4E 201, Shor's Stone
Gerron Ironbreaker
Two days had passed since the discovery of ebony in Redbelly. Filnjar had wasted no time organizing the miners into daily shifts, directing them to dig deeper into the mine according to Gerron's findings.
The first thing they discovered was that mining ebony was no easy task. Standard iron pickaxes barely scratched the dense, glassy surface of the ore. It took hours for the miners to pull free even a single nugget, and more than one pickaxe head had already shattered under the strain.
The only reason Gerron had managed to gather so much in the first place was because of the system. His strikes had been guided by instinctive precision, the system correcting his form and maximizing the force behind every blow. Without that edge, the others were struggling.
Gerron couldn't exactly tell them why he had been so successful. Instead, he set to work crafting better tools. He melted down the remaining iron stock and reforged it into sturdier, sharper pickaxes, tempering the metal with a blend of crushed moonstone dust and corundum shavings. The improvement was immediate.
"This is more like it!" Grogmar had roared after trying one out. The orc swung the new pickaxe into the ebony wall, and this time, the tool actually bit into the ore, leaving a deep gouge. "Now this is a pickaxe!"
Filnjar had been pleased too, offering Gerron a permanent share of the mine's profits in exchange for his contribution. Four percent of every batch of ebony sold wasn't much on paper—but with the demand for ebony being as high as it was, Gerron knew it would build up fast. It was more than enough to fund his future projects.
And those projects were already forming in his mind.
After outfitting the miners, Gerron had gone straight back to his forge. He kept half of the first haul of ebony for himself, enough to craft something… ambitious. His mind had been restless ever since the blueprints appeared in his head, whispering to him like an itch beneath the skin. The design was complex, layered with mechanisms and magical components—far more advanced than anything he had ever attempted before.
But he couldn't get the idea out of his mind.
The Mercury Hammer.
A warhammer crafted from pure ebony, balanced with an internal Dwemer gyroscope that would allow him to shift the weapon's center of gravity on command. The head would be infused with shock enchantments, delivering bone-shattering blows that could crack through even orcish plate. But the true genius lay in its secondary form—a heavy crossbow integrated into the hammer's shaft. Powered by a charged soul gem, it could launch bolts of concentrated magicka, piercing flesh and armor alike.
The potential was staggering. But so was the challenge.
Gerron set down his hammer and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. His forge was already cluttered with half-finished schematics, tools, and raw ebony bars. The hammer's basic frame was taking shape, but the crossbow mechanism was where he had hit a wall.
He needed soul gems.
And soul gems weren't easy to come by in a village like Shor's Stone. The black market in Riften might have a few, but they'd be overpriced and likely already partially used. No, Gerron needed fresh ones. Fully charged, if possible.
That meant one thing.
Dwemer ruins.
The Dwemer had disappeared from Nirn centuries ago, but their cities and machines remained—silent tombs of brass and stone hidden beneath Skyrim's mountains. They were dangerous places, infested with the remnants of Dwemer automatons: metallic spiders and centurions that still patrolled their fallen halls.
But they were also treasure troves of forgotten knowledge and rare materials. Soul gems, in particular, were said to be abundant in Dwemer ruins—used to power their machines and keep their ancient systems running long after their creators had vanished.
Gerron had heard the stories growing up. Warriors venturing into Dwemer ruins in search of riches and glory, only to be cut down by the Dwarven constructs. Few returned. The ones who did spoke of labyrinthine halls, grinding gears, and the cold, emotionless gaze of metal guardians.
But Gerron wasn't afraid. He wasn't just a blacksmith anymore. He was an artificer.
To him, those ruins were treasure troves of tools and materials.
Lucky for him, he knew of such a place just nearby.
Gerron walked to the edge of the village, shielding his eyes as he looked northwest. High up in the Ironstack Mountains, he could just make out the jagged silhouette of stone towers jutting from the cliffs. Clouds drifted lazily over the peaks, partially obscuring the ruin's entrance.
Kagrenzel.
He'd never been there himself, but he knew the name. An old Dwemer city, once said to be the center of all Dwarven architecture. The Jarl of Riften had attempted to reclaim it once, but they were driven back by the automaton defenses. Since then, it had remained undisturbed.
Exactly the kind of place Gerron needed.
A part of him itched to set off immediately, but there were still things to do.
First, he needed to finish the weekly weapons order for the Stormcloaks — fifteen sets of iron mail and two dozen steel axes. The pay was good, and completing the order would keep Gerron's forge running for another month. If he left for the ruin now, the Stormcloaks might take their business elsewhere—and the town couldn't afford that. Not when they need funds to kickstart their ebony business.
Second, he needed to gather supplies. Soul gems were his main target, but Dwemer ruins were filled with other valuable materials too. Aetherium shards, refined dwarven metal, and—if he was lucky—functioning Dwemer components. All of it could be useful for future projects.
Third… he needed to prepare for a fight. Dwemer constructs were tough. The Mercury Hammer would help, but Gerron knew better than to rely on a single weapon. He'd need potions, better armor, and maybe even someone to watch his back in case things went south.
He smiled grimly.
One step at a time.
Gerron turned back toward his forge, where the unfinished Mercury Hammer gleamed beneath the firelight. His hands itched to finish it—to see it completed and wielded in battle. But there was no point in rushing. A weapon like this deserved patience and care.
Besides, it wouldn't be long before he had everything he needed.
Kagrenzel was waiting.
…
Filnjar
Filnjar didn't know what happened, but it seemed as if Gerron had turned into a master blacksmith overnight.
He had spent the entire morning working on a personal project, only starting on the Stormcloak's order in the afternoon. And yet, by nightfall, the axes were done — not just finished, but perfect. Balanced, sharp, and polished to a professional gleam. The kind of work that took years to master, yet Gerron had done it in mere hours.
Filnjar watched as Gerron dunked the last axe into the water trough, steam hissing into the cool night air. Gerron wiped the sweat from his brow and set the axe on the rack beside the others.
"That's the last of them," Gerron said aloud.
Filnjar stepped into the forge, unable to keep the awe away in his voice at the sight of the finished weapons, awe that was swept away at the worry he felt for his surrogate son. "You've been working like a madman, Gerron. I'd say you've earned yourself a day of rest."
Gerron smiled. "Rest can wait."
Filnjar frowned. "You're not planning anything foolish, are you?"
Gerron's grin widened. "Of course not."
Filnjar sighed. "That's exactly what someone planning something foolish would say."
"I need some supplies," Gerron said. "Rations, a few potions if you have them. Maybe a map of the Ironstack range."
Filnjar's gaze sharpened. "The Ironstack range? What business do you have up there?"
"Kagrenzel."
The older blacksmith's expression darkened. "That's no place for a young man to go alone. Even seasoned warriors don't return from there."
"I'm not just anyone," Gerron said. He flexed his hand, and for a moment, Filnjar thought his muscles looked more defined than yesterday. Gerron's presence seemed… heavier. Stronger. More certain. "And I'm not going alone."
Filnjar narrowed his eyes. "Who's going with you?"
"Grogmar owes me a favor. He might be up there in years, but he could swing an axe with the best of them. He can watch my back."
Filnjar sighed. "Of course he does. And I suppose there's nothing I can say to stop you?"
"Not a thing."
"Then at least take this." Filnjar pulled the polished silver ring he had on his finger. "It's enchanted — minor healing. Should fix up any minor cuts or bruises you get. It's not much, but it might keep you alive."
"Thanks, Filnjar." Gerron took the ring and slid it onto his finger. Filnjar saw how Gerron studied the yellowish red enchantment around it, a telltale sign of restoration magic. "I plan to leave tomorrow. Can you handle giving all these to the Stormcloaks once they get here?"
"Aye, I'll handle that." Filnjar watched him with a resigned expression. "Just… don't get yourself killed, lad."
"Hey, you know me. I'm always careful." He smiled as he waved over his shoulder and stepped out into the evening air, probably heading off to find Grogmar.
Filnjar sighed, shaking his head. Worrying about Gerron was useless, the lad had proven himself a capable warrior and a better blacksmith. There was nothing else he could do but support him with all he had.
After all, Filnjar was young once too. He remembered when he had dreams and aspirations as big as Gerron's. The only difference was that back then, Filnjar was too much of a coward to work for them.
He had been content to inherit his father's forge, to keep his head down and live a quiet, uneventful life. The mines in Shor's Stone were enough for him. He never dared to chase more.
But Gerron?
Gerron was different. He was meant for more.
Filnjar had seen it the first day Gerron wandered into his forge as a boy, barely tall enough to see over the workbench. There was a hunger in his eyes even then — a desire to create, to master the forge, to make something greater than himself.
He had watched Gerron grow — had taught him everything he knew about smithing. And yet, somehow, Gerron had already surpassed him by far. The lad's technique was flawless now. Too flawless. No mortal hand learned that fast. No apprentice could craft weapons with such precision, not without years of experience.
Something had changed.
That day Gerron had returned from Redbelly Mine with ebony ore… Filnjar remembered the way he had carried himself, how his eyes had seemed sharper, how his strikes with the hammer had become unnervingly efficient. Gerron had always been talented, but this was different.
"Magic," Filnjar murmured.
It had to be.
No Nord would admit to using magic so openly, but Gerron… Gerron had always been more open-minded than most.
Filnjar let out another sigh as he rubbed his face. "Damn stubborn boy."
Filnjar's gaze fell to the silver ring on his finger — or rather, the absence of it. It had been a gift from his father, passed down from three generations of smiths before him. It felt right to now give it away to someone who deserved it.
…
AN: The Mercury Hammer is Jayce Talis' weapon from the Arcane Series. It's a Warhammer / Heavy Crossbow hybrid, with the ability to fire blasts of pure magicka. I'll obviously be making a few liberties with it, but the hammer is gonna be Gerron's main weapon for the foreseeable future.
I'll be taking inspiration for weapons, armors, and artifacts from a bunch of different universes. They'll all be tailored to the world of Elder Scrolls and I'll be making an auxiliary chapter to explain all the tools he has whenever makes them.
This is the first three chapters to kickstart this novel. Posts will come at least two or three times a week, depending on my schedule.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 13 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!