Toben stood in the foundry behind the smith’s storefront, watching as the old dwarf pounded away at the red hot steel.

“What are you trying to tell me, Holfdyr?” he raised his voice to be heard over the hammer blows.

“Jes’ a secon’,” the dwarf yelled back.

He snatched up a fist-sized crystal shot through with veins of marble and infused it with mana, crushing it between his fingers as his power rendered the material into raw aether. Toben watched as the aether writhed and attempted to escape the smith’s iron grip, but the stout dwarf slammed his hand down onto the chest plate. The aether was matter rendered into mana, a coruscating prismatic lattice of energy condensed from something more solid, and it fought to be free, to fall apart into the component elements it contained. But Holfdyr’s power held it in the corded grip of his fist, until the glowing energy scattered across the armor’s surface, and the hammer began to fall again, the smith’s Skills locking the aether into a new pattern of durability and resistance. Nearly anything could be rendered into aether if one had enough skill and enough mana.

The stonemarrow crystal Holfdyr had just infused was worth a small fortune, but it was a gift Toben was happy to give. He had dug out the enchanted chest hidden away in the cellar and plundered it for the remaining spoils of his adventuring days. The stonemarrow was one of his last conquests, a titan of stone and earth that had gone mad as a new font formed near its lair. Once the mana in the area had begun to change elements, the massive creature had set about destroying the entire countryside. Toben’s commander had sent him with a full hundred men to put down the stonemarrow, but he had completed that task at a terrible price. He returned with less than twenty men, and his own injuries were still spoken of among the Legion. The physic that oversaw his treatment later swore she had been able to see Toben’s heart beating through his mangled ribcage.

Now, that titanic strength would protect the Chosen. He touched his chest, the silver mark of Ilani’s grace under the tunic he wore, and thought about the mark that Enora now bore. They would live long, happy lives together, and their children would be blessed by her favor. No matter what he gave, it could never be enough.

The blacksmith finally finished hammering and quenched the cooling metal.

“Ah jes don’t get it, Toben. How da a handful o’ green bebs come across magical steel that can hold a crystal o’ the fifth weave? And a rare un, at that,” Holfdyr pointed a pair of tongs at the giant man. “And how in the depths is somethin’ like this completely unenchanted. Answer me that, will yeh?”

“You ask too many questions, Holfdyr. I am paying you. They have already paid you. Work the metal and the aether and take your gold,” he replied darkly.

“They’re hidin’ somethin’, Toben,” the dwarf pushed.

“Indeed they are, but it is not our business to uncover it,” the big man scowled at him.

“Yeh’ll brin’ the inquisition down on us like this, old man,” the dwarf sighed.

“The whitecoats have no interest in a border village that sells fish and medicine to a nearly abandoned outpost that hasn’t seen action in over ten years. That’s why I moved here, Holf,” Toben’s expression softened.

The burly dwarf scowled, then chuckled and pulled the armor from the drink, “It’s nae bad work. Was hell gettin’ all that chitin to bond with steel.”

The breastplate was the last piece, now laid upon the dwarf’s work table next to the rest of its kin. Erin’s black plate armor had taken on a hint of purple, and where the afternoon light hit the armor, a prismatic scatter of color was reflected. The dwarf had taken a full extra day to break the mantis shrimp’s carapace down into aether and bond it to the magical steel of Erin’s plate. The stuff resisted being shattered like nothing Holfdyr had worked with before. Nearly two full days had been spent repairing the chest plate, gingerly working out the fist-sized dent until even the smith had trouble telling it had ever been damaged. Finally, he had then poured crystal after crystal into the armor, using up everything he and Toben had that was remotely related to strength, resilience, or endurance.

He picked up the cooled breastplate and Appraised the result of his work. He was still vexed by the unknown steel. At his skill level, there were few materials he couldn’t identify by sight, much less Appraisal. The plate offered protection typical of most fourth weave heavy armors, but the durability was leagues beyond what he would expect from steel, even at that level. He wondered how much force the guardian must have applied to dent the armor, and how the tall girl had survived the blow.

He whistled aloud as his awareness tasted the armor’s special quality. The aether had gotten away from him late in the forging process and cobbled all together. That usually would’ve meant a flawed or ruined product, but the magic had just about ordered itself into an absolutely insane ability. As with the ghostly boy’s sword, the armor had named itself without his help, though that part wasn’t that strange. Sometimes Fate did that. It was fickle, and it liked those big wordy names. In a backwater like Mistelein, he might never hear the armor’s name again, but a suit of black iridescent plate with a name like “Bastion of the Leviathan” would live on for long after he was dead.

“Well, old man. It’s done. Yeh owe me fifty gold,” the dwarf grunted.

“We agreed on thirty-five, Holf,” the big merchant growled.

“That was afore ah had ta spen’ a whole damned day shatterin’ shrimp shells like a damned net fisher down by the river,” he scowled. “Lost money day afore yesterday, Toben.”

“My tattooed arse, you old goat,” the big man shot back. “Name a day in the last year you made seven gold pieces.”

“Well, that’s not…” the dwarf started.

“That is, Holf. It is exactly. A deal was struck, Holfdyr son of Grynden of the clan Stoneheart,” the big man intoned.

The dwarf hung his head, “Ya dinnae have to bring me pa and me whol’ clan into it, Toben. You’re as bad as any dwarf livin’.”