The false calm that followed Ariben’s defeat unsettled Glynhorn more than the fight itself.   The gnome was gone, yes—but the beast he had stirred into wakefulness was not. Glynhorn had tracked its devastation. Towns turned to craters. Trees ripped out by the roots. Magic left smoldering in the air like smoke.   But there had been one building left standing. Reinforced by something more than mortar—something that shimmered beneath his fingers when he examined its frame.   Adamantine. Rare. Dense. Resistant to all but the oldest magic.   He’d found a piece of it among Ariben’s ruins—likely stripped from that structure. A single lump of ore no bigger than a man’s fist. But enough.   If the beast was immune to spell and steel, then Glynhorn would meet it with something crafted to endure.   On the first morning, he set out from Frandyln for Isondale. He wore his ranger’s cloak close and his bow at his back, passing under banners already fluttering with familiar lyrics.   A group of travelers was gathered near the city gates. One was humming a tavern tune, soft and low:   “They start where monsters make their bed, Where most would fear to tread…”   Glynhorn’s brow lifted faintly.   He didn’t slow his stride.   ⸻   The forge in Isondale was tucked down a side alley where the heat rolled off the stone like dragon breath. Inside, the dwarf smith didn’t ask many questions—he didn’t need to. He knew adamantine when he saw it.   “Can you fuse it to this?” Glynhorn asked, pulling his weathered breastplate from his pack.   The dwarf grunted, eyed the ore, and ran his thick fingers across its surface.   “It’ll take seven days,” he said. “Not a minute less. But you’ll be wearing something the beast might hesitate to bite.”   “Good,” Glynhorn replied. “It’s not hesitation I’m after. Just enough time to kill it.”   ⸻   Each day he returned to the forge.   The second day, the dwarf was folding the first adamantine strips into thin, gleaming curves. The air stank of smoke and melted enchantments. Glynhorn watched, then walked the northern markets.   It was there he heard it again—a woman singing softly as she swept her doorstep, a smile hidden behind her work.   “Though memories were torn and frayed, They struck it through the brain…”   He paused at the corner and looked back.   The woman kept sweeping, never looking up.   ⸻   By the third day, word had spread.   A merchant caravan from Dewbreak had arrived half-empty. The others, they said, had gone missing along the trade road. No bandits. No signs of struggle. Just… gone.   Glynhorn spent that night outside the city, camped on a low ridge. He thought he might feel safer under open sky.   He didn’t.   ⸻   The fourth day, the chest plate took shape. The forge hissed and sparked as the dwarf hammered glowing metal into channels down the spine and across the ribs.   Glynhorn nodded his approval, but said little.   He passed a tavern that evening where a trio of minstrels sang loud and clear:   “Aakscree called the forest home, While Glynhorn tracked the way— And when the dead came swarming in, They danced, then ran away!”   The patrons laughed and clapped.   Glynhorn only smiled once he’d passed them by.   ⸻   The fifth day, the wind turned.   A storm rolled down from the north. Not rain, not lightning—just a heavy pressure, like the land itself holding its breath.   Reports trickled in from scouts: giants seen marching together, not warring. Unified.   Worse still, a set of footprints had been found that didn’t match anything natural. Reptilian. Wide as wagons.   The rumors were getting too specific to ignore.   Glynhorn walked the city walls that night. Even in the wind, he could hear it—the taverns below still humming their chorus:   “From boss to base, with daring grace— They flip the script and win the race!”   It made him proud.   And wary.   ⸻   By the sixth day, the armor was nearly done.   The forge glowed bright and angry as the dwarf sealed the adamantine into the final seams, polishing the blackened steel until it shone like obsidian. He tapped the breastplate and grinned.   “Won’t stop a mountain,” he said. “But it’ll make it work for the kill.”   Glynhorn took it carefully, running a hand over the cool metal. It felt heavier than it looked.   He liked that.   ⸻   The seventh morning was quiet.   Too quiet.   He walked to the edge of the city, wearing his new armor beneath his cloak. The adamantine pressed close to his heart, like a second skeleton.   In the distance, the hills loomed like sleeping beasts.   And somewhere beyond them, something stirred. Bigger than any giant. Hungrier than any army.   But Glynhorn would be ready.