“Solari, wake up—we’ve got a job to do,” Torglel’s voice cut through the haze—his meaty hand shaking me by the shoulder—his grin as wide as ever—bronze clasps glinting in his beard under the dim torchlight of the hideout.

  I jolted awake—reflex snapping me upright—blinking against the grit in my eyes—heart thudding faint, sleep peeling off like shed skin. I should’ve known something was coming that day—instinct whispering trouble—but at the time, it was just another mission—routine stirring in the Osirian Desert’s shadowed depths.

  Torglel was the kind of dwarf you didn’t forget—dark-haired, his long beard woven with bronze clasps that clinked soft with every swaggering step—enough scars to tell a dozen war stories—though he always preferred the funny ones—spinning tales of bar brawls and botched heists over the grim ones. His bright blue eyes were sharp—full of mischief—always gleaming like he was daring you to keep up—challenging the world to match his pace.

  He wasn’t just the only dwarf in the Shadow Hand—he was the best pickpocket we had—nimble fingers lifting purses before you’d blink—not that he’d ever admit to being that good—playing the fool with a grin, but anyone who thought he was stupid didn’t live long enough to regret it—his hammer swinging faster than their last breath.

  He was also the seventh son of King Tolgarn of Thoringard—with six heirs ahead of him, he had the freedom the others didn’t—freedom to fight—to drink—to live as he pleased—no crown to chase, just chaos to embrace. And when I left Thoringard—dust of the mountains still on my boots—he came with me—without question—that’s the kind of friend he was—loyalty a steel thread, no words needed.

  “Telegarani’s waiting,” he said—clapping me on the back—his hand a thud that jolted me fully awake—“Mission brief”—voice booming, grin unshaken.

  I groaned—rubbing the sleep from my eyes—fingers scraping stubble—“Telegarani”—second in command of the Shadow Hand—a no-nonsense, middle-aged human with steely gray eyes that cut like blades—hair gone mostly silver, framing a face carved hard by years—patience for almost anything—except Torglel—whose antics chipped at his stone-cold calm like a hammer on granite.

  I dressed quickly—black leather armor sliding snug over my frame—buckles clicking tight—throwing knives slipping into hidden slots—teleportation runes tucked in a pouch at my hip—routine, efficient—muscle memory guiding each move. I followed Torglel out into the tunnels—sandstone walls looming close—torchlight flickering faint, casting jagged shadows—navigating the labyrinthine hideout in silence—steps echoing soft—even now, I could walk those halls in my sleep—every twist and turn carved into memory—etched deep from years beneath the dunes.

  The meeting room was quiet when we arrived—stone cool, air thick—Telegarani stood by the map table—arms crossed—as cold and rigid as ever—gray eyes glinting like steel under the low light, silver hair stark against his dark tunic.

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  “What’s cooking, good looking?” Torglel quipped—voice lilted, mischief sparking—his hammer propped casual against the wall.

  The glare Telegarani gave him could have shattered stone—sharp, unyielding—a silent rebuke that didn’t faze the dwarf’s grin.

  “You boys have an assassination to stop,” he said—ignoring the dwarf entirely—voice flat, cutting to purpose—unrolling a map with a flick of his wrist—parchment rustling, ink lines stark against the hideout’s gloom.

  “There’s a confirmed attempt on King Tolgarn’s life,” Telegarani continued—fingers tracing Thoringard’s borders—“Our intel says it’s happening soon”—his tone clipped, factual—gray eyes locking on me, then Torglel.

  I wasn’t surprised—such attempts might sound shocking to most—but in Thoringard?—it was practically tradition—kings faced blades like seasons turned—this wasn’t even the first time someone tried to kill Tolgarn—and it wouldn’t be the last—logic noting the pattern, not the shock.

  “Do we know who hired the assassin?” I asked—voice steady—probing the variable—eyes on the map’s curling edges.

  Telegarani shook his head—“Doesn’t matter—priority is the king’s life—stop the assassin—if you can take him alive, that’s a bonus—if not…”—he let the word hang—its weight clear—I knew what it meant—kill or capture, outcome secondary to success—logic dictating the call.

  Torglel shrugged—“So, when do we leave?”—voice casual, blue eyes glinting—hammer hefted easy over one shoulder.

  “As soon as this meeting ends,” Telegarani replied—“Gather what you need—time’s against us”—voice sharp, final—gray eyes sweeping us once, then dismissing.

  And just like that, we were dismissed—typical Telegarani—efficient—cold—and back then?—I respected him—his steel resolve a mirror to my own, unyielding.

  We made our way to the armory—tunnels narrowing, torchlight smearing gold across sandstone—I grabbed my swords—Celerius and Mors—one black—one white—life and death—a parting gift from Tolgarn before I joined the Shadow Hand—steel glinting faint, edges chipped but true—they weren’t just weapons—they were reminders of where I came from—Thoringard’s stone in my grip.

  My black leather armor fit snugly as I buckled it on—hide creaking soft—throwing knives in hidden slots—teleportation runes in a pouch at my hip—routine—efficient—each piece a calculated edge—muscle memory guiding the loadout.

  Torglel strapped on his bronze breastplate—the phoenix engraved across his chest catching the lamplight—feathers flaring gold—his onyx hammer hefted over one shoulder—black stone glinting like a promise—he gave me a look—blue eyes sparking—“Hey, Torglel,” I asked as I tightened my gauntlet—leather creaking—“Any idea who wants Dad dead this time?”

  He chuckled—shaking his head—bronze clasps clinking—“No idea, honestly”—then he flashed that grin—wide, daring—“Hell—for all I know—Mom got tired of his shite and hired the assassin herself”—voice booming, mischief alive.

  I snorted—shaking my head—“That’d be one way to end a marriage”—dry humor cutting through—logic noting the absurdity, not dismissing it.

  “Wouldn’t put it past her,” Torglel said—fastening his gauntlets with a grin—fingers deft, bronze gleaming—his laugh a low rumble echoing off the armory walls.