The maps Kaelen had stolen from the palace archives claimed the Ash-Wastes were empty. The maps were wrong.
Deep within a jagged volcanic fissure that bled thick, choking sulfur smoke into the sky, the Ghost Squad found the Iron-Grip Foundry. It wasn't a city; it was a subterranean fortress built into the ribcage of an extinct magma beast. The inhabitants were a brutal, heavily armed collective of exiled dwarven outcasts, rogue blacksmiths, and half-giant raiders who recognized no king’s law.
"State your business, meat," a guard bellowed from the iron catwalk overlooking the fiery chasm. He wielded a repeating heavy crossbow packed with explosive fire-gems.
Kaelen stepped forward, the wind tossing his dark hair. He didn't look like a prince; his uniform was a patchwork of torn linen and leather, caked in dragon blood and grey ash. But his posture was loose, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his ruined, melted training sword.
"I need a forge, some heavy hammers, and a blacksmith who doesn't ask stupid questions," Kaelen called up, his voice effortlessly slicing through the roar of the rushing lava below.
The guard let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "The Iron-Grip doesn't work for free, boy. What could a bunch of starving border-rats possibly offer us?"
Kaelen smirked. He reached into his rucksack, pulled out a massive, overlapping obsidian plate the size of a tower shield, and slammed it edge-first into the volcanic rock at his feet. The ground cracked beneath the impact.
The obsidian surface caught the crimson glare of the lava, gleaming with a deep, unmistakable metallic luster.
The guard’s laughter choked in his throat. He leaned so far over the catwalk he nearly fell into the chasm. "By the forge-god's beard... is that... Iron-Scale?"
"I have three hundred more of them," Kaelen said, his cocky smile widening as he met the guard's stunned gaze. "And the core to melt them. Open the gates, or I’ll use your catwalk to sharpen my new blade."
Ten minutes later, the massive blast-doors groaned open.
The heat inside the foundry was suffocating, a heavy, physical wall of air that tasted of charcoal and molten ore. At the center of the grand cavern stood a legendary figure—Thorgar the Defiant, a rogue dwarven smith whose arms were as thick as tree trunks, covered in severe burn scars from ancient forge-fires.
Thorgar picked up one of the dragon scales, turning it over in his calloused, four-fingered hands. He tapped it with a steel hammer; the hammer shattered into three pieces. The scale didn't have a scratch.
"It's pure," Thorgar muttered, his eyes wide with a manic, obsessive light that only a true craftsman possessed. "The Iron-Scale Drake of the Black Peaks. Men have spent generations trying to harvest this metal, only to end up as grease in the beast's belly. How did a boy like you kill it?"
"I asked it politely to stop breathing," Kaelen said, leaning against an anvil while Jax nervously watched the half-giant workers hauling their dragon scales into the forge-baskets.
Thorgar snorted, a grin splitting his thick beard. "You've got a massive mouth, kid. But this metal can't be melted by normal fire. It requires a heat source that can warp the earth itself."
Kaelen didn't say a word. He reached into his pack and placed the condensed, fist-sized amber dragon stone on the anvil. The moment the gemstone touched the iron, the ambient gravity inside the smithy shifted. Loose nails, heavy iron tongs, and stray coal fragments floated an inch off the ground, hovering in the vibrating air.
Thorgar dropped to his knees, his jaw slack. "The Dragon Core... you tamed its will."
"I don't just want armor, Thorgar," Kaelen said, his voice dropping its teasing tone, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp intent that made the veteran smith look up in submission. "I want a vanguard. I want my squad encased in obsidian plates that can deflect an imperial siege engine. And for me..."
Kaelen drew his melted, slagged training sword and tossed it at Thorgar's feet.
"I want a blade that can channel a storm without breaking. Can you do it?"
Thorgar stood up, a wild, fierce roar tearing from his throat as he grabbed his heaviest master-hammer. "Tie your hair back, Prince. For a weapon like that, you aren't just going to watch. You're going to pull the bellows."