Ding, ding, ding rang the hammer.

Each night, Branden crawled to his hard cot. Still the pounding continued. Sleep came when exhaustion conquered him. Waking at the fifth hour’s bell, he staggered to work. Burning muscles hauled iron and coal from the market. He lugged every completed tool, every pot, every horseshoe with rigid, white-hot steps. His back spasmed. Grinding his teeth, clenching back tears, he toiled on.

“Idiot boy,” shouted Garlund when Branden stumbled and spilled a basket of nails. If pain or fatigue beat Branden to his knees, he felt Garlund’s moist breath on his face as the Dwarf roared over the din. “Worthless loafer. Where’s that spirit you spoke of?” Body broken, Branden glared.

Ding, ding, ding.

Branden spoke little to the craftsdwarves working under Garlund’s eagle eye; they ignored him entirely. He ate his fill of stale bread and sour meat. Neither wind nor daylight reached him. Lacking time, energy, and money, he forgot the taste of beer and the joy of laughter. All became toil and agony.

Kelvin labored beside Branden, always lagging behind. Slowly Kelvin’s eyes faded from purple to lilac to bloodshot white. He began to mutter, then curse, then tremble. When unwatched, tools went missing and work undone. Often he felt the lash, but when the bliss withdrawal climaxed even the whip lacked any power over Kelvin. Nothing mattered except bliss. Crawling and begging like a dog, no degradation proved stronger than his craving.

When bliss passed his lips, Kelvin sighed and sank into a trance, no longer troubled by the world. Purple tears bored tracks on his face. From his nearby cot, Branden stared at Kelvin’s dreamy smile and distant eyes. Branden struck Kelvin; Kelvin only beamed.

Ding, ding, ding

As the hazy jumble of days wore by, the tide of pain began to ebb. Stabbing knives faded to dull aches. Morning found Branden bleary but coherent; at night he sank into rest, not oblivion. Grunting and straining under his burdens, he refused to fall upon his knees again. Branden met Garlund’s tirades and cold eyes with an unblinking stare. Corded muscle began to swell under his skin; an unkempt beard overran his face. He cleaned the forge, carried water, and pulled the bellows. No one heard his voice.

“Zurgond quit on me. Think you’re worthy to use this?” said Garlund as he tossed Branden a heavy hammer. Branden caught it with one hand, eyes locked on Garlund’s. He said nothing.

Ugly, misshapen chains and nails began to pour from Garlund’s forge. Branden kept pounding. He took his turn with the ponderous sledgehammer, joining the team of strikers. The lesser craftsdwarves began to speak to him. Branden rarely answered. Nails grew fit for market; the chains he created became longer and heavier. Garlund offered a wage of one standard silver per day. Without thanks or a smile, Branden nodded.

Ding, ding, ding

Pale skin lit only by the hellish fire of the forge, Branden smote the anvil. Blow by blow, he bent iron to his will. Pots, pans, and forks flew to market. “No love for anything, even his own creations,” muttered some craftsdwarf or other. Eyes never leaving the flames, Branden beat the metal.

“You thieving bliss fiend. I’ve had it with you,” shouted Garlund, brandishing the whip at Kelvin. “You’re dead when I get back.”

Silent and watchful, Branden held out his hand. Garlund stared a moment, then shrugged and tossed the whip. Branden caught it, savoring the feel of worn leather. He lashed Kelvin. Nodding, Garlund gave Branden a raise and a whip of his own.

Ding, ding, ding.

The inferno leapt up, obedient to Branden. His implacable hammer crashed down on his own feeling; his own weakness. Still the images dared to appear on the anvil.

Ding.

Garlund’s face leered up at him. Purple tears welled in Kelvin’s eyes. Branden smashed them both.

Ding.

The laughter of friends, frothy ale in their cups, rose from the flames. Thuna rambled and Dando listened.

Ding.

Erik and Jack bled as a monsterous furred figure leapt upon them. Furry and Samwell both shook their heads, admonishing Branden.

Ding.

More distant memories, before trapping, bef—father’s face! Branden shrieked.

DING.

“Branden,” bellowed Garlund, face red.

Branden gaped at him.

Garlund lowered his eyes. “I’ve been shouting your name for over a minute,” he said. “You’d best be going deaf and not ignoring me…”

Approaching in silence, Branden stood before Garlund, towering over him.

Garlund looked at the hammer in Branden’s hand, still hot from the forge. “Look, I appreciate the extra work you’ve been doing,” he said, “but today’s the Founding Feast. Even I close up shop for that.”

Branden said nothing.

“Mahul, but those eyes! Wuran quit yesterday, you know, saying he couldn’t work with two dead-eyed mon— listen, just take this and get out of here for the day, will you?” said Garlund, handing Branden a golden coin. “Maybe buy some decent clothes; even have some fun? Not that it’s my business,” said Garlund, retreating from the room.

Branden dropped the hammer.

Stooping to retrieve his secret project from the slack tank, he smiled as he felt the cold metal. Quite a nice little present for someone, preferably the great Garlund Ironvein. Or perhaps not yet? Branden’s smiled broadened. He could make another for Garlund later. He might just spend his earnings today after all.

Electric, the thought coursed through his veins. Yes. A good meal, some respectable clothes, and a pleasant little investment at the market: just what he needed. He washed, twitching with nervous energy. The hammer still rang distantly in his ears despite nobody wielding it.

With two new sets of plain black clothes ordered and his unruly beard shaved, Branden found himself striding to the Crane’s Nest. A blizzard of confetti snowed down and the flash of fireworks filled the air of every level in the already gaudy city. Bells rang and laughter burst forth. Branden spoke no word; passerby he stared at looked away.

Arrayed in blue and green with embroidered white swans upon their chests, seven or eight humans burst out of an inn, singing and dancing. The smell of wine clung like perfume; their young faces gleamed in the city’s bright lights. One woman broke away from the group and handed Branden a rose, stumbling and smiling.

He stood, trembling. Pain and other feelings grown too unfamiliar to name welled behind his eyes. He longed to and dreaded casting aside his defenses. Chest tight and breath held, he bore the weight of a fallen hill on his shoulders. Branden took the rose as the scent of strawberries wafted from the woman’s long black hair.

Their gazes met. Neither spoke. Her brown eyes grew wide and she shrank away, retreating among her friends. The moment passed. Branden nodded and crushed the rose, heedless of the thorns. His knuckles grew white as he clenched to stop the bleeding and pain. Soon he mastered both.

Remember that, fool. The hammer echoed.

As he drew near the Crane’s Nest, Branden locked his gaze on the heavy wooden door. Just a bit further. Pace slackening, he leaned as if walking into a cold, biting wind. He clutched a handle and yanked, putting solid oak between him and the world, then drew a ragged breath.