We were summoned back to the council chamber—boots echoing through Thoringard''s stone halls, the weight of yesterday''s fight still clinging to us like ash.


    As I entered—torchlight flickering off the rune-carved walls—my gaze swept across the gathered members of the Senate, their presence a semicircle of judgment. Ruvik and Gralden glared at me with more disdain and fury than ever—their eyes sharp as tempered steel, Ruvik''s red hair a stark slash, Gralden''s staff gripped tight with white knuckles. Velmira, by contrast, practically glowed with satisfaction—her sharp smile glinting, ringed fingers resting calm, as though everything had unfolded exactly according to her design. Brannik offered a simple nod of acknowledgment—stern, but not hostile, his scarred face unreadable. Odrin beamed with pride—no doubt pleased his wager had paid off spectacularly, spectacles glinting in the dim light. Taldric met my eyes with a soft smile and a respectful nod—quiet approval in his steady gaze.


    For a long moment, the room was silent—breath held, tension coiling like a spring.


    Then Tolgarn spoke—voice deep, resonant, cutting through the stillness. "The Emberforge Senate has investigated the Shadow Hand''s claims regarding the First Forge." He let the words settle like molten metal cooling in the air—a heavy pause that thickened the silence. "They are true. Not only did we find the First Forge, but we discovered veins of mythical Tharnakite... and the legendary Valkrynium ore."


    Torglel let out a low whistle beside me—sharp, appreciative, his breath fogging faintly in the cool chamber air. I kept my expression measured—face a mask—but my pulse quickened—racing beneath my skin at the names of metals forged in legend.


    "It has been decided," Tolgarn continued—his tone firm, final—"that Thoringard will enter diplomatic relations with the Shadow Hand."


    A faint smile tugged at my mouth—small, restrained, a flicker of triumph. One step closer—Zolphan''s shadow a little nearer to reach.


    But Tolgarn wasn''t finished—his gray eyes locking onto mine, heavy with intent. "Additionally, it is the will of the Senate that Solari and Torglel be rewarded for their deeds." He paused—letting the weight of his words hang in the air, a hush falling over the senators—then pressed on. "You shall each receive new weapons—crafted by Baldrum Tharnforge, Master Ancestral Smith himself."


    My breath caught—sharp, sudden, a jolt in my chest. Even Torglel—standing beside me—blinked in surprise, his broad frame stiffening, blue eyes widening. This was unprecedented—dwarves didn''t bestow such honors lightly, especially not to outsiders—adopted son or not—their craft a sacred trust rarely shared beyond kin.


    "Your discovery," Tolgarn said—voice softening, pride threading through—"will change the fate of our people for generations. You three have made history." His gaze shifted to Alythiel—steady, apologetic. "As for you... though you fought bravely, we cannot offer such gifts to an outsider. I hope you understand."


    Alythiel inclined her head gracefully—silver hair catching the light, a quiet dignity in her poise. "I do." But as she adjusted her pack—fingers brushing the strap—I caught the faintest flicker of a smile on her lips—knowing, secretive. Not like she didn''t have a reward of her own already—the egg''s warmth a hidden prize. I smiled to myself—a quick, private grin.


    I stepped forward—boots scuffing stone—voice steady as I spoke. "Your Majesty, I have a request."


    Gralden opened his mouth to interrupt—staff rising, disdain curling his lip—but Tolgarn shot him a look sharp enough to silence a forge—eyes flashing like forged steel. The senator clamped his mouth shut with an audible snap—teeth clicking, face reddening.


    Tolgarn nodded—his beard swaying faintly. "Speak."


    I drew my swords—metal whispering free—and held them out in both hands—Celerius and Mors—white and black, chipped and cracked, their edges dulled by battle, scars of the Drake etched deep. "These blades were a gift from you," I said—voice low, reverent. "They''ve served me well. But they are damaged beyond repair." I bowed my head—hair falling forward—a gesture of respect and surrender. "I would ask that they be melted down and reforged into something stronger. Something worthy of what lies ahead."


    There was a pause—the chamber still, breath held—then Tolgarn spoke—voice warm, decisive. "Granted." He glanced around the room—eyes sweeping the senators. "Is there any other business?"


    Odrin raised his hand—spectacles glinting, a spark of excitement in his lean frame. "Solari. Torglel. Once you''ve received your weapons, come see me."


    I gave him a respectful nod—chin dipping, a silent promise. Tolgarn''s gaze swept the room once more—firm, final. "This meeting is adjourned."


    As the senators filed out—robes rustling, armor clanking—I turned to Alythiel—her pack slung over one shoulder. "We''ll meet you later at the Broken Helm."


    She nodded—giving me a small, knowing smile, her eyes glinting with something unspoken—then slipped away—silver hair vanishing into the hall''s shadows.


    We made our way down to the First Forge—steps echoing through Thoringard''s depths—where Baldrum Tharnforge waited, a figure carved from time itself. He was ancient—his long, silver beard braided tight, cascading over his chest like molten metal cooled into strands, his skin like weathered stone—cracked and lined from centuries of fire. His hands—scarred and calloused, thick with muscle—spoke of ages at the anvil, shaping steel into legend. He stood with the quiet weight of someone who had forged the fate of kings—unbent, unyielding, a pillar in the forge''s glow.


    It was tradition for the owners to witness the forging of their weapons—an honor most never lived to see, a ritual steeped in dwarven pride. But I stood here now—heart thudding, air thick with heat and reverence.


    I dropped to one knee—stone biting through my armor—and presented my broken swords to him—hands steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Baldrum. It is an honor to have the Master Ancestral Smith craft my new weapons." I lowered my head—hair brushing my brow. "I have a humble request—that these blades be melted down and reforged as the core of the new." Even with Tolgarn''s approval, tradition demanded the smith''s blessing—and Baldrum Tharnforge wasn''t the kind of dwarf you overlooked tradition with—not if you wanted him to forge for you, his craft a sacred pact.


    His voice was like gravel grinding beneath heavy boots—rough, deep, rumbling through the chamber. "The adopted son of Tolgarn is quite the respectful one." He took the swords from my hands—fingers brushing mine, calluses scraping—studying them with a smith''s keen eye, turning them in the forge light. "I will honor your request... on one condition." His dark eyes flicked to mine—sharp, piercing through the haze. "I name them."


    I nodded—rising slow, dust clinging to my knee. "Of course."


    "What were they called?" he asked—turning them over in his hands, tracing a chip with a scarred thumb.


    "The white one is Celerius. The black—Mors."


    A rough chuckle rumbled from his chest—dry, weathered. "Swift and Death, aye?"


    I gave a sheepish smile—scratching my neck, caught off-guard by his gruff warmth. "Yes."


    Then the work began—Baldrum moving with a precision that defied his years, a dance of fire and steel unfolding before us. He melted the blades down—white and black pooling into molten silver—adding Valkrynium to the glowing steel, binding them together into a single gleaming pool of liquid metal—shimmering, alive with potential.


    He hammered the glowing ingot—folding it back over itself again and again—each strike ringing out like thunder in the ancient chamber, a deep clang that shook my bones. With every blow, the color of the Forge shifted—rippling through a rainbow of hues—bronze to crimson to sapphire—as though the Forge itself danced to the rhythm of his hammer, light bending in its wake.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He reheated the steel—flames roaring—adding more metal, shaping it into twin blades—his hammerfalls as deliberate as a heartbeat, steady and unyielding. Once they were formed, he heated then coated them in a substance I didn''t recognize—my best guess was some type of clay material—gray and thick, slathered on with a steady hand. He quenched the blades in a vat of darkened liquid—oil-slick and shimmering—thick clouds of steam billowing up around us, sharp with the tang of metal and earth.


    Afterward, he polished them with stones of varying coarseness—working from rough to smooth—grit scraping steel, until the metal gleamed like moonlight on still water—bright, flawless, catching every flicker of the forge''s glow. When he was finished, he slotted the blades into hilts of woven black and red leather—each wrap tight and purposeful, fingers deft despite their age.


    And then he etched the runes—chisel biting steel, carving lines of power. "May these swords always find their way back to their master''s hands," he said—voice low and reverent, a prayer in the heat. "May their strikes be swift as a coursing river... and deadly as the gaze of a basilisk." The runes flared with brilliant blue light as he carved them—sharp, electric—then faded as quickly as they had appeared, sinking into the metal like a held breath.


    When it was done, he stood—shoulders squared—and presented me with my new swords—hands steady, offering them like a sacred gift.


    I took them with both hands—breath caught in my throat, fingers brushing the cool leather grips. One blade was a deep, royal blue—rich as midnight sky—the other a lighter sky blue—bright as dawn''s edge. Each edge was lined with three lightning-shaped veins of brilliant white—pulsing faintly in the light, alive with a storm''s echo.


    "Beautiful," I whispered—voice soft, awed. "An absolute masterpiece."


    Torglel gave a long, appreciative whistle—sharp and clear, cutting through the forge''s hum. "Menacing and beautiful," he said—eyes glinting. "Like a storm in all its fury."


    Baldrum nodded—satisfied, a faint curl to his lips. "The core is Valkrynium—flexible and highly conductive. They''ll channel your lightning. And the edges are Tharnakite—razor-sharp. You''ll cut through dragonhide like it''s soft leather."


    He stepped back—his deep voice steady—then set a massive billet down in front of us with a heavy thud—stone trembling faintly under its weight. "Valkrynium for the shock absorption core," he said—tone like a master teaching apprentices, matter-of-fact, certain as the mountain itself. "Tharnakite wrapped around it for an indestructible plating."


    He hefted the billet into the forge—flames roaring as the metal heated—glowing brighter with each breath we took, shifting from dull gray to molten orange, the air shimmering with intense heat that stung my face. When he pulled it free—tongs gripping tight—it blazed like a captured sun, radiant and fierce. Then came the hammering—each strike ringing out like a thunderclap—vibrations rippling through the air, crawling over my skin, my hair standing on end. The First Forge glowed—rainbow colors shifting with each blow—shimmering, distorting—as if the forge was warping the very fabric of reality, light bending wild in its wake.


    Then Baldrum grabbed a massive iron pole—its tip sharpened to a brutal point, glinting in the firelight—and without a word, plunged it deep into the top of the hammerhead—a brutal thrust that sank to the hilt. A shockwave blasted out from the impact—a deep pulse of force shaking the entire island beneath our feet—dust sifting from the ceiling, the forge light flaring violently—wild colors twisting and flashing in its wake, a riot of power unleashed.


    When it calmed—forge settling into a steady glow—he took a sheet of glowing Tharnakite—heated and pliable as clay—slowly wrapping it around the hammer''s core, molding it with practiced hands—fingers pressing, shaping, sweat beading on his brow. And then he hammered again—Each strike answered the Deepfire Drake''s roar—louder, fiercer, as if forging its defeat into legend. A force without mercy, power made solid, the air trembling with every blow. Where Solari''s swords had been forged like an elegant dance—this was pure, unrelenting fury—a storm of creation pounding steel into shape.


    When the hammerhead was complete—broad, brutal, gleaming—he slotted the haft into place—a length of Deepfire Drake bone, carved with dwarven precision—smooth, pale, reinforced by gleaming Tharnakite bands that shimmered faintly. It hissed as he slid it home—steam rising from the connection, a faint sizzle cutting the air.


    Finally, he wrapped the grip with Deepstalker Eel leather—binding it tight, the black hide gleaming faintly in the forge light—smooth and tough, a sheen like polished obsidian. "You''ll never drop this," he said simply—voice gruff, certain—"no matter how hard you swing it."


    He polished the head with a coarse stone—working it smooth and deadly—grit scraping metal with a low rasp—then took up his chisel—etching runes into the hammer''s face, carving deep. He spoke the blessing aloud—"May this hammer always return to its master''s hand. May it strike hard enough to split the earth... and fell the greatest of foes." The runes flared brilliant yellow as they were carved—bright as molten gold—then cooled to a deep, silent glow, sinking into the steel like a held promise.


    Baldrum turned—presenting the weapon with both hands to Torglel—broad shoulders steady, offering it like a king''s crown. "The handle is carved from the Drake you slew," he said—voice low, proud. "Its bones made strong with ancient craft. Now... what do you call it?"


    Torglel took it reverently—hands wrapping the grip—holding it high, testing its weight with a slow grin spreading across his face—broad and fierce, blue eyes gleaming. He turned it once in his hands—feeling the balance—nodding with satisfaction, a spark of joy lighting his gaze. "Durthar," he declared—voice booming, certain—"The Giant Slayer."


    And for a long moment, the cavern was silent—save for the steady hum of power radiating from the weapon itself—a low thrum that pulsed through the air. Torglel smiled wide—fierce and proud, teeth flashing—and I knew then that Durthar wasn''t just a hammer—it was a promise, its name a vow I had no idea how true it would come to be.


    As we made our way toward Odrin''s—Torglel was absolutely giddy with excitement—swinging his hammer around like it was a child''s toy—broad arcs cutting the air, Tharnakite glinting. "I''ll be able to smash anything with this," he said—voice bubbling with glee, slinging the weapon across his back with a thud. "Deepstalker Eel leather is so rare—the fact that I''ve got it on my grip makes this hammer priceless. A thousand gold for an ounce, easy. Know why?"


    He shot me a grin—eyes glinting, beard swaying as he walked. "As far as I know, dwarves are the only ones who can work the stuff, right?"


    "Aye," he nodded—enthusiasm spilling over—"but it''s more than that. The Deepstalker Eel''s a massive thing—lives in magma veins like a fish in water. Its hide''s tough enough to survive molten lava—but making leather from it? Damn near impossible." He raised a finger—like he was giving a masterclass, his voice a lecturer''s boom. "But if you can manage it—if you really know your craft—that hide transforms into the finest leather you''ll ever touch. Pliable, grippy, and tougher than dragonhide. You can''t beat it."


    He let out a booming laugh—echoing through the mountain halls, shaking dust from the stone—a sound of pure, unbridled joy.


    We made our way up a narrow cliffside path—wind whistling past, stone rough underfoot—until we reached Odrin''s home—carved into the rock like it had always been there, seamless and ancient. I knocked—the sound sharp against the door''s iron—and after a few moments, it creaked open—hinges groaning, revealing Odrin''s wiry frame.


    He stood there—smirking, spectacles glinting in the torchlight—"Good, you''re here. Come. I''ve got something to show you."


    He led us down a set of stairs—stone steps spiraling tight—into his underground workshop, the air growing warm with forge heat. Massive double doors opened—creaking wide—to reveal the heart of his craft—tools scattered across benches, blueprints pinned to walls, glowing arcane equipment humming in organized chaos—vials of shimmering liquid, gears ticking faintly, a forge''s glow casting long shadows.


    "I harvested the Drake and built something special for each of you," he said proudly—chest puffing, voice bright with excitement. "Call it my way of saying thanks. Not every day I get to work with material this legendary."


    He handed something to me—scales clinking faintly—"Here. Try this on."


    I slipped it on—the armor felt light—far lighter than I expected—sliding over my shoulders like a second skin, moving easily, naturally with every shift. The sleek black scales shimmered faintly in the forge light—sharp and jagged like volcanic glass—catching every flicker, a menacing gleam rippling across its surface. It looked intimidating—and I loved it—grinning as I flexed, feeling its fit.


    "Well," Odrin said—beaming, eyes glinting behind his spectacles—"that looks better than I imagined." He clasped his hands together—rubbing them eagerly—and walked a slow circle around me—boots tapping stone, inspecting his work. "I took a legendary material and made it better. The scalemail is fitted with aether pulse nodes—small arcane propulsion systems. They activate by thought—letting you alter your trajectory midair. Doesn''t matter if you''re jumping off a ledge or launching with lightning—you''ll stay in control."


    I flexed my arms—feeling the responsiveness of the armor—scales shifting smooth, a faint hum tingling against my skin. "It''s also layered with adaptive defensive runes," Odrin continued—voice quickening with pride. "They shift in response to elemental attacks—fire, ice, poison—you name it." He tapped the bracers—metal cool under his finger. "These can channel incoming magic and redirect it through your hands or blades. Though—fair warning—it has limits. Overload it, and it''ll burn out. Might even fry you if you''re reckless."


    I nodded slowly—impressed, running a hand over the scales—"You really outdid yourself."


    "I always outdo myself," he said with a smug grin—chin lifting, a spark of mischief in his eye—then turned to Torglel—handing over a heavy set of armor—broad, thick plates shaped from the Drake''s bones, reinforced with glowing bands of Tharnakite—clanking as he passed it over.


    "Your turn. Try this on."


    Torglel strapped it on—plates locking tight—broad chest swelling as he adjusted the fit, the crest etched across it catching the light: a phoenix holding an anvil—his family sigil—carved deep into the bone. The armor was a deep, striking crimson—Torglel would later claim it was so enemies couldn''t see him bleed—grinning as he said it, half-joke, half-challenge, and I never knew which he meant more.


    It''s kinetic feedback," Odrin said, flicking the chestplate. "Takes the energy from whatever hits you, stores it, and kicks it back double. Like punching someone with their own fist, only harder.


    Torglel blinked—clearly confused, brow furrowing under his beard—"Eh?"


    Odrin sighed—pinching his nose—"It means when something smacks you, you smack back twice as hard."


    Torglel''s face lit up—eyes wide, grin splitting—"Oh-ho! I like that. I''ll make them regret laying a hand on me." He laughed—the sound booming off the stone walls, shaking dust loose—a roar of pure delight.


    "The gauntlets are magnetic," Odrin added—tapping the bracers—metal ringing faintly. "If it''s metal—and within ten feet—you can yank it to you. Good for disarming or pulling enemies off balance. Just don''t get greedy with it—it has limits." He held up one last finger—grinning wide—"And now... the best part. Say it with me: anchor mode."


    Without hesitation, Torglel shouted—"Anchor mode!"—voice echoing, gleeful and loud.


    The armor''s plates shifted and locked together—with a hiss and a series of clanks—rooting him to the ground—stone cracking faintly under his boots as the crimson plates gleamed. "This mode turns you into a living fortress," Odrin said—voice bright with pride—"Even dragon breath won''t get through that. Only problem—you''re not moving an inch either. A bit of a design flaw I never got around to fixing."


    Torglel grinned wide—teeth flashing—"Nothing can take me down now."


    "Just say ''deactivate'' to unlock it," Odrin added—stepping back, arms crossing.


    "Deactivate!" Torglel bellowed—voice a roar—the armor shifting again—plates unlocking, sliding back into a more mobile configuration with a faint clank.


    I looked between them—still trying to wrap my head around the craftsmanship—scales smooth under my fingers, Torglel''s crimson plates glinting. "Odrin... you''ve given us gifts far beyond anything we''ve earned."


    "Not earned?" Odrin scoffed—voice sharp, incredulous—"You two defeated a beast even the entire Molten Vanguard couldn''t kill. You uncovered a discovery that will change dwarven history. This?" He spread his arms—gesturing to the workshop, the forge—"This is the least I can do to say thanks."