In the dimmest corner of The Anvil Tavern, the air seemed to congeal around Karion Anvil's gravelly voice and those flint-gray eyes that could flay a soul bare. The flickering lantern light carved deep gullies of shadow across his weather-beaten face, making him appear more craggy monolith than a living being.
"'True purpose'?" the dwarf repeated, his bass rumble thick with skepticism and undisguised mockery. "Let me guess—another pampered lordling who heard some minstrel's tale and now thinks to hunt treasures in forbidden lands? Or," his lip curled, "more laughably, 'glory'?" His gaze raked over Lian like a scalpel peeling back every inch of unearned privilege. "And you," he turned to Selya, his frown deepening at the unnatural shadows clinging to her, "what are you? Some cabal's shadow agent? Or just using this green boy for your twisted ends?"
A derisive snort. Karion grabbed his near-empty pewter stein, drained the dregs of foul ale, and slammed it down hard enough to make the table shudder. "Seen your like before. All adventure on the tongue, greed in the heart. Think yourselves heroes from songs, but end as bones in the blight—or worse, part of the corruption itself." His mouth twisted humorlessly. "Know why dwarves always find the richest veins in the deadliest depths?"
Neither Lian nor Selya took the bait.
"Because we respect power," Karion answered himself, each word a hammer strike on some unseen anvil of warning. "Respect what's older and stronger than our pride. You tall folk only kneel to your hunger." A calloused finger jabbed toward Lian's face. "Boy, shed those noble airs. Here, your bloodline's worth less than piss." His glare shifted to Selya, sharper now. "And you—your secrets cling like swamp mist. Harmless till they drown men. I deal not with riddles wrapped in flesh."
Lian whitened under the verbal lashing. He wanted to protest—to say he sought no glory, only his lost sister and family truths—but the words withered before the dwarf's bone-deep cynicism.
Then Selya spoke. Her voice remained a frozen lake's surface—deceptively calm, yet carrying farther than shouts.
"You're not wrong, smith." Her pale eyes met Karion's scrutiny without flinching. "We've our purposes, and we're not wholly unprepared." A glance at Lian. "This Morningstar scion may seem out of place, but his blood carries... singular traits."
Masterfully vague—hinting at Lian's Starborn heritage without revealing it, transforming him from fool to potential asset. She continued, watching Karion's micro-expressions: "Our leads point to Skyfall City. To reach it, we must cross—"
A deliberate pause. Then, with crystalline clarity:
"—The Corrupted Woods."
The words hit like ice plunged into molten steel.
Karion's head snapped up. His eyes—dull moments before—blazed with pent-up fury, a volcano's worth of grief and rage trembling beneath. His gaze darted between them, the mockery replaced by something raw and terrible. Fingers clenched white-knuckled; the runes on his arms seemed to writhe.
"The... blight?" The word scraped from his throat like rusted metal. "You'd go... there?"
His reaction was so visceral that nearby drinkers instinctively quieted, sensing danger. Karion noticed nothing—his world had narrowed to those two damned syllables.
"Why?" The growl held unbearable pain. "That cursed place offers only death! Only—" His voice cracked. He grabbed his empty stein, found it dry, and hurled it aside in frustration before slumping back, suddenly exhausted.
Noise resurged, drowning their pocket of silence.
Karion breathed heavily, his stare turning inward—through the tavern's filth, into some private hell. The lantern light aged him decades in moments, each wrinkle a scar from battles unseen.
When he spoke again, it was with the hollow cadence of a ghost: "You know... what corruption truly is?"
Not waiting for answers, he traced a knife scar on the tabletop as if reading braille. "I had a home once. 'Stoneheart' we called it—a mountain citadel carved by generations. Deepest mines, hottest forges, strongest ale... and all my kin."
His hands fisted, nails biting flesh.
"We thought mountains eternal, our runes impervious. Arrogant. Stupid." Self-loathing curdled the words. "The shadows came not from without, but from below—from the very veins we'd mined with pride."
His account unfolded like an unspooling nightmare: whispers in the deep, missing miners, livestock twisting into horrors. Runic wards failing. Neighbors melted into shrieking abominations that tore apart their own families. The great Stoneheart—a bastion of dwarven might—collapsed into a festering charnel house in mere days.
Karion's voice dwindled to a broken whisper, shoulders shaking. Tears cut grimy trails down his face, soaking into the leather apron.
"I was runesmith," he rasped, rallying with visible effort. "Tended the citadel's wards. When the end came, I was deep below, repairing a core node. The heat and runic energy shielded me... trapped me. By the time I clawed out..."
A breath that reeked of blood memory.
"Stoneheart was gone. Just ruins... and the stench of rotting shadows. My clan. My family. All... gone."
The confession hung like an executioner's blade.
"I lived. Only one. Now I wander, with but one purpose—" His teeth ground audibly, eyes burning. "Find what spawned the blight. Find who's responsible. And..." A meaty fist slammed down. "Crush them to pulp with my hammer!"
The story was stark, unadorned—yet its horror pressed on Lian's chest like burial stones. Now he understood: "Corrupted Woods" wasn't just a location to Karion. It was an open wound, a war cry.
Selya listened impassively, though Lian noticed her fingers twitch minutely under the table.
The silence stretched, thick with shared pain. Even the tavern's din seemed muted here.
At last, Karion exhaled sharply, visibly forcing his demons back into their cages. When he looked up, the hostility had banked—replaced by grim assessment.
"Now," he said, voice scraped raw, "you tell me true: why seek the blight and Skyfall? If it's treasure or suicide, piss off. But if... if it links to this damned corruption..."
Lian glanced at Selya, received a fractional nod, then met Karion's gaze squarely: "No treasure. I go because my sister's trapped there—or so my visions show. And it's tied to whatever spreads the blight."
"Visions?" Karion's brow furrowed. "Starborn foresight?" The casual reference to Lian's heritage confirmed unexpected knowledge.
"As for me," Selya interjected smoothly, "I seek to sever corruption at its source. Skyfall may hold that key."
Karion studied them, his stare weighing souls. Finally, a slow nod. "Very well. If your paths cross the blight and that floating tomb, and if both tie to the corruption..."
He carefully set aside his tools, then drew a worn leather pouch from his belt. From it, he produced an object that made Lian lean forward—a vambrace, palm-sized, etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly even in the grimy light.
"My work," Karion said, pride flickering through the gloom. "Dwarven runecraft blended with... older knowledge. These sigils repel shadow taint. May even harm the corrupted." His eyes lifted, deadly serious. "The Woods swarm with twisted things. Without proper arms, you'll last a hundred paces before becoming their next meal."
"I'll aid you," Karion declared, iron in his tone. "Forge what's needed to survive the blight. Even... go with you."
Lian's hope flared—until the dwarf raised a cautionary finger.
"But. My terms." His gaze could have split granite.
"First," a thick finger jabbed upward, "if we find clues about Stoneheart's fall, or face those behind the blight, you aid my vengeance. This I vow, and so must you."
Lian and Selya exchanged glances, then nodded. A fair demand against a shared foe.
"Second." A second finger joined the first, now pointing at Lian. "I can craft arms against common blight-spawn. But for greater evils—perhaps even sealing the darkness itself—ordinary materials won't suffice."
He leaned forward, enunciating with terrifying clarity: "I need a medium. Something to channel pure life force into anti-void power. Ancient runebooks and my wanderings agree: only one substance fits."
His stare pinned Lian like a spear.
"Your blood." The words fell like anvils. "Pure. Starborn. Infused with celestial might."
"I'll need it, boy," Karion said flatly, making Lian's skin prickle. "Not drops—substantial amounts. To awaken the mightiest runes. This is my second, non-negotiable term."
The declaration hung like a pact carved in stone.
Starborn blood.
Lian's stomach lurched. His hand flew to his wounded arm, where blood loss still ached. This lineage—his family's curse, the source of so much pain—was suddenly a coveted commodity, the linchpin of an alliance.
He looked to Selya for guidance, but her star-chilled eyes offered no counsel. The choice was his alone.
Silence thickened. Karion Anvil—wronged, relentless, and resolute—had laid bare his price. Accept, and walk a path of blood and unknown perils toward possible truth. Refuse, and face the Corrupted Woods alone.
Lian inhaled deeply, steadying himself. For Lya. For his family's mysteries. For the shadows swallowing the world. There was no real choice.
He met Karion's tarnished steel gaze and nodded once.
"I agree."
Thus, in that reeking tavern corner, three fractured souls—each bearing private torments—forged a pact as fragile as it was fateful. The road ahead remained shrouded in peril, but they would not walk it alone.
The true journey was about to begin.