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The heart in the walls thumped and black veins pulsed with energy. A sickening, thrumming bass that tickled the inside of his skull in all the wrong ways. It was unnatural. Vile. Thoughts twisted in Wallace’s mind like rising smoke, and none of them were good.

There was more to it than just the biological components buried within the building. He hadn’t lived this long without learning how to learn how to read the signals his body sent him before his eyes could pick them up, and there was something deeply wrong with the Infernal Armory.

Chills traveled down Wallace’s arms and left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t feel anything. And yet, there was something else present. Wallace was so certain of it that he’d bet his hammer or his mother — though not both.

Where is it? What the Nine Underlands lives in this building?

Wallace couldn’t find it. Arwin was busy studying the results of his work, but the dwarf was a little preoccupied to look in the other smith’s direction. It wasn’t like Arwin could even deny the presence. He’d been speaking to it.

Well, I suppose he could have been speakin’ to himself. I do that a bit when the going gets real rough. But it certainly didn’t sound like he was just having a solo conversation. There’s something here, and it ain’t all that happy about me.

The dwarf’s certainty did absolutely nothing to reveal the target of his woes. An uneasy air hung over him like a blade as he scanned the smithy for the umpteenth time and found nothing for his troubles. Nothing was truly invisible, but whatever this thing was, it was doing a damn good job of hiding.

No amount of hiding could conceal the sickness within it. The hatred and anger burned brighter than any forge. A hunger for blood so intense that, even as the presence faded to remnants and then to nothing, Wallace could still feel it on his skin like a layer of slime.

Energy pooled in Wallace’s body. It trickled into the handle of his hammer but he kept it from traveling too far and lighting up its head. Arwin didn’t seem like the type of lad to start messing with vile forces, but his gut didn’t lie. One didn’t have to be evil themselves to make a deal with a wretched force. Wallace would be damned if anyone like that left his presence in one piece — and much less with the knowledge of Dwarven Smith, no matter how junior.

But even with the immense unease hung over his shoulders like a cloak, Wallace couldn’t completely keep the awe from taking root. He’d seen a number of different smithing methods in his lifetime.

There were dwarves that wove metal like grass. Smiths that sang objects into existence with their voice and the raw materials alone. He had witnessed hundreds of different and completely unique crafting methods.

Wallace had never seen anything like this. It wasn’t that Arwin’s method was unbelievably impressive. He hadn’t been a thousand times more efficient than a dwarven master. Arwin hadn’t been efficient at all, for that matter. It had taken him a little longer than Wallace would have expected from an average apprentice.

Arwin wasn’t better than any of the smith’s he’d trained. In fact, he was worse than the majority of them. He’d gotten help — and therein laid Wallace’s disbelief. The Infernal Armory had done more than passively offer Arwin a few tools.

It had been working alongside him, and that should have been impossible. The epitome of Dwarven Smithing was establishing a perfect link between a smith and their artwork. The harmonization of two songs — not three.

Trying to add an extra voice in should have broken everything. Wallace might have been able to believe it if the feat had been done by two master smiths pushing to their absolute limits and weathered by hundreds of years of experience. Even if they’d pulled it off, he doubted the result would have been anything worthwhile. An extra voice just added confusion. It broke the connection.

And yet, the lad’s smithing technique stands in polar opposite to all of that. A complete antithesis of the Dwarven race. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with me own eyes. Imagine that. A smith that works at his best when in conjunction with another.

Unfortunately, Wallace was pretty sure that other would have loved nothing more than to rip his throat out on the spot. In the end, there was only one way to find out. He glanced over at Arwin. The other hadn’t said a word since he’d pulled his object from within the furnace the smithy had made him. There was a bracelet cupped within his hands, mostly concealed from Wallace’s gaze.

“Well?” Wallace asked, finally breaking the silence and taking a step forward. He kept a good grip on his hammer, ready to burst into motion. Arwin shouldn’t have been much of a threat, but the intensity of the presence in the building had set him on edge. “Show me what you’ve got, boy.”

There’s much I don’t know. Arrogance will not blind me to danger.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Arwin looked up. His features were unreadable. For a moment, it looked like he was going to try to do… something. Run. Fight. Wallace wasn’t sure. He already had his hammer at the ready. If Arwin did anything but show him the object, the result would be the same. They would fight. The human would die.

A second passed. Wallace’s grip tightened. Then Arwin blew out a slow sigh and pulled his hands apart, revealing the bracelet. Three bands of material wove into a delicate band that was far too small to fit on Arwin’s wrist. The metal wasn’t exactly perfect, but there was something about it that just… fit. It glistened faintly in the light, complete in its ruggedness. Wallace’s eyes tingled as the Mesh acknowledged the item before him. He activated [Soulsight] before any letters could even try to trace themselves into the air.

The skill washed across the bracelet and enveloped it with a faint light visible only to the dwarf’s eyes. Every magical item had an aura. It had a story, and one that told of more than just its constituents. The aura was a window into the materials and their crafter alike.

Wallace steeled himself. Anything made by the presence he had felt, so laden with hatred and evil, could be nothing but—

Beautiful?

His eyes widened. A delicate gold glimmer enveloped the band, akin to the shimmer of the Mesh but as gentle as a lover’s touch. The band was full of love and compassion so resolute that nobody bearing witness could deny it.

Without a doubt, Wallace could tell that the man before him was more than willing to lay his life down to protect the lives of the ones he cared about. Oddly enough, he had

. There was death in the aura, swirls of gentle darkness that were no stranger to Wallace.

It had been dozens of years since he’d last witnessed such darkness. There were a scant few that had passed from this realm and into the next, only to return. Their presence was a sign of great power and respect. They were cause for question, not distrust.

But that was not the extent of it.

Wallace’s throat tightened as he peered deeper into the aura. He took an involuntary step back. The Mithril in the band had absorbed the essence of Arwin’s soul to saturation. Within it, he saw a monster in the form of a man. Legions of living beings, dead at his hands. An ocean of blood that could fill valleys. The weight of countless lives weighed upon Arwin like shackles trying to drag him to the Underlands.

And, as if it had been waiting for him to finish taking in the sight before him, the Mesh finally bloomed forth in the air before Wallace in letters as red as blood.

The Band Three [Cursed]

[Mithril Soul]: This item was forged of the legendary material Mithril and has revealed its maker’s true self.

[The Dead]: The Path of the Butcher.

[The Protector]: The Path of the Martyr.

[The Promise]: The Path of the Lover.

[The Band Three]: Three paths lay before the wearer of The Band Three. It will observe its bearer until it understands their desires, empowering the path that fits them best and permanently locking the other two. Once donned, this item cannot be removed until its path has been selected.

“Nine Underlands,” Wallace breathed, his grip on his hammer slackening slightly as he stared at the ruddy crimson words. A cursed item. There couldn’t have possibly been a worse result.

“Am I remiss in hoping you’re just impressed?” Arwin sounded weary.

Everything Wallace had ever learned told him to strike before the human even knew what happened. To end the battle before it could begin. Any being whose true soul revealed a cursed item was vile beyond comprehension.

And yet, Wallace hesitated. There was more than just evil in the lad. His soul had darkness, but it also had light. If both truly existed, then purging the evil would come at the cost of killing the good.

There are men whose place it is to judge such things, but I do not know if I am one of them. I do not want to be one of them. But if I do nothing, will I not be responsible for the legions that may fall because of my inaction?

This was about more than just Arwin. Even his bracelet made no sense. A cursed item hadn’t been something he’d had the misfortune of dealing with before, but only one of the three paths described by the band seemed truly evil.

The duality in Arwin’s soul was immense. He was savior and murderer, both the extended hand and the blade that severed it. Seconds ground by. The two of them stood in silence, their gazes locked. Wallace’s grip on his hammer tightened.

My questions run as deep as the earth, but my time does not. I may be lowered to nothing more than filth, but I could not live with myself if I loosed an evil of this magnitude upon the world. What do I do?

His stance shifted. Then the front door of the smithy creaked open.

“Wallace?” Lillia’s voice came as she stepped into the building. “I’m not late, am I? I got caught up cooking.”

Arwin’s eyes broke away instantly, leaving himself completely open without a second of hesitation as he turned toward Lillia. Wallace’s eyes flicked down to the bracelet — sized too small for the man’s hands, but perfectly for hers.

“Hold on,” Arwin called. “Don’t come in yet!”

“Arwin?” Lillia’s voice lit up. “How did it go? You were supposed to wait for me to get back! Did you pass?”

“I don’t know yet. Sorry — we kind of got a bit ahead of ourselves. Would you mind waiting outside for a bit longer, please? Wallace is still deciding on my results. The old bastard’s eyes are about to pop out of his head because of how we’re breaking all his traditions.”

“Wallace is here too?” A flicker of disapproval passed through Lillia’s tone. “I hope he knows he’s never touching so much as a droplet of my drinks if he even thinks about trying to attack us.”

“I figure he’s well aware, but I’ll pass it along.” Arwin’s eyes returned to Wallace’s, his gaze serious.

Lillia harrumphed. Her footsteps led back to the outer door and it closed a few seconds later, leaving the two of them alone again.

She said ‘us’. Girl doesn’t consider the chance of him fighting on his own, and he stopped paying attention to me the moment she arrived. Could someone who killed in such number truly form such a connection with another living being?

Arwin’s hand closed around the bracelet and his arm lowered. “Not exactly what I was aiming to make.”

“That’s how Mithril works, lad.”

“I suppose so.” Arwin was silent for a second. “What did it tell you? What kind of person am I?”

Wallace stared at the human. Deep down, people who had accomplished anything knew who they were. They either regretted or took pride in their actions, but they knew. Arwin was different. There was genuine confusion in his voice. He genuinely meant his question — and Wallace was starting to realize he might not be able to give it an answer.