he had been thrust into. He stole a glance at Thalia beside him, blending with the night as if she belonged to the very dark corners of this city—her steps light yet alert.
"We need to leave the capital," Thalia said, breaking the silence in her characteristically cold, emotionless tone that echoed clearly in the quiet alleyway, "To reach the Fallenstar Citadel, we must traverse the Blightwood. That place... is not for ordinary travelers."
Raine frowned; the name Blightwood alone sent a chill through him. "Traverse? That forbidden land? I've heard that…"
"Whatever rumors you've heard are likely only a fraction of the true horror," Thalia interrupted sharply, her tone carrying an undeniable harshness. "The forest itself is a living curse—its creatures twisted by shadow, its paths sealed by corrupt energy. Without special knowledge, proper equipment, or... a guide who truly knows the place, venturing in is akin to a death wish."
Raine's heart sank. He had thought that finding a clue to the Fallenstar Citadel was the biggest problem, but now merely reaching it seemed a near-suicidal endeavor. "Then, what do we—"
"I know someone," Thalia said, her gaze turning toward a darker area ahead—the edge of the city, where chaos and disorder reigned. "A dwarf. A runic blacksmith. His name is Karrion Anvil. It is said his homeland was devoured by corruption. If anyone knows how to survive in such a corrupt land, or can forge weapons to combat those things, it is likely him."
"A dwarf blacksmith?" Raine asked in disbelief. "How do you know of him? And would he even be willing to help us?"
A faint, almost fleeting curve tugged at Thalia's lips—a habitual, indifferent curl. "I have my channels. As for his willingness... that depends on what we can offer him, and whether he has anything left other than hatred." She paused and pointed toward a low building in the distance, from which a dim yellow light and clamor could be seen and heard. "He often frequents that place—the Anvil Tavern. Prepare yourself, young master of the Dawnstar family; that is not the kind of noble salon you're used to."
The Anvil Tavern stood at the edge of the city, a place whose very name exuded roughness and wear. It looked more like a huge shed cobbled together from inferior wood and rusted iron sheets, leaning unevenly against a crumbling old city wall. There was no sign on the door—only a rusted anvil, its original shape nearly lost, hanging above the doorframe and creaking under the night wind.
Pushing open the heavy, grease-stained wooden door, a miasma of odors assaulted Raine—a blend of sour cheap ale, heavy sweat, the tang of iron rust, low-grade tobacco, and an indescribable musty smell, nearly rendering him breathless. The lighting inside the tavern was extremely dim; only a few oil lamps with smoked glass hanging from rough beams provided weak illumination. The light distorted through the pervasive haze of smoke and dust, casting everyone's face in blurry shadows.
It was crowded and noisy. Mercenaries in ragged leather armor, furtive smugglers with glittering eyes, thugs bearing scars, ragged scavengers, and several fringe figures whose identities Raine could not discern but who all exuded danger, crowded around filthy wooden tables—shouting, gambling, arguing, or merely guzzling cheap ale in silence. Sawdust, food scraps, and unidentified stains covered the floor, while the clatter of cups and plates, coarse insults, and occasional bursts of brief conflict echoed in the air.
Raine felt a strong sense of discomfort. Born into nobility—even a fallen noble like him—he had never set foot in such chaotic, squalid, and primal places brimming with raw violence. Every glance here seemed laden with scrutiny and malice, and every scent in the air challenged his sensitive nerves. Instinctively, he pulled his injured right arm behind him, while his other hand gripped the Fallen Stone even tighter, as if it were a talisman to shield him from all this filth. He felt like a lamb wandering into a den of wolves, desperate to flee.
In contrast, Thalia appeared calm and even adapted to her surroundings. Her ice-blue eyes were like precise searchlights, rapidly scanning the entire tavern, assessing every corner for potential threats and useful information. She paid no heed to the curious or greedy glances thrown her way, as if an invisible barrier separated her from the surrounding squalor. Her aura of cold detachment repelled even the local hoodlums who might otherwise have approached to chat or provoke. She turned slightly and whispered to Raine, "Stick close, and don't cause trouble."
Thalia did not head straight for the bar but instead maneuvered through the crowded throng toward a relatively secluded and darker corner in the back of the tavern, where a small, scarred, and beer-stained round table stood. There, a figure sat with his back to them, curled in his chair.
It was a dwarf.
Even while seated, his exceptionally short and stocky build was evident—broad shoulders nearly straining against a grease-stained, patchy leather apron. His hair and beard, like entangled iron-gray wires, were braided into several thick plaits with a few worn metal rings scattered among them. On his bare, muscular arms and part of his exposed neck were dark, ancient, and intricate runic tattoos that faintly glimmered in the dim light, as if harboring some mysterious power.
Unlike the raucous crowd around him, he did not engage in loud conversation or gambling, nor was he visibly drunk. In front of him lay a large tin mug, nearly empty, and beside it, a dirty, thick cloth upon which a few peculiar, intricately constructed metal tools were neatly arranged. At that moment, he bowed his head, one hand gripping what looked like a miniature drill-like tool, while the other held a rag. With an air of near-reverence, he meticulously wiped every tiny groove and gear on the tool, as if it were not cold metal but a fragile treasure. His movements were steady and forceful, forming a stark contrast to the chaos around him.
Thalia stopped a few paces from the table, her gaze fixed on the dwarf with a cautious evaluation. Raine also halted behind her, holding his breath as he observed this dwarf blacksmith, who might hold the key to their fate.
"Karrion Anvil?" Thalia said, her voice low yet penetrating enough to override the surrounding clamor.
The dwarf paused in his wiping before slowly lifting his head and turning around.
A timeworn face appeared in the lamp light. His skin was like tanned leather—rough and resilient—with deep wrinkles on his forehead that spoke of endless fatigue and pain. His eyes, deep-set beneath thick brows, were murky gray like dust-covered steel—sharp and vigilant, carrying the weariness of one who had seen it all and an indifferent detachment from the world. His nose was large and red, clearly a product of long-term drinking.
Karrion's gaze first fell on Thalia; the icy blue of her eyes and her aura of shadows made him furrow his brow ever so slightly. Then his eyes swept over to Raine, and upon noticing his incongruous noble aura and somewhat pallid face, a faint, barely perceptible sneer flashed in his eyes.
"It's me," he said in a voice like rough rocks scraping together—low and hoarse. "Who are you? What do you want from me? If you're here to run up a tab for weapons or repair your broken junk, now is not the time. I'm busy." With that, he picked up the empty mug, gave it a shake, and grumbled in discontent.
Thalia paid no heed to his coarse attitude and stepped closer, her voice remaining steady: "We're not here to buy anything. We need information—about... the Blightwood."
"Blightwood?" Karrion's actions halted, and his grip on the mug tightened slightly. His murky gray eyes suddenly sharpened like two daggers unsheathed in an instant, staring intently at Thalia before turning to Raine, his gaze full of scrutiny and deeper suspicion. "You're going there? Hmph, two more fools ready to march to their deaths."
Raine felt uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, but still mustered the courage to speak, "We have our reasons. We heard that… you know much about it."
Karrion let out a short, dry laugh, sounding more like a stone caught in his throat. "Know much? Sure, I know it all too well. I know how every inch of that place rots away, how every tree twists, and how every creature becomes a monster that knows nothing but to devour flesh and blood. I know... it devours everything you hold dear." His voice fell low, laden with a deep, barely concealed pain and hatred. In his gray eyes, it appeared as though flames were burning—but beyond the flames, there were endless, icy ashes.
In that moment, the bustle of the tavern seemed to recede from their corner, leaving only the heavy echo of the dwarf's words.
Karrion lowered his head again, picked up another tool, and resumed wiping it, as if the outburst had never occurred. "My knowledge of the Blightwood was bought with the blood of my kin and the ashes of my home. And I have no intention of sharing that knowledge with strangers, especially not with..." He looked up, his gaze once again sweeping over Raine and Thalia, "a feeble little noble boy and a… hm, a woman whose very shadow seems more real than she is."
His words dripped with unmasked contempt and cold dismissal.
Thalia remained impassive, as if she had long anticipated such a reaction. "We're not unprepared. And perhaps we can offer you something of interest."
Karrion snorted derisively, pausing his work and leaning forward slightly as he scrutinized them—especially noting something bulging slightly in Raine's arms. "Oh? And what might you offer? Gold? In a hellhole like this, gold only buys you a faster death. Power? Look at you two—one looks like you just hatched from an egg, and the other… hm, power hidden within the shadows is often less reliable than light."
He paused, then suddenly grinned, revealing a mouth full of tobacco- and alcohol-stained yellowed teeth. In an ill-timed, cold tone, he said, "Do you know why dwarves never get lost in the Blightwood?"
Raine and Thalia both froze, not understanding why he would suddenly ask such a question.
Karrion continued on his own, his voice monotonous and flat, carrying a strange sense of humor: "Because we're too short—the twisted roots and vines simply can't be bothered to trip us. They think it's a waste of energy."
This grim joke—if one could call it that—made the air suddenly feel even colder. Raine was at a loss for how to react, sensing a chill rising up his spine. Thalia's brow furrowed imperceptibly, as if judging whether the dwarf was truly joking or using that method to express his disdain and warning.
Appearing satisfied with their stiff expressions, Karrion leaned back into his chair again, picked up his empty mug, and thumped it heavily on the table with a dull "bang."
"Alright, enough small talk," he said gruffly, his gaze turning icy and sharp once again. "Tell me your real purpose, or get out of my sight. I've got no time for these guessing games."
His gaze weighed upon Raine and Thalia like a tangible anvil. Under the dim light, the runic blacksmith Karrion Anvil—a dwarf burdened with a heavy past—appeared as an unmovable, cracked yet unyielding rock, waiting for their answer... or to expel them.