Vuldin’s order cut through the frost, demanding obedience from the trembling initiates. The master of the Watch fixed his pale stare on Kavira. “Strip down. Now.” The others hesitated, shuffling their boots on the blood-flecked cobbles. But Kavira, operating as ‘Kavir,’ moved. Her hands, numb from the wind and the flinty ache in her ribs, loosened the bone toggles of her coat. She allowed no flicker of hesitation, no visible shame to cross her face. Vulnerability meant execution or expulsion, especially in a fortress where survival hinged on utility. She peeled off the layers of her travel-stained clothing, tossing them into a haphazard pile. The chill bit at her skin, but she welcomed the raw sensation, a familiar burn that anchored her to the present. Her body, thin but wiry, bore the scars of a life lived on the fringes, not the pampered flesh of a noblewoman. The elaborate tattoos of the Tarsin house, usually hidden beneath her collarbone, remained concealed by the shadow of her neck, a secret she guarded more fiercely than her own life. Her eyes, devoid of expression, scanned the yard. Other initiates, men mostly, began to follow suit, some with nervous glances, others with grim acceptance. Garek Vond, however, stood frozen, his jaw working. His flinty gray eyes drilled into ‘Kavir.’ Disgust, sharp and undeniable, radiated from him. He couldn’t comprehend the cold calculus that had offered Elian to the beast, just as he failed to grasp the raw bid for survival driving her every movement. He saw a monster. Kavira saw a means to an end. Two ironclad sentries stepped past the rows, checking skin for mineral growths, misshapen bones, or signs of frailty. This was her window. Kavira had planned for this, for every eventuality she could foresee. Reaching into her shed breeches, her palms found the beaded coin purse she had lifted earlier at the portcullis. It was a small, heavy thing, filled with clinking brass and silver. She tucked the pouch against her palm, registering its leaden clink. “Grit,” she murmured, her voice a low rasp, barely audible above the rising wind. The ash-feathered corvid, perched on a jutting gargoyle above the perimeter flags, tilted its head. Its obsidian eyes, sharp with intelligence, fixed on her. A silent command passed between them, a bond forged in the treacherous peaks and shadowed valleys of their shared existence. The nearest sentry, helmet visor thrown back, turned aside toward a boy concealing a festering bite. This was it. Kavira flicked the coin pouch with a precise, almost imperceptible movement of her wrist. It arced low, skipping across stone until it struck the iron base of a fire-basket glowing orange against the granite. “Hey!” the sentry barked, pivoting toward the noise. In the span of that turn, Grit dropped from the perch. The corvid launched itself from the gargoyle, a black arrow against the fading light, its wings beating a frantic rhythm. The corvid plunged, wings snapping tight, hooked bill snatching the rim of the fire-basket. The iron bowl lurched. Coals spilled across flagstones in a spray of sparks. A screech split the fog as the tripod overturned, dumping charred pine across the stones while men scrambled clear of the embers. Kavira moved. Her gaze caught the parchment logbook the distracted sentry had left behind, sprawling open beside an ink-stained quill. She snatched it, flipping swiftly to her section. A quick scan, a moment of intense concentration. Her name, ‘Kavir,’ was already entered. The space for the medical assessment was still blank. Her glance darted to the signet ring dangling from his belt-chain, an etched falcon stamped in brass. She committed it to memory, the intricate curves and angles burning into her mind’s eye. Dipping the quill, she ignored the brittle gnawing deep in her sternum. A quick, practiced flourish, mimicking the guard’s signature. A slight tremor, a smudge, a minute imperfection that would seem natural for a hurried entry during a chaotic inspection. Then, a bold, confident mark in the assessment column: “Fit. Optimal condition.” She pressed the ring, still warm from the guard’s hand, into the soft vellum, leaving a crisp, official seal. It was done. All in the span of three heartbeats. She pitched the logbook back into the dust just as the sentry cursed, kicking aside scattered ash to right the iron bowl. He picked up the ledger, grumbling. His eyes scanned the page, lingered on ‘Kavir’s’ entry, then moved on. He saw nothing amiss. The chaos had been her shield, Grit her accomplice. *** Dawn brought a harsher silence. Fog, thick and biting, rolled in from the peaks, shrouding the Karst Watch in a ghostly veil. Initiates, muffled in padded canvas and boiled hide, stood in pairs. The air crackled with anticipation for the first proper training bout. Garek Vond stood opposite ‘Kavir,’ his broad shoulders hunched, his fists already clenched. His dark pupils contracted, simmering with an overt disdain. He hadn't forgotten the Vormir Thrasher. He hadn't forgiven her. “Today, we test your mettle,” Warden Vuldin’s voice cut through the mist. He stood on a raised platform, flanked by two grizzled veterans, their faces scarred from countless skirmishes. “No true blades. No killing blows. But fight as if your life depends on it. For in the peaks, it will.” Garek lunged first, a whirlwind of controlled power. He swung a padded training axe, aiming for ‘Kavir’s’ exposed side. His moves were textbook, precise, honed by years of formal training. Kavira parried with her own axe, deflecting the blow with a jarring clang. Her movements were crude and vicious, drawn from gutter brawls and necessity. Garek pressed the attack, driving ‘Kavir’ back across the slick stones. Each blow was calculated, designed not just to win, but to humiliate. “Still looking for shields, ‘Kavir’?” he spat, low enough to evade the wardens. “Or do you shove another man into the jaws when your skin is on the line?” The barb struck deep, yet she kept her expression flat as slate. Anger was an unaffordable drain. But Garek’s words, intended to shame, only sharpened her focus. He underestimated her. He saw only a calculating coward. He could not perceive the mineral plague calcifying her marrow, or her absolute refusal to solidify into a frozen relic. Garek feigned a low thrust, then pivoted, bringing his axe up in a sweeping arc towards her head. It was a classic move, one designed to disarm and leave an opponent vulnerable. Most initiates would have tried to block it, sacrificing their guard. Kavira didn’t. As the axe began its ascent, she dropped low, not blocking, but evading. Her left hand shot out, not for the axe, but for Garek’s wrist, gripping it like an iron vice. Her momentum carried her forward, turning his own strength against him. She twisted, pulling his arm sharply, wrenching it out and up in an unnatural angle. A joint gave with a dull snap. Garek gasped, fingers opening as the handle hit the stones. Before he could recover, Kavira’s foot swept out, catching him behind the knee. He buckled, staggering. Her free hand, open and hard, slammed into his chest, just below his collarbone. The force of the blow, combined with his unbalanced stance, sent him sprawling onto the wet stones. He landed with a grunt, winded, his face contorted in pain and shock. His wrist, no doubt, was sprained, perhaps worse. Silence blanketed the yard. Other novices froze, while the veteran wardens exchanged flat, calculating looks. Garek Vond, the prodigy, the disciplined warrior, lay disarmed and defeated, not by skill, but by sheer, brutal pragmatism. It was a street-fighter’s move, not a Watchman’s. It was merciless. Warden Vuldin, however, watched with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Efficient,” he finally rumbled, breaking the silence. “Brutal. But efficient.” His gaze swept to Garek, still on the ground. “Get up, Vond. There are no fair fights in the peaks.” Later that day, as the sun dipped below the jagged peaks, casting long, purple shadows, Kavira found herself cleaning her practice axe in the small, cramped armory. The victory against Garek had been fleeting, a minor satisfaction. Her real prize remained elusive. Then, a shadow detached itself from the gloom above. Grit touched down along a workbench, releasing an iron key onto the pine planks: an ornate bit stamped with the snarling cave-wolf of the lower vaults. Grit had done it. Again. Kavira reached for the iron. A spasm caught her ribs. Her chest tightened. A dull ache, then a fierce, searing pain, bloomed beneath her sternum. A violent tremor seized her. She gasped, a ragged sound that caught in her throat. The pain intensified, a thousand tiny knives twisting inside. Her vision blurred. A hollow *crack*, like thin ice breaking over mud, sounded beneath her ribcage. The calcification was gaining ground. She seized her ribs, folding forward to trap the wheeze in her throat. Her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. Grit let out a soft, concerned caw, nudging the key towards her with its beak. Kavira forced herself to breathe, to push through the agony. She caught the iron key, palms vibrating as she shoved it into her sash. The lower archives. A single, flickering lamp cast long, dancing shadows across shelves laden with ancient, dust-choked scrolls and brittle ledgers. Kavira, her chest still aching, her breath still shallow, moved with a frantic urgency. The key, heavy and cold, turned with a rusty groan in the lock. She pushed open the door, a faint smell of mildew and old parchment wafting out. She reached the stacks swiftly, locating a calfskin folio marked: “CURES & BLIGHTS – RESTRICTED ACCESS.” Her thumb worked the brittle leaves until the title surfaced: *’Glass-Rot: a calcifying wasting of the internal viscera.’* Her eyes scanned the dense script, skipping over the grim prognosis, searching for the solution. There it was, scrawled in faded ink at the bottom of the page, underneath a sketch of a calcified ventricle: *’Only the uncooled core of a Glass-Wyrm, consumed within the hour of harvest, halts advancement. A troglodyte of the subterranean fissures, venomous and scarce.’* And then, a line below it, in a different, more recent hand, scrawled almost as an afterthought: *’Expedition to the Grothul Caves for Glass-Wyrm hunt scheduled for tomorrow at dawn.’*

Ash and Iron