Deep beneath the palace of Drakhalis, past stone corridors lined with dragonbone torches and runes carved by ancient hands, the royal forge roared with life.

  The air was thick with the scent of iron and fire, a heady mix of molten metal, smoldering coal, and old magic. Furnace flames crackled in a rhythmic chorus, casting dancing shadows across the vaulted chamber where generations of dwarven craftsmanship had shaped the future of Lothara, one hammer strike at a time.

  This was no ordinary smithy. The Royal Forge was sacred ground—older than the city above it, carved from the living rock of the mountain before even the Dragon King ascended to his throne. The ceilings arched high above, ribbed with blacksteel beams enchanted to hold back the heat and echo with power. Massive anvils of obsidian and rune-stone stood like shrines throughout the chamber, their surfaces glowing faintly with embedded glyphs. Arcane ventilation shafts, designed by elven architects and refined by dwarven engineers, kept the airflow constant, while a central crucible the size of a carriage churned with ever-burning magma drawn from deep beneath the world.

  The forge teams were already hard at work, their movements a seamless blend of muscle, magic, and memory. Dozens of dwarves—short, broad, and battle-scarred—moved between workstations in a well-practiced rhythm. Sparks flew as enchanted hammers met steel, and muttered incantations accompanied each strike, binding magic into their creations with ancient precision. Some worked on ceremonial armor, others on war-machines powered by compact spell-cores. A pair of apprentices argued loudly over a misaligned gear assembly while an older dwarf rolled his eyes and took over without a word.

  Despite the constant clamor, it wasn’t chaos. It was music. And at the center of it all, like a conductor leading an orchestra of steel and flame, stood Eitri Stonehand.

  He was a mountain in miniature—broad as two men, his thick arms bare beneath a scorched leather apron etched with personal runes and battle scars. His beard, long and braided with mithril rings and flecks of soot, swayed with each movement. A pair of dark-lensed goggles rested across his eyes, their lenses glowing faintly from internal enchantments as he leaned over a curved steel shield. Every hammer strike he delivered pulsed with magic, golden light trailing from his calloused fingers into the enchanted runes etched into the head of the tool. Each impact rippled across the shield’s surface, not just shaping the metal, but binding purpose into it.

  The forge, as mighty as it was, seemed to pause for him.

  And then came the interruption.

  Bootsteps—not dwarven. Too light, too precise. Eitri heard them long before the figure arrived. He didn’t stop his work. He didn’t even glance up.

  A tiefling descended the spiral staircase carved into the far wall, his crimson skin gleaming in the forge-light. His black robes, trimmed in silver, swirled behind him like a trailing shadow. His horns curved back in sharp arcs, polished and marked with small etched symbols of loyalty to the royal house. Red eyes scanned the chamber with quiet disdain as he stepped over scattered tools and beneath floating rune constructs that buzzed with ambient spellwork. His tail flicked in irritation when an apprentice nearly bumped into him with a cart of heated ingots.

  The tiefling paid none of them any mind. He was here for one dwarf and one dwarf only.

  He stopped just behind Eitri, folded his hands neatly behind his back, and cleared his throat.

  The hammer paused mid-swing.

  “Y’know,” Eitri said without turning, his voice a gravelly rumble tinged with irritation, “where I’m from, clearing your throat near a working smith is either an invitation for a lecture… or a boot to the arse.”

  The tiefling said nothing, his expression blank.

  With a final strike, Eitri sealed the runes into the shield’s core. The metal flared with radiant energy, humming softly like a living thing. Satisfied, he set the shield down carefully upon a cooling rack and finally turned, lifting his goggles and letting them hang around his neck.

  “Speak, then. Before I assume you’re here to waste my time.”

  “The Dragon King summons you to the throne room,” the tiefling said. His voice was crisp and formal, like a blade unsheathed. “I am to escort you personally.”

  Eitri arched one thick brow. “Personally, eh? That’s a step above the usual scribbled note and ceremonial wax seal.”

  “He said immediately.”

  “Of course he did,” Eitri muttered, stripping off his soot-stained gloves and tucking them into his belt. “Let me guess—it’s about the boy.”

  The tiefling did not answer. He didn’t need to.

  Eitri grunted. “Aye. Thought so.”

  He spared a glance back at the shield still humming on the rack. His expression softened just a fraction before hardening again like cooled steel.

  Without another word, he followed the tiefling through the great iron doors of the forge, the heat of his world behind him, and something colder waiting ahead.

  The heavy doors of the throne room groaned open with ceremonial slowness, ancient hinges resisting the intrusion of morning light. The tiefling attendant stepped aside, his crimson eyes downcast, and gestured for the visitor to enter.

  Eitri Stonehand stepped into the royal hall with the weight of centuries behind every stride.

  The doors closed behind him with a deep, resonant boom, sealing the chamber in tense, stony silence.

  The Dragon King sat upon his blackstone throne at the far end of the hall, a towering figure clad in a dark robe threaded with gold—though its elegance did little to conceal the raw power beneath. Even in repose, his form radiated command: a mountain carved into the shape of a man. Golden eyes burned like twin suns in the half-light, fixed upon the dwarf approaching him. No words greeted Eitri. No movement. No welcome.

  The silence dragged on.

  Eitri clicked his tongue and began his walk forward. “So. What’s so urgent you had to drag me from the forge?” he said gruffly, striding confidently into the space before the throne. “You could’ve come down like you used to. Spoke to me among the flame and steel. But no—now I get summoned like a wayward apprentice. Is this how old friends treat each other now?”

  No response. The king’s gaze never left him.

  Eitri stopped short of the steps leading to the throne and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, what’s this? The silent treatment? What next—gonna pout and glare at me until I guess what’s wrong? Be a man and speak, Er—”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  He froze.

  The Dragon King rose slowly, every inch of his seven-foot frame unfolding like a shadow given form. His dark robe swept back as he drew something from the folds—an object sheathed in simple leather. With a flick of his wrist, the king unsheathed the dagger and held it out before him, blade glinting in the firelight.

  It was nearly identical to the one Eitri had given Joran the night before.

  Eitri’s expression flattened. “Why would you bring that out of the relic vault?” he asked cautiously. “That blade’s not to be touched unless—”

  “It’s not the relic,” the king said, his voice a low thunder. “It’s a forgery.”

  Before Eitri could speak, the Dragon King grasped the dagger by the blade and—without hesitation—squeezed. Metal shrieked. Runes flared briefly… then shattered with a sound like breaking glass. The weapon fractured into glimmering shards that fell between his fingers and scattered across the throne room floor.

  Eitri’s eyes narrowed.

  “Aye,” he muttered. “So it is.”

  Another long silence passed as the king stepped down from the dais. His footsteps echoed with the weight of command, of a thousand battles fought and won. As he approached, his voice was like a blade unsheathed. “Only a few in this world could replicate a relic of that craftsmanship. Fewer still could bypass the vault’s enchantments.”

  He let the shards fall from his hand with a cold clatter.

  “And only one,” he continued, “can forge something so close… that even I had to study its magic to know it was false. The aura was wrong. Too smooth. Too young. A shadow pretending to be flame.”

  The silence turned heavy. Oppressive.

  Eitri crossed his arms, but his stance had shifted. No longer playful. Guarded. “You gonna stop dancing around the point and get to your accusation, your highness?”

  A flash of something dangerous crossed the king’s face. In a sudden surge of fury, he turned and drove his hand into the throne beside him. With a roar, he ripped it from the stone platform and hurled it across the chamber.

  The entire palace shuddered.

  The blackstone throne crashed through two marble columns and the outer wall, exploding in a cloud of dust and stone as it sailed out into one of the courtyard training yards with a thunderous crash. Shouts echoed from outside, and a chorus of startled guards began scrambling toward the wreckage.

  “I KNOW WHAT YOU FUCKING DID, EITRI!!!” the king bellowed.

  The guards who had begun gathering around the blast suddenly thought better of it. They promptly dispersed, pretending they hadn’t seen a thing.

  Eitri raised a single eyebrow. “Real smooth,” he muttered. With a tap of his hammer, runes flared beneath his fingertips. Waves of transmuted magic rippled outward from his boots and hands, and the fractured stone groaned as it slowly knit itself back together. In seconds, both the wall and pillars were restored, good as new.

  “I’d hate to be the one patchin’ that up later,” he added dryly.

  The king stalked forward, stopping only inches from Eitri, his towering frame casting the dwarf in his shadow. “Where is my son?”

  Eitri didn’t flinch. He met the king’s golden gaze with unwavering calm.

  “If you intend to threaten me,” Eitri said, “you should recall what I was before I became your royal smith. I fought beside you. In the ashes. In the skies. In the heart of the Dragon War.” He placed one hand gently on the hammer at his side. “And if this is the road you want to walk… I’ll remind you how much fire this forge can still summon.”

  For a moment, the chamber trembled—not from footsteps or spells, but from the raw power of two ancient titans preparing to clash. Their auras flared like storms colliding, warping the very air between them. Magic crackled at the edges of their limbs. The temperature spiked and plummeted at once.

  And then, Eitri took a breath… and let it go.

  The glow around him faded.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know what you’re feeling. You’re scared. But I won’t be the one to add more grief to that. So I’ll tell you.”

  The Dragon King’s jaw clenched. His muscles didn’t relax, but his energy stopped climbing.

  Eitri stepped back and folded his arms behind him. “Last night, I found Joran at the gate. Bag packed. Cloak drawn. He told me he was leaving—whether I tried to stop him or not. Said he couldn’t sit behind these walls while the rest of the realm suffered. Said he’d try again and again if I stopped him.”

  “You should have stopped him again.”

  “I was going to.” Eitri looked down briefly, then back up. “But something in me… something ancient and stubborn… said to let him go. Said that whatever he’s meant to face, it won’t be found inside these walls.”

  “You gave him Last Mercy,” the king said flatly. “The only blade that can sever the bond if the amulet is broken.”

  “Aye. I gave it to him with one condition: to pass it on, not to use it. Only when he finds someone he trusts with his life.”

  The king turned away, stalking toward the shattered throne’s vacant space, his voice rising with frustration. “And who, Eitri? Who in Orano could possibly earn such trust? The realm is overrun with slavers, zealots, and worse. You gave him a chance to walk straight into the jaws of the very beasts we swore to protect him from.”

  “You act like he’s still a boy,” Eitri snapped. “But he’s not. He’s your son—and he’s not weak. Not stupid. You’ve raised him too well for that. But he’s not going to survive if you keep treating him like a liability.”

  The Dragon King spun around, his expression unreadable. “You put my entire kingdom at risk because something ‘told you’ to let him go.”

  “I trust my instincts,” Eitri said, firm. “They’ve kept me alive for over two centuries.”

  “And what if your instincts are wrong?” the king thundered. “What if the amulet is damaged? What if the thing inside him awakens?”

  “Then we pray he finds someone strong enough to help him. Or strong enough to stop him.”

  The room fell into another silence, colder than before.

  The king turned to one of the smaller side thrones—the one belonging to his queen. He stared at it for a long moment before calling for a maid waiting just outside.

  A pale elven woman rushed in. She bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”

  “Send word to the captain of the royal guard. Quietly. I want volunteers only. No palace-wide alert. No open decree. I want Joran found… and brought back.”

  “Yes, sire.” She vanished without another word.

  The king rubbed his face, fingers lingering near his brow as he muttered to himself. “This must be contained… No one outside this palace knows what the amulet truly holds. If that gets out—if anyone learns what lies within him—”

  “He will be in worse danger than he already is.” Eitri finished grimly.

  They locked eyes once more.

  “So what’s the plan?” the dwarf asked. “Drag him back in chains? Let him rot in this castle until your mages figure out how to cut out the part of him you fear?”

  The king’s mouth tightened. “He is my son. The last piece of her I have left. I will protect him. Even if he hates me for it.”

  Eitri said nothing.

  The king stepped down once more. His voice, now calmer, was low and heavy. “You’ve betrayed my trust, Eitri. I don’t know if I can forgive that. Not yet.”

  “Then don’t,” Eitri said. “But don’t forget this—when the time comes… he’s going to need someone who believes in him.”

  He turned, his footsteps echoing as he walked toward the doors.

  The king remained alone in the hall, the only sound the quiet rustle of wind through the throne room’s high windows.

  He turned to the throne his wife once sat in—the seat beside his own, untouched since the day she died.

  He walked to it slowly, reverently. Rested one hand on its back.

  And for a fleeting moment, he could almost see her again—sitting there, smiling, their newborn son cradled in her arms.

  A boy filled with laughter.

  With hope.

  With light.

  “I should’ve saved you both,” the king whispered, his voice cracking beneath the weight of memory. “If I could’ve stopped that night before it began…”

  But there was no stopping the past. No turning it back.

  Now there was only the future.

  And a son walking into it alone.