The fisherman crouched by the riverbank, his hands calloused and weathered, gripping the worn handle of his basket. Only a handful of fish lay inside—too few to trade for a proper meal.
He sighed, rubbing his face. Dawn had passed, and midday sun now glared upon the sluggish waters. He had tried everything—nets, spears, even baiting the fish with scraps of dried meat. But the river was unforgiving, just like the town. Marsh Town was no place for the weak.
As he sat on a moss-covered rock, his mind churned through desperate ideas. Maybe he could sell the fish for half their worth. Or take the risk and sneak into the docks, where the wealthier merchants bartered for bigger catches.
He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the footsteps until they were too close. A voice—gruff and edged with laughter. "Yer strugglin' with fishin', lad? Thought you marsh folk were born with nets in hand."
The fisherman's muscles tensed. His grip on his basket tightened as he turned his head. Two dwarves stood behind him.
The first one was stout and broad, with a beard thick as bramble and braided with iron rings. His clothes were travel-worn, but the belt at his waist gleamed with wealth—gold buckles, fine leather.
The second was even larger, older, with a beard streaked with silver and arms like tree trunks. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held the sharp glint of someone used to getting what he wanted.
The fisherman immediately stiffened. Marsh Town had its fair share of troublemakers, and foreigners were rarely a good sign. And these weren't ordinary travelers—they had coin, weapons, and a presence that demanded attention.
He kept his face neutral and turned away, pretending to adjust his fishing spear. "Don't know what you're talking about, stranger." His voice was low, cautious. "I get by."
The first dwarf—Borgrim—chuckled, stepping closer. "Aye, looks like it." His gaze dropped to the basket. "Enough for half a loaf, if the baker's feelin' generous."
The fisherman's jaw tightened. He didn't like this. Didn't like being watched. Didn't like being approached like some beggar desperate for scraps.
The second dwarf—Baeric—crossed his arms. "No need to scowl, lad. We ain't here to rob ye." His deep voice was calm, yet firm. "Just lookin' to talk."
The fisherman kept his hands steady, though every instinct screamed at him to grab his knife. "I don't have coin. I don't have anything worth taking."
Borgrim snorted. "Relax. If we wanted yer fish, we'd just toss ye in the river and take 'em ourselves."
Baeric shot him a look. "You're not helping."
Borgrim shrugged. The fisherman exhaled sharply, glancing between them.Dwarves were persistent. He knew that much. If he ignored them, they'd just keep pushing. And if they were dangerous, best to figure out their intentions now.
Slowly, he placed his basket aside and stood, adjusting his worn-out tunic. "…What do you want?"
Borgrim grinned. "Just a name first. You got one, don't ye?"
The fisherman hesitated, then muttered, "…Jareth."
Borgrim nodded. "Good. Now, Jareth, we've got a bit of a question for ye… and maybe, if ye listen, a reason for ye to catch more than scraps."
Jareth's eyes narrowed. He was done with pleasantries. "What do you want?" His voice was edged with frustration, but also caution. He had learned long ago that when outsiders came asking too many questions, trouble always followed.
Baeric didn't answer right away. He studied Jareth, as if measuring his worth, his stance, his hesitation. Then, in a voice far too casual, he asked "Ye got children, lad?"
Jareth flinched—not visibly, but his fingers twitched by his side. His grip tightened on his fishing spear. Why ask that? What did it matter to them? "…Six." The word came out clipped.
Borgrim raised an eyebrow. "Six? That's a clan of yer own, lad. Must be a hard life providin' for that many mouths."
Jareth exhaled sharply. He knew where this was going. Pity. Charity. Or worse—promises that led to nothing. "It's none of your concern." He bent down, reaching for his basket. "If you're just here to talk about my family, then I got fish to catch."
Baeric didn't stop him. He simply let the silence stretch, let the weight of the moment settle. Then, Borgrim spoke—and his words froze Jareth's movements. "You're the mayor's son, ain't ye?"
Jareth's hand stiffened on the basket's handle.Slowly, he straightened, but he didn't turn around. His breath came slower now, more controlled, as if he were forcing himself to stay calm.
"…And what if I am?" His voice was low, guarded.
Borgrim shrugged. "Just wantin' to be sure."
Jareth finally turned, his expression a mix of wariness and irritation. "Then you already know what happened." His voice was tight, like a man expecting a blade to the gut. "You already know my father failed. That he couldn't stop the Elder Dragon. That he couldn't save this town. So why say his name? Why now?"
The air grew heavier. The river behind them seemed quieter, as if even the water held its breath. Borgrim and Baeric didn't answer immediately. They didn't smirk, didn't taunt. They simply watched him.
Jareth's chest rose and fell. His past had been a wound he had spent thirty years trying to bury. Yet here they were, strangers, digging it up like it was just another forgotten ruin. "…If you're here to mock my father, get in line," he muttered. "The whole town already does."
Borgrim reached into his coat, pulled out a small leather pouch, and with a casual flick of his wrist, tossed it toward Jareth. The fisherman's reflexes were quick—his hand shot up, catching the pouch midair. The familiar weight of Dun coins settled in his palm. More than he'd seen in weeks.
Jareth frowned, tightening his grip around the pouch. His first instinct was suspicion—no one gave away money without expecting something in return. Slowly, he met Borgrim's gaze, his expression unreadable.
"We ain't here to fight, lad," Borgrim said, folding his arms. His tone was steady, firm—but not unkind. "We just need answers. We need to know how to forge Red Steel."
Silence. Jareth's jaw tightened. The Red Steel. Of course, it always came back to that. His thumb absently brushed over the pouch, feeling the texture of the coins beneath the leather. Then, in a voice low and measured, he asked "What makes it so important?"
Baeric let out a knowing chuckle, shaking his head. "Aye, lad, you already know what we're after. No sense in pretending otherwise."
Jareth's lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing at the few fish still left in his basket. Then, without another word, he turned. "Follow me."
He led them through the winding streets of Lowbank, a narrow, crumbling district tucked between the marsh's edge and the old trade roads. It was a place forgotten by time—where the streets were more mud than stone, and the wooden houses leaned so close together it felt like they might collapse at any moment.
Shadows stretched long between the alleys, flickering in the dim glow of rusted lanterns. The air smelled of stagnant water and old timber, and distant voices murmured from behind shuttered windows.
Borgrim and Baeric exchanged glances as they followed. They'd seen places like this before—where the people had little, and what little they had could be taken at a moment's notice.
Jareth stopped in front of a weathered wooden door, its hinges rusted, its frame slightly crooked from years of neglect. He pushed it open and stepped inside. "Well? You coming or not?"
Borgrim smirked, nudging Baeric. "I think he likes us."
Baeric snorted. "Aye, he's about as friendly as a wet boot."
As they stepped inside, Jareth bolted the door behind them and gestured for them to follow. Instead of leading them into the main living area, he moved to a trapdoor hidden beneath a worn-out rug in the corner of the room. "Down here," he muttered.
Baeric and Borgrim exchanged wary glances before descending into the damp, dimly lit basement. The air smelled of dust and aged wood, and the only light came from a single oil lantern hanging from a nail in the wall. Crates and barrels were stacked against the corners, filled with dried fish, old tools, and bits of scavenged metal.
Jareth pulled up a stool and sat down, rubbing a calloused hand over his unshaven jaw. He sighed heavily before finally speaking. "You can't forge Red Steel here."
Borgrim narrowed his eyes. "Why not?"
"Because the material for it—true Red Steel—isn't from these lands." Jareth's gaze was hard as he leaned forward. "It comes from a metal called Azerite. The rarest damn thing you'll ever find. And there's only one place in the world where you can mine it."
Baeric folded his arms. "Where?"
Jareth's expression darkened. "The Red Wastes."
The name alone was enough to make both dwarves fall silent.
"Sol-Mayora's most brutal region," Jareth continued. "A place where the sands burn your skin by day and the cold gnaws your bones by night. Nothing lives there except raiders, beasts, and worse things I won't even name. And even if you make it past all that? The mines are cursed."
Borgrim scoffed. "Cursed how?"
Jareth met his gaze. "People go in, but they don't come out."
The room fell into a tense silence. Then Jareth leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "But if you have a ship to cross the sea, I'm in." His lips curled into a smirk. "If not? Better sleep tight and forget about it. Because without Azerite, you're chasing ghosts."
Borgrim frowned, stroking his thick beard. "Why is it called Azerite? What makes it so damn special?"
Jareth smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Because it burns, even in the coldest night."
Baeric and Borgrim exchanged glances.
"Azerite is unlike any other metal," Jareth continued. "It glows like embers when it's freshly mined, like it's got fire trapped inside. It's tougher than steel, but light enough to wield without weighing you down. And once it's forged properly, it can cut through anything. Even an elder dragon's hide."
Borgrim let out a low whistle. "That explains why the Red Steel weapons we found were so damn strong…"
Baeric, however, was more focused on something else. His eyes narrowed. "You said the worst things in the Red Wastes aren't the raiders or the beasts. What did you mean?"
Jareth's smirk widened. "Orcs."
The room grew colder at the word. Borgrim clenched his jaw. "You mean those feral clans in the western badlands? The ones that scatter like rats when the armies march?"
Jareth chuckled darkly. "No. Not those." He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "I'm talking about the ones who never left. The ones who stayed behind in the Red Wastes after the old wars. The ones who grew stronger. Meaner. Smarter."
Baeric's grip tightened around the pommel of his axe. "The Ashbloods."
Jareth nodded slowly. "Aye. The Ashblood Orcs. They don't raid for gold or food like the others. They kill for sport. And they guard the Azerite mines like sacred ground. Anyone who tries to take it from them… well. Let's just say no one ever brings back a second-hand story."
Borgrim exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "So, we need a ship to cross the sea, then fight our way through a cursed wasteland filled with man-eating orcs just to get the one metal that can kill this damn dragon?"
Jareth grinned. "Now you're catching on."