The mess hall of the Iron-Mine outskirts was a low-slung building made of reinforced timber, smelling perpetually of roasted root-vegetables, cheap ale, and the sharp tang of cooling metal. Korg moved through the cramped kitchen with a grace that defied his massive, green-skinned bulk. In one hand, he wielded a heavy iron ladle like a mace; in the other, a cleaver that had seen as much combat as it had butchery.
"Sit," Korg commanded, gesturing with the ladle toward a scarred wooden table. "You lot look like you've been living on nothing but adrenaline and mana-fumes. You can't hunt Crawlers on an empty tank."
Kaelen sat heavily, his right arm feeling like a leaden weight. The iron-grey scales had settled into his skin, cold and unyielding. Even the simple act of bending his elbow now required a conscious effort of "Heat" just to make the metal-like skin pliable. Beside him, Ria was already eyeing a loaf of crusty black bread, while Elara looked around the mess hall with a mix of curiosity and exhaustion.
"So," Korg said, slamming three massive bowls of thick, brown stew onto the table. "The Ember Spark. Funny name for a group that looks like it's barely holding onto its last wick. I saw what you did out there, boy. That wasn't magic. Magic has a smell—perfume and ego. What you did... that was just raw, ugly physics."
Kaelen took a spoonful of the stew. It was rich, salty, and surprisingly delicious. "I don't use spells. I imitate things. The dragon inside me... he doesn't care about runes."
Korg paused, his small, intelligent eyes narrowing as he leaned against the counter. "A dragon, eh? I've seen men bonded to spirits before. Elementals, ghosts, even the occasional demonic parasite. But a dragon... that's a heavy burden. Dragons don't share space. They occupy it."
"He's right," Ria said, her mouth half-full of bread. "Kaelen's getting slower. That iron-skin is great for taking hits, but he's walking like he's wearing a suit of plate armor under his skin. If we go into the Deep Pits, he's going to get swarmed if he can't move."
Korg nodded, reaching into a barrel and pulling out a strange, heavy-duty leather harness. "That's because he's fighting his own weight. Listen, kid. I was a front-line breaker for the Orcish Legions before I decided I liked feeding people more than killing them. The secret to heavy power isn't trying to be light. It's about Momentum."
"THE ORC SPEAKS SENSE," Ignis rumbled, his voice sounding like two boulders grinding together. "YOU ARE TRYING TO BE A BIRD IN A MOUNTAIN'S BODY. BE THE MOUNTAIN."
"How do I be the mountain if I can't reach the target?" Kaelen asked, looking at Korg.
"You don't reach for them," Korg said, tossing a heavy iron ingot toward Kaelen. "You let the world fall toward you. Come on. To the training yard. If we're going into the Pits tomorrow, you need to learn how to swing that arm without throwing your spine out of alignment."
The "training yard" was just a patch of hard-packed dirt behind the mess hall, littered with broken mining equipment. Korg picked up a massive iron sledgehammer, spinning it in one hand as if it were a toothpick.
"Hit me," Korg said simply.
"I'll break your ribs," Kaelen warned, the iron scales on his fist tightening.
"You'll try," Korg grinned, showing yellowed tusks.
Kaelen lunged. He swung his right fist in a wide arc, the sheer mass of the iron scales carrying a terrifying amount of force. But Korg wasn't there. The half-orc pivoted on a dime, the head of his sledgehammer catching Kaelen's wrist and redirecting the momentum. Kaelen stumbled, the weight of his own arm pulling him off-balance and sending him face-first into the dirt.
"Too much arm, not enough core," Korg grunted. "You're treating that limb like a weapon you're carrying. It's not. It's part of your center of gravity now. Don't fight the weight. Shift it."
For the next four hours, Korg put Kaelen through a grueling series of movements. He taught him how to plant his heels to absorb the recoil of his own "Expansion" blasts. He showed him how to use the "Iron-Echo" to turn his body into a pivot point, using the weight of his arm to swing his entire body like a wrecking ball.
By the time the moon rose over the iron-rich ridges, Kaelen was drenched in sweat, but his movements were different. He was no longer a boy with a heavy arm; he was a singular, dense unit of force. When he struck the practice dummy—a massive log wrapped in chains—the sound wasn't a dull thud. It was a resonant gong that vibrated through the ground.
"Better," Korg said, wiping his brow with a greasy rag. "You're learning to 'Imitate' the Earth. Not just the hardness of it, but the stillness. If you can stay still while the world is moving, you can't be broken."
Elara and Ria watched from the porch of the mess hall. Elara looked relieved, but Ria's eyes were fixed on the horizon, toward the Deep Pits where the light of the "Sun-Staves" flickered in the dark.
"We leave at dawn," Ria said as the men walked back. "Korg, you're sure you want in on this? The Guild doesn't exactly favor 'Company additions' that haven't been vetted."
Korg picked up his ladle and slung it over his shoulder. "The Guild can kiss my green backside. My boys are starving because those Crawlers are blocking the main vein. I'm joining the Ember Spark because you lot are the only ones crazy enough to walk into a nest of magnetite with nothing but a spear, a student, and a boy who smells like a forge."
Kaelen looked at his iron-grey hand. For the first time since the bond, he didn't feel like he was just surviving a curse. He felt like he was building something.
"The Deep Pits," Kaelen said, his voice firm. "We clear the nest, we get the ore, and we get paid. And Ignis?"
"I AM LISTENING, ECHO."
"Tomorrow, we feast on the heart of the mine."