Arden sat down among the dwarves, the keg still resting beside him.
Thorin Ironbeard studied him with sharp eyes while the other dwarves maintained their studied indifference.
But Arden could see the truth.
Their fingers twitched toward their cups.
Their throats worked as they caught the scent of alcohol.
Their ears pricked forward, listening to the liquid slosh in the barrel.
They want to drink. They're just too proud to show it.
Stubborn bastards. This is going to be hell.
"So," Arden said casually, pulling out a wooden tankard. "Are we doing this, or are you going to keep pretending you're not interested?"
One of the younger dwarves snorted.
Thorin's beard twitched—almost a smile.
"Ye've got stones, lad. I'll give ye that."
Arden filled his tankard from the keg, raised it in salute, and drained it in one go.
'Glug glug glug.'
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve in an exaggerated fashion.
Christ, that's strong. I'm going to regret this.
The dwarves watched intently.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Thorin pulled out his own cup.
Not a simple traveler's tankard.
A masterwork.
Carved from a single piece of dark wood, inlaid with silver runes, large enough to hold three times what Arden's cup contained.
"Fill it," Thorin commanded.
Arden did.
Thorin raised the massive cup, met Arden's eyes, and drained it in one continuous pull.
'Gulp.'
He set it down with a satisfied grunt.
"Again."
They drank three cups in rapid succession.
Then the other dwarves could no longer maintain their pretense of disinterest.
One by one, they pulled out their personal cups—each a masterwork, each elaborately carved, each absurdly large.
Arden's modest tankard looked pathetic in comparison.
I'm going to die here. In a wasteland. From alcohol poisoning. What a way to go.
"There's plenty more," Arden said, gesturing toward the wagons in the distance.
The lead wagon approached at his signal.
The dwarves' eyes widened as they saw the cargo.
Fifty kegs. Stacked high. All full.
One dwarf actually licked his lips before catching himself.
"Hmmm," Thorin mused, his expression carefully neutral even as his eyes tracked every barrel. "That's... adequate."
"Adequate?" Another dwarf scoffed. "That's a proper haul, Thorin, and ye know it."
"Quiet, ye fool. Don't let the human see yer eagerness."
"I can hear ye, old stone. We all can."
The dwarves descended on the wagons like a coordinated military unit.
Each claimed their own barrel, rolled it to a comfortable position, sat down on it, and began drinking.
No words.
No toasts.
Just drinking.
Serious, dedicated, professional drinking.
I need a smoke. Or ten. This is going to be a long few days.
Elara, Serra, and Seravelle watched from a distance.
"Are they... are they sitting on the barrels?" Serra asked quietly.
Seravelle studied the scene with ancient eyes—not childish curiosity, but genuine analysis.
"They're establishing dominance through endurance," she said softly. "Testing whether Arden has the will to match them. This isn't just cultural—it's strategic. If he breaks first, the negotiations are over before they begin."
Her voice carried the weight of five hundred years of observing human and non-human behavior.
"Will he last?" Serra asked.
Seravelle's carmine eyes tracked Arden's movements—the slight tremor in his hands, the forced confidence in his posture.
"He'll push himself to the breaking point. Whether that's enough..." She paused. "We'll see."
-----
Hours passed.
The dwarves drank steadily, methodically, without pause.
Arden kept pace as best he could, but the difference in scale was becoming apparent.
His modest tankard versus their massive carved cups.
His careful sips versus their continuous gulps.
God damn it. I'm thirteen years old. My liver can't handle this shit.
But I can't stop. Not now. Not with everything riding on this.
By the time the sun began to set, five barrels were empty.
The dwarves showed no signs of intoxication.
Arden was definitely feeling it.
"How... how are you doing that?" he asked Thorin.
"Doing what, lad?"
"Drinking that much without getting drunk."
Thorin's beard split in a wide grin.
"We're dwarves. This is what we do. Ye think we'd challenge humans to drinking contests if we could lose?"
Arrogant pricks.
One of the younger dwarves—stocky even by dwarf standards, with a red beard—laughed.
"The human's surprised! Look at his face!"
"Quiet, Borin. Ye'll scare him off."
"If five barrels scared him, he's not worth talking to anyway."
Arden straightened, despite the alcohol fogging his mind.
Fuck you too, Red Beard.
"I'm not scared. I'm pacing myself."
"Pacing?" Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Lad, we've barely started. This is the warm-up."
"The... warm-up?"
All five dwarves grinned simultaneously.
I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die.
Worth it, though. Probably.
Second Day
Arden woke to the sound of drinking.
The dwarves hadn't stopped.
They'd transitioned from sitting on their barrels to lying against them, cups in hand, drinking continuously through the night.
Fucking hell. They're not human. That's the only explanation.
"Ye're awake!" Thorin called cheerfully. "Good! Grab yer cup!"
Arden's head throbbed.
His mouth tasted like old leather soaked in regret.
His body protested movement.
Every movement.
I need water. And bread. And maybe a priest.
But the dwarves were watching.
Can't show weakness. Not now.
He grabbed his tankard, filled it, and drank.
The alcohol burned going down, but it helped clear the fog.
Slightly.
Hair of the dog. Or in this case, hair of the entire kennel.
Elara approached with water and bread.
Her movements were still graceful, but there was concern in her cold eyes.
"You should eat something."
"Can't. The dwarves aren't eating. If I do, it looks weak."
"You're going to make yourself sick."
"Probably. But this is how it works." He took another drink. "They're testing me. If I stop now, we lose everything."
Elara studied the dwarves—all still drinking, none showing any signs of slowing.
Not with curiosity or academic interest.
With the cold calculation of someone who'd seen countless negotiations fail.
Someone who knew exactly what was at stake.
"How long can they keep this up?"
"Days. Maybe a week."
"And you?"
Until I collapse or die, whichever comes first.
"Long enough."
Serra approached next, looking worried.
"Lord Arden, you should rest. Let me take over for a while."
"Can't. I'm the heir to Valekrest. I'm the one who invoked the old friendship. If I pass out, the whole thing fails."
He drank again, fighting the nausea.
God, I miss being able to just... not do this. Being powerful and able to delegate.
But no. I'm thirteen. And I'm drinking myself to death for politics.
Seravelle watched from a safe distance.
Not taking notes like an excited child.
Just... watching.
She'd seen this before, Arden questioned.
Not with dwarves, maybe.
But with other cultures. Other negotiations.
She caught his eye and gave the smallest nod while mouthing.
You're doing well. Keep going.
It helped, somehow.
------
Ten barrels were empty.
The dwarves were finally starting to show signs of intoxication.
Slight slurring of words.
Occasional stumbles when standing.
Louder laughter.
Arden was significantly worse.
His vision swam.
His coordination was shot.
He could barely keep his eyes open.
I'm going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.
Please, God, let it be passing out. Vomiting would be embarrassing.
But he kept drinking.
One of the dwarves—Borin, the red-bearded one—stood up and pointed at Arden.
"Ach! There's only twenty barrels left now!"
It was the first real complaint any of them had voiced.
Thorin noticed Arden's condition and grunted.
"The lad's struggling. But he's not quit. That counts for something."
"Aye," another dwarf agreed. "Most humans would've passed out by now."
"Or run off like that other one did."
They were referring to the guide—a soldier from Ironhold Fortress who'd accompanied them.
He'd lasted half a day before making excuses about scouting the perimeter.
He hadn't come back.
Smart man. Coward, but smart.
Gwain, one of the soldiers Arden had brought, was sprawled on the ground, snoring loudly.
He'd passed out hours ago.
Only Arden and Elara remained conscious among the humans.
Elara stood nearby, her own cup in hand.
She'd been matching the dwarves drink for drink.
Her face had the slightest flush.
Her movements, usually so precise and controlled, had gained a certain... looseness.
Not sloppy.
Just less rigid.
More natural.
But she was definitely drunk.
The dwarves had noticed.
"Hoh," one of them gaped at her. "Look at the lass!"
"She's still standing!"
"And her cup's still full!"
They raised their cups in salute.
Elara, with perfect grace despite her intoxication, raised hers in response.
The dwarves cheered.
"The lass has steel!" Borin declared. "More than half the humans I've met!"
Thorin nodded approvingly.
"Aye. She'll do."
At least one of us is impressing them.
------
The guide still hadn't returned.
Probably halfway back to the fortress by now. Can't blame him.
Gwain was still passed out, though he'd stopped snoring.
At least he's breathing. That's something.
Arden was barely functional.
His hands shook as he lifted his cup.
His vision doubled.
His thoughts were sluggish, disconnected.
I'm dying. This is it. I'm going to die from alcohol poisoning in a dwarf camp.
At least it's an interesting obituary.
But he kept drinking.
Because the dwarves were still drinking.
And because stopping now would mean failure.
Elara sat beside him.
Her elegant posture had finally started to slip.
Not completely—she was still more composed than any drunk person had a right to be.
But her shoulders were less straight.
Her head tilted slightly.
Her eyes were unfocused.
And she was staring at him.
"Lord Arden," she said softly.
Her voice was different.
Less cold. Less controlled.
More... something.
"Yeah?" he managed.
"You're handsome."
What.
Arden blinked, trying to process that through the fog of alcohol.
"You're... drunk."
"Very," she agreed. "But you're still handsome. I noticed before, but I'm saying it now."
She leaned closer, her cold eyes studying his face with unusual intensity.
"White hair. Sharp features. Those eyes—like ice given life. Vibrant. Cold but... warm, somehow."
Her hand reached up, touching his face gently.
"Just my type."
Okay. This is happening. Drunk Elara is... different.
"Elara, you should—"
"I want to hug your thigh and sleep," she announced, completely serious despite the absurdity of the statement.
"My... what?"
"Your thigh. It looks comfortable." She nodded sagely, as if this made perfect sense. "I'm going to sleep on your thigh."
"That's not—"
She moved before he could finish, laying her head down on his lap.
Her long hair spilled across his legs.
Her eyes looked up at him, still intense despite being thoroughly drunk.
"Comfortable," she murmured.
What the hell is happening right now.
I'm too drunk for this. Way too drunk.
Her hand was still on his face, fingers tracing his jawline.
"So handsome. Why are you so handsome? It's unfair."
"Elara?"
She grabbed his face with both hands, pulling him down slightly so they were eye to eye.
"Just my type," she repeated. "Perfect. Annoying. But perfect."
The dwarves were watching with great interest now.
Pretending not to watch.
But definitely watching.
Of course they are. This is probably the most entertaining thing they've seen in years.
Elara's expression suddenly shifted.
From intense to... needy.
Her eyes went narrow.
Her lip stuck out slightly.
A pout.
An actual pout on Elara's face.
Her hair, usually so perfectly maintained, was messy.
Falling across her face.
Making her look younger. Softer.
Completely unlike her normal composed self.
"I wannnnnt a hug," she whined, drawing out the word like a child.
Oh god. This is worse. This is so much worse.
"Elara, you're already—"
"Noooo. A real hug. A proper hug. I want a hug." Her voice went higher, more petulant. "Give me a hug!"
I'm going to die. Not from alcohol. From embarrassment.
The dwarves are never going to let me live this down.
"Fine," Arden said, too drunk and too tired to argue. "Fine. Come here."
He opened his arms reluctantly.
Elara's face lit up.
Her messy, drunk, completely uncharacteristic face.
And she launched herself at him.
Full force.
Like a spear tackle.
"HEHEHEHE!"
She crashed into him, arms wrapping around him in a crushing bear hug, laughing like a maniac.
They toppled backward.
Arden's back hit the ground.
Elara landed on top of him, still laughing, still hugging, still completely drunk off her ass.
"Got you! Hehehehe!"
I'm definitely dead. This is hell. It has to be.
The dwarves erupted in cheers.
"HAH! Look at that!"
"The lass got him!"
"She's like a warrior charging into battle!"
"That laugh! HEH HEH HEH!"
"Young love! I remember those days!"
Kill me. Someone please just kill me.
Elara nuzzled her face into his chest, still giggling.
"Comfortable. So comfortable. Better than your thigh."
"Elara. People are watching."
"Don't care. Drunk. Happy. Comfortable."
She tightened her hug.
Strong. Why is she so strong. I can't breathe.
"Can't... breathe..."
"Mmmm. Too bad."
This is my life now. Crushed by a drunk regressor who thinks I'm handsome.
Could be worse, I suppose.
Eventually—after what felt like hours but was probably minutes—Elara's grip loosened.
Her breathing evened out.
She'd fallen asleep.
Still on top of him.
Still hugging him.
Completely passed out.
Well. At least she's resting.
Arden tried to move.
Couldn't.
She was dead weight.
Strong, trained, completely-relaxed-in-sleep dead weight.
I'm trapped. I'm actually trapped.
Thorin approached, surprisingly steady despite three days of continuous drinking.
He looked down at Arden and Elara.
And laughed.
Deep, rumbling, genuine laughter.
"Ye've got yerself a fierce one there, lad!"
"She's... drunk," Arden managed.
"Aye. And honest. Drunk words are sober thoughts, as they say." Thorin grinned. "The lass has chosen ye. That's a blessing and a curse, that is."
Thanks. Very helpful.
Another dwarf—older, with a gray beard—approached one of the elaborate dwarven carriages.
"Put the lass in here," he said. "She earned a proper rest."
Thank god. Freedom.
They carefully—very carefully—pried Elara off Arden.
She mumbled something incoherent but didn't wake.
They carried her to the carriage.
Inside, it was remarkably comfortable.
A small bed—dwarf-sized, but functional.
Elaborate wooden furnishings.
Even curtains on the windows.
They laid Elara on the bed.
She curled up immediately, her long legs folding to fit the short mattress.
And continued sleeping peacefully.
Her hair spread across the pillow.
Her face relaxed, peaceful.
Completely unlike her normal cold, controlled demeanor.
Arden stared at her for a moment.
She called me handsome. Said I'm her type. Tackled me into a hug while laughing like a lunatic.
Drunk Elara is... something else.
He watched the scars on her hands, visible even in the dim light.
The calluses from years of sword practice.
The marks of someone who'd fought and suffered and died and come back.
She's followed me completely. Put her faith in me without question.
And I still don't know her full story. Don't know what she went through.
But I'll learn. I'll understand.
Later. When neither of us is about to die from alcohol poisoning.
He gave Elara one last glance—at her messy hair, her peaceful expression, her uncharacteristic vulnerability.
Just my type, huh?
Then he stepped from the carriage.
The dwarves beckoned him back to the fire.
Gwain was still sprawled on the ground some distance away.
Nobody had offered him a comfortable carriage.
Harsh, but fair. He passed out first. Elara earned respect.
Arden sank down by the fire, guided by Thorin's hand.
I need a smoke. God, I need a smoke. And water. And sleep.
But mostly a smoke.
"Ye did well, lad," Thorin said. "Most humans don't last a full day. Ye made it three."
"The lass lasted just as long," Borin added. "And gave ye quite the show before passing out!"
The other dwarves laughed.
Never living that down. Ever.
"Aye," the other dwarves agreed, raising their cups in salute to the sleeping Elara.
Thorin studied Arden carefully.
His expression shifted.
Became more serious.
"First son or second son?"
Arden frowned, confused. "What?"
"I'm asking if ye're the one they call the 'Prodigious Heir,' or if ye're the spare."
Understanding dawned.
"First. First son. Heir to Valekrest."
"Thought so." Thorin nodded. "Ye've got the look. Determined. Stubborn. Like someone who refuses to stay down no matter how many times they're kicked."
Accurate, unfortunately.
Thorin gestured to Arden's sword—Frostbrand, the blade he'd carried since the Overlord battle.
"May I see yer blade?"
Arden unbuckled it and handed it over.
Thorin drew the sword slowly, studying it in the firelight.
His eyes widened.
"What is this child's name?"
"Frostbrand."
An admiring light shone in Thorin's eyes.
"It's a good sword. And it has a good name."
Coming from a dwarf—especially after three days of drinking together—that was extraordinary praise.
Arden felt a surge of pride.
At least something's going right today.
Thorin studied the blade more carefully, running his fingers along the edge.
His expression changed.
Became more serious. Almost reverent.
"Please cherish this child," he said, his voice welling up from deep emotion. "This child's fate will never be one of light."
Arden's blood went cold.
Fuck.
Dwarves don't speak lightly about fate. Especially not about weapons.
"Are you a Runesmith?" Arden asked carefully.
Runesmiths—dwarves who could read the fate of weapons through their runes and craftsmanship.
Rare. Valuable. Respected.
Thorin gave him a peculiar look.
Something flashed across his face—neither negative nor positive.
Just... acknowledgment.
Arden's mind raced despite the alcohol.
A Runesmith can read fate. But if he can do it that quickly, that clearly...
"Surely not..." Arden's eyes widened. "Are you a Forgekeeper?"
The title hung in the air like thunder.
Forgekeeper—master of masters.
Guardians of the Heart of Stone, the sacred forge where the first dwarven weapons were made.
Beings who existed in legend more than reality.
Equivalent to the eldest dragons in terms of rarity and power.
Thorin's beard split in a wide grin.
"Nice to meet ye, Kingslayer."
He knows. He knows about the Overlord. About everything.
"They call me Thorin Ironbeard," the Forgekeeper said, raising his cup in salute. "Guardian of the Heart of Stone. And ye, Arden Valekrest, are the first human in sixty years to approach us proper."
He laughed—deep, rumbling, genuine.
Arden sobered up instantly.
The fog cleared.
The exhaustion vanished.
Replaced by sharp, cold clarity.
A Forgekeeper. An actual fucking Forgekeeper.
Forgekeepers never leave the Heart of Stone. Never. They guard it with their lives.
"Why is a Forgekeeper out here?" he asked carefully.
"Aye," Thorin agreed. "We don't. Normally."
He took a long drink from his cup.
"But these aren't normal times, are they, lad?"
His eyes—ancient, sharp, knowing—fixed on Arden.
"Ye've come seeking alliance. Seeking aid against what's coming. The Abyssal Flame. The Serpent. The end of the age."
Arden's breath caught.
"How do you—"
"I'm a Forgekeeper, lad. I read the fate of swords. And yer Frostbrand?" Thorin gestured to the blade. "It sings of fire and ice. Of endings and beginnings. Of a battle that will reshape the world."
He leaned forward, his expression grave.
"The dwarves know what's coming. We've known for years. We've been waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For someone worthy." Thorin smiled. "For someone who'd approach us proper. Who'd drink with us. Who'd suffer with us. Who'd prove they're serious about friendship, not just political alliance."
He raised his cup.
"Ye passed the test, Arden Valekrest. Ye and yer fierce lass both."
"So... you'll help? You'll ally with the north?"
"I'll do better than that." Thorin's grin widened. "I'll take ye to the Heart of Stone. To meet the Stone Council. To forge a proper alliance—one sealed in steel and stone, not just words and paper."
He drained his cup.
"But first, ye need to sleep, lad. Ye look half-dead."
"I feel completely dead."
"Good! That means ye drank properly!" Thorin laughed. "Now rest. Tomorrow, we talk business. Tonight, ye earned yer place at our fire."
Arden tried to respond.
But the exhaustion hit all at once.
Three days of continuous drinking.
Three days of pushing his body past its limits.
And one completely insane bear hug from a drunk regressor.
I need a smoke. And sleep. And maybe therapy.
He sank down beside the fire.
And passed out.
Completely.
Thoroughly.
But with a smile on his face despite everything.
We did it. We actually did it.
The dwarves are ours.
And Elara thinks I'm handsome.
...Why does that last part make me happy?
Fuck. I'm too drunk for this shit.