Arden woke with a headache that felt like someone had driven nails through his skull.
Fuck.
Never again. Never drinking with dwarves again.
That's a lie. I'll probably have to do it again. But right now, never again.
He sat up slowly, testing his body.
Everything ached.
His head throbbed.
His mouth tasted like death.
But he was alive.
Small victories.
A knock at his door.
"Lord Arden?" Serra's voice. "I brought water. And bread. Lots of both."
"Come in."
Serra entered, carrying a tray.
She looked remarkably put-together despite the journey.
No hangover. No visible exhaustion.
Youth. Or just better constitution than me.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Like I died and came back wrong."
"That bad?"
"Worse." He accepted the water gratefully, draining half the cup in one go. "Where's Elara?"
Serra's expression shifted slightly.
"She's... in her room. She hasn't come out yet."
"Is she sick?"
"I don't think so. She just said she needed time to... process."
Process what? The drinking? Or...
Oh.
Oh no.
She remembers.
------
Elara sat on her bed, staring at the wall.
Her face was completely blank.
Expressionless.
Empty.
Inside, she was screaming.
I called him handsome.
I said he was my type.
I laid on his lap.
I grabbed his face.
I TACKLED HIM INTO A HUG WHILE LAUGHING LIKE A MANIAC.
Her face remained perfectly neutral.
But inside, a five-alarm fire of mortification raged.
I died. I came back to life. Lived a entire second chance.
And I wasted it by acting like a drunk teenager.
In front of dwarves.
In front of WITNESSES.
Her hands clenched in her lap.
He must think I'm insane.
Unstable.
Unprofessional.
A liability.
Another knock at her door.
"Elara?" Serra's voice. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," Elara said, her voice perfectly controlled. "I'm fine."
"Do you want breakfast?"
"No."
"Arden asked about you—"
"I'm fine. Tell him I'm fine. I just need time."
A pause.
"...Okay."
Footsteps retreating.
Elara remained sitting.
Staring.
Remembering.
'Just my type.' I said that. Out loud. To his face.
'I want to hug your thigh.' WHAT WAS I THINKING.
I wasn't. That's the problem. I wasn't thinking at all.
Her face remained blank.
But her ears turned bright red.
-----
Arden made his way to the keep's main hall, where the Commander Wilhelm was coordinating the day's activities.
The man looked up as Arden entered.
"Lord Arden. You look terrible."
"I feel terrible."
"Good. That means you actually succeeded with the dwarves." He gestured to a corner of the hall. "They're waiting for you. Been here since dawn."
Thorin Ironbeard and another dwarf stood by a large map spread across a table.
The second dwarf was younger, with a copper-red beard streaked with gray.
"Lord Arden!" Thorin called. "Come, come. We have much to discuss."
Arden approached, noting the serious expressions on both dwarves' faces.
This isn't just about building a forge. Something's wrong.
"This is Surkara," Thorin introduced. "My fellow Forgekeeper. We both serve the Heart of Stone."
Two Forgekeepers. They never leave the forge together. Never.
Whatever drove them out must be catastrophic.
"There," Thorin said, pointing to a location on the map southwest of Frostholm. "Underground lava vein runs deep. Perfect for building."
"Building what?" Arden asked, though he suspected he knew.
"A new Heart of Stone."
Seravelle approached, her usual enthusiasm absent.
"Why do you need a new forge?" she asked quietly. "The Heart of Stone should last millennia. What happened?"
Thorin's expression went grim.
Surkara's hands clenched into fists.
"The Heart of Stone is dying," Thorin said. "But not naturally. It's being consumed."
"By what?"
"By the Scarlet Flame Giant."
Silence.
A Scarlet Flame Giant.
That's... that's not something from the original War of the Giants.
That's something worse.
"Explain," Arden said quietly.
Thorin took a long breath, his hand resting on the map as if seeking strength from the parchment.
"Four months ago, tremors started deep beneath the mountains where the Heart of Stone burns. At first, we thought it was natural—earthquakes, volcanic activity. The forge has endured such things before."
"But then the flames began to change," Surkara continued, his young voice hard with anger. "They turned red. Crimson. Like infected blood. The forge, which had burned steady and pure for three thousand years, started... rotting. Corrupting. Consuming everything it touched."
"Our Runesmiths couldn't calm it," Thorin said. "Our Forgekeepers couldn't control it. The flames rejected our touch. Burned those who tried to tend them with a sickness that spread like plague."
He gestured to Surkara's hands—Arden could see the scars now, even in the dim light. Burns that had healed poorly, leaving twisted, corrupted flesh behind. Like the tissue itself had rotted.
"We lost three Runesmiths trying to understand what was happening. Good dwarves. Master craftsmen. They approached the forge to read its fate, and the flames... consumed them. Not with fire, but with corruption. They rotted alive, screaming, until there was nothing left but festering remains."
Seravelle's ancient eyes narrowed, recognition dawning.
"Scarlet corruption. That's not natural flame—that's divine rot given physical form. An Outer God's touch."
"Aye," Thorin confirmed grimly. "We investigated. Sent our best scouts—dwarves who could navigate the deepest tunnels, who knew every inch of the mountain's heart. They found... it."
He pulled out a piece of parchment, the edges stained with something that looked disturbingly like dried blood.
"The Scarlet Flame Giant. A being cursed by the gods themselves. It was once a warrior in the War of the Giants, three thousand years ago. But during the final battle, it was struck down not by Valdren's blade, but by something worse—the Scarlet Rot, wielded by one of the ancient heroes."
"The corruption should have killed it," Surkara said. "Should have consumed it completely. But instead, it merged with the Giant. Changed it. Cursed it to exist in eternal agony—neither fully alive nor fully dead. Just... rotting. Forever."
"Valdren found it after the war," Thorin continued. "Buried deep in the mountains, consumed by scarlet flame that burned and corroded simultaneously. He couldn't kill it—the corruption had made it immortal in the worst way. And releasing it would have spread the rot across the entire north."
"So he did what he could," Surkara said bitterly. "He bound the Giant to the flames. Forced it to tend an eternal forge, containing both the fire and the rot. Turned its curse into a prison. 'O wretched giant, mayest thou tend thy flame for eternity,' the old records say. A curse within a curse."
"For three thousand years, it worked," Thorin said. "The Giant slept, buried so deep even we didn't know it was there. And while it slept, it tended the flames subconsciously. The corruption was contained. The forge burned pure."
"Our ancestors found those flames," Surkara continued. "Built the Heart of Stone around them. Never knew they were building their most sacred forge on top of a rotting god-cursed Giant. But that's what made our forge so powerful—we were using primal flames that existed between creation and corruption. Fire that shouldn't exist, but does."
He slammed his fist on the table.
"But four months ago, the Giant woke up."
"Why?" Arden asked, though he suspected the answer. "What changed?"
Seravelle answered, her voice heavy with five centuries of knowledge.
"The curse is weakening. Valdren's binding, strong as it was, wasn't infinite. Three thousand years is a long time. And with the Abyssal Flame approaching, with the Outer Gods stirring, all the old seals are failing."
"Aye," Thorin confirmed. "The ancient wards are breaking. Valdren's curse is crumbling. And when the Giant woke, it remembered. Remembered the war. Remembered the corruption. Remembered being cursed to eternal suffering."
"And it's spreading," Surkara said, voice thick with fury. "The scarlet rot. The Giant isn't just corrupting the forge—it's taking root in it. Merging with it. Every day, more crimson flames spread through the mountain. Every day, more of our sacred metals turn to festering slag."
He looked at Arden directly, his eyes haunted.
"We tried to fight it. Gathered our strongest warriors. Our best Forgekeepers. Attacked it in the forge's core."
"Three Runesmiths dead," Surkara said, his voice breaking slightly. "Rotted alive. One Forgekeeper—my mentor—crippled for life. His entire right side consumed by corruption. And we barely scratched the Giant."
"It's massive," Thorin continued grimly. "Thirty feet tall, with flame-red hair streaked with scarlet. And on its chest... a face. A second, sleeping face that opens when it fights. When that face wakes, the rot spreads faster. Consumes everything."
"It wields a hammer," Surkara added. "Forged in the image of the Rot God's eye. Every strike spreads corruption. Every impact shakes the mountain and leaves festering wounds in the stone itself."
"And it's intelligent," Thorin said. "Not like a mindless beast. It speaks. In the old tongue. Says it will 'bloom' again. That the scarlet rot will 'flower' from the forge and consume the north. That it's 'never known defeat,' even in death."
Seravelle's expression had gone pale.
"A servant of the Outer God of Rot. One that's survived three thousand years through Valdren's curse. And now it's awakening to fulfill its original purpose—to spread corruption until everything rots."
"It's become part of the forge itself," Thorin said. "Merged with the flames. To kill it, we'd have to destroy the Heart of Stone completely. Collapse the mountain. Bury both the fire and the rot forever."
"And if you do that," Arden said slowly, understanding, "the dwarves lose their connection to sacred smithing. Lose the ability to forge true masterworks. Lose what makes you... you."
"Aye," Thorin said heavily. "We'd survive. We'd still be craftsmen. But we'd be lesser. Diminished. Just another race of smiths instead of the chosen people of forge and flame."
Silence filled the room.
Arden's mind raced.
A Scarlet Flame Giant. A servant of an Outer God of Rot.
One that Valdren couldn't kill, only contain.
And now it's waking up. Spreading corruption. Preparing to 'bloom'—whatever the hell that means.
This is worse than I thought. Much, much worse.
"So you're abandoning the old forge," he said. "Building a new Heart of Stone here, in Valekrest territory, where the Giant can't reach."
"Aye," Thorin confirmed. "We'll build it better. Stronger. Using mundane lava veins instead of god-touched flames. It'll take time—decades, maybe—to match the old forge's power. But it'll be ours. Untainted. Safe."
"And the Giant?"
"We seal the mountain," Surkara said. "Collapse the tunnels. Bury it as deep as possible. Hope Valdren's curse holds long enough for us to establish the new forge. Then, when we're ready, when we have the strength..."
"We kill it properly," Thorin finished. "End the Rot God's presence in this world. Finish what Valdren started three thousand years ago. Before it can 'bloom' and spread corruption across the entire north."
Arden studied the map, his thoughts dark.
An Outer God's servant. One that's immortal through corruption.
One that's preparing to bloom—probably spreading rot on a massive scale.
If that happens before we're ready...
He looked up at the dwarves.
"You have my permission. Build your new Heart of Stone here. Southwest of Frostholm. Make it greater than the old one."
Thorin's eyes widened.
"Just like that? No negotiations? No demands?"
"I have one demand." Arden met his gaze. "When we're strong enough—when the new forge is built, when you've recovered your strength—we go back. Together. And we kill that Giant. Permanently. Before it blooms."
Thorin studied him for a long moment.
Then grinned, though the expression was grim.
"Ye're planning to finish yer ancestor's work."
"Someone has to. And if an Outer God's servant is waking up, preparing to spread corruption across the north, we can't leave it alive. Not with everything else that's coming."
Thorin extended his hand.
"Forge and flame, lad. We'll stand with ye. Build here. Grow strong. And when the time comes, we'll end the Rot God's curse together. Kill the Scarlet Flame Giant before it blooms and destroys everything."
Arden shook it.
"Forge and flame."
-----
Arden finally found Elara.
She was walking toward the training yard, her posture perfect, her expression completely neutral.
Like a well-programmed automaton.
Not a trace of emotion on her face.
"Elara," he called.
She froze.
For a fraction of a second, her composure cracked.
Her eyes went wide.
Her face flushed bright red.
Then the mask slammed back into place.
"Lord Arden." Her voice was perfectly controlled. Robotic, almost. "Good evening."
"Are you alright? Serra said you were resting."
"I am functioning at optimal capacity. No lasting effects from the alcohol consumption. All physical parameters normal."
She's literally talking like a machine.
"About what happened—"
"Nothing of significance occurred." The words came out too fast, too precise. "We established diplomatic relations with the dwarven delegation through culturally appropriate consumption of fermented beverages. Mission successful. No further discussion necessary."
"Elara—"
"If you will excuse me, I have training protocols to complete. Sword forms require repetition for muscle memory maintenance."
She turned and walked away.
Quickly.
Almost fleeing.
Her ears were bright red.
Arden watched her go.
She's running. Completely avoiding me.
This is going to be a problem.
Seravelle appeared beside him, silent despite her usual energetic presence.
"Give her time," she said softly, her voice carrying five centuries of understanding. "She's rebuilt her walls. Made them thicker. It'll take a few days before she can face you normally."
"How long?"
"A week. Maybe less if something forces her to interact with you. But pushing now will only make her retreat further."
"You're sure?"
"I've lived five hundred years, Arden. I've seen countless people struggle with vulnerability. Elara is textbook—strong, competent, terrified of appearing weak. She'll avoid you until she's convinced she can interact without revealing how much that drunken honesty meant."
She walked away, leaving Arden alone in the hallway.
Great. So I have a girl who's emotionally running away, a powerless witch who's five centuries old, a Scarlet Flame Giant corrupting the dwarven forge, and an Outer God's servant preparing to bloom and spread corruption.
He sighed deeply.
I really, really need a smoke.
------
Elara practiced sword forms in the dark.
Alone.
Precise. Perfect. Mechanical.
Each movement exact.
Each breath controlled.
Her face was completely blank.
But her ears remained bright red.
Maybe I should just die
'Just my type.' I said that. To his face. While drunk.
'I want to hug your thigh.'
Her sword cut through the air with vicious precision.
I can never speak to him again. Ever. I'll just... avoid him. Forever. Until I die. Again.
That's a perfectly reasonable response.
Professional. Appropriate. Correct.
She continued training.
Trying to bury the mortification in repetition.
It wasn't working.
Her ears stayed red.
Her thoughts kept circling back.
He has white hair. Sharp features. Ice-blue eyes that look like...
NO. Stop. Training. Focus on training.
...just my type.
STOP.
She attacked the training dummy with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
The dummy exploded into splinters.
From the shadows, Serra watched.
Beside her, Seravelle observed with ancient eyes.
"She's struggling," Serra said quietly.
"She is," Seravelle agreed. "But she'll work through it. Eventually."
"Should we help?"
"No. This is something she has to resolve herself. Forcing it will only make things worse."
They watched Elara destroy another training dummy.
"Though we might need to order more equipment," Seravelle added dryly. "At this rate, she'll demolish the entire yard by morning."
Serra couldn't help but smile slightly.
Even in crisis, there were small moments of humor.
Even when Outer Gods' servants threatened the world, personal dramas continued.
It was almost comforting, in a way.
The world might be ending.
A corrupted giant might bloom and spread rot across the north.
But people still got embarrassed about drunk confessions.
Some things never changed.