Chapter Seventy-Three: Into the Ironclad Stronghold

The next morning, the trio prepared to leave for the first of their clan visits. As they packed their gear, Garrick leaned against a nearby boulder, his arms crossed. "Ironclad first? Couldn't we start with one of the more talkative clans? I'm not looking forward to listening to a bunch of blacksmiths complain about how hard they are."

Alex cinched their pack tightly and glanced at Garrick. "We have to start somewhere. The Ironclad are tough, but they've also suffered the most on the battlefield. If we can get them on our side, the others might follow."

Sylara tightened the strap on her bow and gave Alex a knowing look. "If they even listen. Braegor didn't exactly look like he was interested in chatting."

Alex couldn't argue with that. Elder Braegor had the demeanor of a mountain—solid, unmovable, and difficult to sway. But they couldn't afford to avoid the harder conversations. Unity had to begin with understanding, and the Ironclad clan had been the most outspoken about their anger toward the others.

Morgra met them at the edge of the encampment, her expression unreadable. She handed Alex a worn map of the Redmoor territories, with the Ironclad stronghold marked in the north. "Ironclad lands are harsh, but their people are harsher. Be prepared to prove your worth, outsider."

"Is that your way of saying they won't listen unless we fight?" Alex asked, their tone half-joking, though the weight of Morgra's words lingered.

"Perhaps. The Ironclad respect strength, but they also value resilience. You will need both." Morgra's gaze softened, though only slightly. "Remember, this isn't just about surviving their tests. It's about showing them that there is more to strength than wielding a weapon."

Sylara gave Alex a sidelong glance. "So, no smashing things?"

"We'll save the smashing for later," Alex muttered under their breath.

With that, the trio set off toward the Ironclad stronghold. The path wound through jagged cliffs and rocky terrain, the air growing colder with each step. The sky above was heavy with dark clouds, and the wind howled through the mountain passes, making the journey all the more treacherous.

Hours passed, and as they climbed higher into the mountains, the land became even more desolate. The grass gave way to barren stone, and the distant sound of hammers striking metal echoed faintly in the wind—a reminder that they were approaching the heart of Ironclad territory.

Finally, they arrived at the gates of the Ironclad stronghold. It was a massive fortress carved into the mountainside, its walls forged from dark iron and stone. Smoke billowed from the numerous forges inside, and the air was thick with the scent of coal and fire.

Two guards, their faces hidden beneath thick iron helms, stood at the entrance. They crossed their axes as the trio approached, their gazes cold and unwelcoming.

"State your business," one of the guards growled, his voice muffled by his helmet.

Alex stepped forward, keeping their voice steady. "We've come to speak with Elder Braegor. We're here to learn about the Ironclad and seek a path to unity."

The guards exchanged a glance before one of them barked a harsh laugh. "Outsiders coming to teach the Ironclad about unity? You've got guts, I'll give you that."

Garrick tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon, but Alex shot him a warning look. "We're not here to teach. We're here to listen."

The guards remained silent for a moment, as if weighing their words. Finally, one of them stepped aside and nodded toward the entrance. "Elder Braegor is in the forge. If you want to talk to him, you'll have to go through there."

They made their way into the fortress, where the heat from the forges hit them like a wave. Inside, blacksmiths worked tirelessly, hammering away at weapons and armor. Sparks flew through the air, casting eerie shadows on the walls, while the clang of metal reverberated in their ears.

As they ventured deeper into the stronghold, they found Braegor in the center of the largest forge, his massive frame silhouetted by the glow of molten iron. He worked with precision, his hammer striking metal in a rhythmic, almost meditative fashion. Around him, other smiths watched in silent reverence, waiting for their elder's next command.

Alex hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. "Elder Braegor."

Braegor didn't look up from his work, his hammer still ringing against the anvil. "You came faster than I expected, outsider."

"We're here to learn," Alex said, choosing their words carefully. "To understand the Ironclad and what it will take to bring the clans together."

Braegor's hammer paused mid-swing, and he slowly turned to face them. His eyes were like molten metal—hardened, sharp, and full of fire. "You think unity is something that can be forged with words? Strength is what holds this land together. The weak fall, the strong rise. That is the way of the Ironclad. Always has been."

Sylara stepped forward, her gaze steady. "Strength isn't just about who can swing a sword the hardest. It's about endurance, resilience, knowing when to fight and when to step back."

Braegor's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Resilience, you say? Tell me, outsider—are you willing to test that theory?"

Alex met his gaze without flinching. "If that's what it takes."

Without another word, Braegor turned and motioned toward one of the nearby smiths. "Prepare the forge. If these outsiders want to prove their resilience, let them face the Trial of the Anvil."

The smith nodded and immediately began stoking the flames, the heat intensifying as the forge roared to life. Braegor stepped closer, his massive frame looming over Alex. "The Ironclad respect those who endure the heat and pressure of the forge. You will face the same trial we give our own—hold the red-hot iron with your bare hands until the metal cools. Only then will you have proven your strength."

Alex's pulse quickened. They'd faced physical challenges before, but this… this was different. The Ironclad trial wasn't just about strength; it was about enduring pain, pushing past the limits of what the body could tolerate.

"I'm ready," Alex said, though their heart pounded in their chest.

Braegor stepped aside, gesturing to the glowing iron rod that the smiths had prepared. "We'll see."

Sylara and Garrick stood back, their expressions grim but resolute. This was the moment that would determine whether the Ironclad would even begin to consider them allies.

Alex approached the forge, the heat from the iron radiating against their skin. They took a deep breath, then reached out and grasped the glowing rod with both hands.

The pain was immediate and searing, but Alex didn't let go.

Not yet.