We made our way to the Broken Helm to meet up with Alythiel—boots scuffing Thoringard''s stone streets, the forge''s distant hum fading behind us. As we entered—pushing through the heavy oak door—the usual din of drunken laughter and clinking mugs rolled over us like a familiar wave—raucous, warm, a tide of noise washing through the tavern''s smoky air.


    Before we could even settle in—dust still clinging to my new scalemail—a voice cut through the noise—sharp, boisterous, slicing past the clamor. "Torglel, I heard you''ve been back home. I''m offended you haven''t come to see me."


    A dwarf who looked almost like Torglel''s reflection strode toward us with a grin—broad, bearded, blue eyes glinting with mischief. Tulgren—the sixth prince of Thoringard and the only dwarf who could match Torglel''s appetite for a good fight—his bronze clasps gleaming in the torchlight. When we were younger, the two of them sparred constantly just for the thrill of it—fists flying, stone cracking—only when they fought seriously did things get dangerous. Last time—years back—they leveled half a wing of the palace, a brawl that ended with Tolgarn''s bellow and a week of repairs.


    "I knew you''d sniff me out eventually, brother," Torglel said—laughing loud, clapping Tulgren on the shoulder with a thud that echoed—his grin wide, familial warmth cutting through the tavern''s din.


    "Let''s get a drink," Tulgren said—already steering him toward the bar—arm slung around Torglel''s neck, pulling him through the crowd like a pair of bulls.


    Just as I turned to follow—boots scuffing the worn floor—a voice I knew well pulled my focus—gentle, steady, threading through the chaos. "You made it back," Alythiel said. Her voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it—like she''d been holding her breath until now. She stepped into view from the shadows, a soft smile curling her lips, silver hair catching the lantern glow. Her eyes flicked down to my new armor—moonstone gaze tracing the scales—and her fingers brushed over them—light, lingering a second longer than needed, a quiet spark in her touch. "That looks really good on you."


    There was a pause—air thick between us—her words hanging soft, warm. "Come with me," she said—voice caring but firm. "Just for a moment."


    We slipped out through one of the side doors—wood creaking shut behind us—into a quieter stone corridor lit by warm lanternlight, flames flickering in iron sconces. The carved halls of Thoringard wrapped around us in silence—runes etched deep, the air thick with the faint scent of burning metal and forge oil, a lingering echo of the mountain''s heart. She walked beside me for a while without saying a word—steps light, her pack swaying faintly, the egg''s weight a hidden secret.


    Then—she sighed—a sound heavy with thought, cutting the quiet. "Why does it have to be you?" she asked—finally breaking the silence, voice low, edged with something raw. "I know someone has to stop your father... but why you? You''ve said yourself—you''re not doing this to be a hero."


    I glanced over at her—her silver hair catching the glow, framing her face—and she stopped, turning to face me—eyes searching mine, piercing deep. I held her gaze—steady, unyielding—as I answered. "Heroes are people who go against evil because they are honor bound. They see the world in black and white. People want heroes—figures of hope, of light. The face of what''s good."


    I paused—letting the silence stretch, breath steadying—before I continued—voice low, firm. "But I''m not the face they want. I''m the shadow in the dark. I''m the blade they need, like it or not. I don''t see black and white—I see shades of gray. Sometimes... you have to cross a line to get the right thing done. Heroes won''t cross it. I will. If killing Zolphan is the only way to stop him, I won''t hesitate."


    She stared at me—brows furrowed—moonstone eyes narrowing, digging for more. "And what makes you different from him?" she asked—voice low, a whisper cutting deeper than a shout. "What stops you from becoming the same kind of monster?"


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    My answer was quiet—but resolute—a steel thread in the stillness. "Necessity."


    She frowned—lips pressing thin—and I pressed on—voice steady, unyielding. "He kills because it gives him power. Control. Because he wants to instill fear. He eliminates lives that are a burden to his plans. I do it when it''s the only way to protect the innocent. That''s the difference. A mother who kills a threat to protect her child isn''t a monster. No. She''s a shield, a protector." I met her eyes again—locking in, letting her see it all. "Zolphan is a threat. And if I have to end him... so be it. I''m killing a threat to be a protector."


    She looked at me for a long moment—no longer searching for answers, just... seeing me clearly for the first time—her gaze softening, understanding settling in. "You''re not trying to be a hero," she said quietly—voice a whisper, realization threading through.


    "No," I said—firm, final—"I''m not. Heroes don''t look into the dark. I stare at it, never blinking."


    She stepped closer—boots scuffing stone—her voice gentler now, warm with resolve. "Then let me be the one who keeps the darkness from consuming you completely." I didn''t answer—I didn''t need to—her words sinking deep, a tether I hadn''t known I craved. In that moment I knew—besides Torglel, she would be the one to bring me back—her quiet strength a light I couldn''t lose.


    We made our way back into the Broken Helm—door creaking open—to find complete chaos waiting—tavern air thick with shouts and splintering wood. Torglel and Tulgren stood back-to-back in the center of a full-blown brawl—fists flying, mugs shattering, bodies crashing to the floor—a whirlwind of dwarven fury. Tulgren slammed a dwarf through a table like it was routine—wood cracking loud, splinters flying—then immediately drop-kicked another without missing a beat—boot thudding flesh, sending him sprawling. Torglel caught a dwarf mid-swing—grabbing his arm, using him as a shield to block a chair that shattered against him—then hurled him aside—spinning to uppercut the next poor soul who charged in—fist cracking jaw, sending him reeling. Looking back, I''m grateful they didn''t level the place—the walls still standing a small mercy.


    I sighed—pinching the bridge of my nose, exasperation cutting through—"Not again," I muttered—voice dry—before dashing forward into the fray—boots pounding sticky boards.


    I vaulted onto the bar—wood creaking under my weight—raised both hands—lightning crackling faint in my palms—and with a thunderous clap—released a shockwave of energy that cracked through the room—blue arcs snapping, dropping every brawling dwarf in their tracks—groans rising as they hit the floor, silence crashing in.


    Alythiel stepped carefully over an unconscious body—brow raised—her silver hair catching the dim light. "Does this happen often?"—voice calm, dry, a hint of amusement threading through.


    I jumped down from the bar—boots thudding—exhaling through my nose—sharp, tired. "If I had a silver piece for every time I had to stop a bar fight Torglel started, I''d be the richest man in Sainaro."


    Torglel was facedown in a pile of splinters—armor dented, beard tangled with ale. I hoisted him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes—his weight heavy, Durthar clanking against my back—"Come on," I said—voice rough—"Let''s head to bed. We go back to base in the morning."


    We made our way back to the hideout—stone paths winding through Thoringard''s depths, torchlight flickering faint—my sense of time blurred in the mountains—five days, maybe less, lost to the forge''s hum and the drake''s heat. As we entered the meeting room—stone cool, air still—I noticed we were the first ones back—not surprising, our trip a quick blaze through the deep. I looked at Alythiel—her pack slung low—and motioned to the table—scarred wood glinting in the lantern glow. "We need to talk about your find from the Drake," I said—voice steady, firm—"Place it on the table."


    She took it out of her bag—fingers careful—removed the cloth wrapped around it—revealing the egg''s dark sheen—and set it gently down—its surface pulsing soft, a faint hum whispering through the room. "Where the blazes did you get an egg like that?" Torglel asked—shocked, voice booming, eyes wide as he staggered closer, ale still clinging to his breath.


    "From the Drake," Alythiel said coolly—voice calm, unshaken, her focus on the egg unwavering.


    "It''s a bloody dragon egg?!?" Torglel exclaimed—jaw dropping, hands flailing, shock cutting through his haze.


    I rubbed my forehead—fingers pressing hard—and sighed—exasperation thick. "That was a Drake—and no, it''s not a Drake egg. In fact, I''ve never seen anything like it before."


    Alythiel had a glazed-over look in her eyes—distant, lost—and reached out to touch the egg—fingers trembling faintly, drawn by some pull I couldn''t see. The moment her hand brushed its surface—molten veins flaring bright—she collapsed—crumpling to the floor like a cut string, silver hair spilling across stone.


    I rushed over to her—boots skidding—kneeling fast, heart thudding as I checked her pulse—faint but steady. "Alythiel!"—voice sharp, fear cutting through. After a minute passed—each second dragging—her eyes shot open—wide, wild—and she sat up—breath ragged, hands clutching stone.


    "Are you okay?" I asked—concern thick, leaning close, searching her face.


    "Yes, I am—I had a weird dream," she said—voice shaky, eyes darting as she steadied herself. "You and I were facing a powerful arch demon unlike anything I''ve ever seen. Eyes like dying stars... a voice that bled through the air like knives.  She was powerful and frightening."


    I had no idea what it meant at the time—her words sinking in, a cold knot forming in my gut—I should''ve considered the possibilities—Zolphan, the egg, the power stirring in me—but I didn''t, not then, the weight of it slipping past in the moment''s blur. That vision... I would come to understand all too well.