We made our way to Thoringard, Torglel filling the air with stories the entire way—his voice a boisterous roar over the wind, tales spilling out like ale from an overturned mug. Alythiel listened patiently, though I caught more than a few amused glances she sent my way—her lips twitching with quiet amusement as Torglel gestured like a bard on stage.
"And then Solari dove out the window," Torglel said, waving a hand for dramatic effect, nearly smacking me in the face, "and landed right on top of the target."
I smirked, ducking his flailing arm. "If I hadn't, Mavik was about to blow the whole building up and call it our exit."
Torglel chuckled, a deep rumble that shook his frame. "Aye—and you'd think we planned it that way!"
"Arcainius swore we had the devil's luck from that day on," I said, smiling slyly, the memory sharp—Arcainius's gruff laugh echoing in my skull, his hand clapping my shoulder.
"You ever notice he gets more talkative the closer we get to Thoringard?" Alythiel murmured, voice just low enough for me to hear.
I glanced at Torglel, arms flying like a bard mid-battle reenactment.
"He's been telling stories for two days straight," I said.
Alythiel just smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Mavik was one of the few people crazy enough to work with us—not many could keep up with the way Torglel and I operated, winging it when things inevitably went south, chaos our oldest friend. By the time we crossed the gates of Thoringard and made our way to the throne room—stone walls towering, carved with runes older than memory—Alythiel had heard enough stories to fill a book or two, her quiet laughter a rare balm against the road's dust.
Tolgarn sat on the massive obsidian throne at the far end of the hall, its jagged edges gleaming like frozen flame. Emberguard flanked him—stalwart and unmoving, royal protectors sworn to defend the king at any cost, their armor polished to a mirror sheen, axes resting steady.
I stepped forward, meeting Tolgarn's gaze with the respect he was due—my adoptive father, my king—and bowed before him, the stone cold under my boots.
"Tolgarn," I said, keeping my voice steady, "I come to you as the new Grand Shadow of the Shadow Hand."
His expression shifted—weariness settling behind his eyes, a shadow crossing his weathered face, gray streaking his beard heavier than I remembered.
"Solari, my boy," Tolgarn sighed, a sound heavy with years. "Let's go get a drink."
He rose from the throne with quiet authority, his broad frame moving with the grace of a warrior still sharp despite age. Without a word, he led us to his private study—warm with the scent of leather, woodsmoke, and time.
From a heavy decanter, he poured two glasses of deep amber liquor—liquid fire that caught the hearthlight like molten gold—and handed me one, the glass cool against my palm.
Then he clapped a hand on my shoulder—the same spot as always, like he was checking to make sure I still had weight on my bones.
"Still lean as ever," he said with a tired grin. "There's stew on. Let's talk over something that doesn't burn."
He dropped into his chair with a grunt, the leather creaking under him. "This about taking down Nox Arcanus?"
I took a slow sip, the burn sharp on my tongue. "Part of it, yes." Then I met his gaze directly, steeling myself. "I found out Zolphan is my biological father."
The words left a bitter taste—sharper than the liquor, a truth that stung deeper than I'd braced for.
Tolgarn's jaw tightened, lines deepening around his eyes. He drank deep, the glass clinking hard as he set it down with a heavy thud.
"You learned about your family," he said quietly, voice rough, "and now they are your enemy."
I exhaled sharply, the air tight in my chest.
"I learned about my people," I corrected.
Then I looked up—met his gaze without blinking.
"But you...
You are my family."
Tolgarn cracked a rare, weary smile—the kind that reminded me he was still my father, not just a king. His eyes warming like the glow of the hearth, a flicker of the father I'd known beneath the king's weight. He nodded, a small gesture heavy with meaning.
"What is it you're after, Grand Shadow?" Tolgarn asked, leaning back, glass cradled in his hand.
I didn't hesitate.
"I'm rebuilding the Shadow Hand to find Zolphan—and to end him. Who knows what chaos he'll bring if he's not stopped."
I took another sip, letting the fire of the drink steel my voice, its heat grounding me.
"And I want to establish diplomatic relations with Thoringard."
Tolgarn's brow furrowed, his weathered hand tightening around his glass. He regarded me in silence for a long moment—assessing, weighing—then drained his glass, the amber disappearing in a single pull.
"You have my blessing," he said at last, voice firm but cautious, "but this is a matter for the Emberforge Senate now."
He stood, his gaze harder now—more king than father, the weight of rule settling over him.
"You'll need a majority vote. And I assure you... it won't be easy."
I set my empty glass down, the clink sharp against the wood, meeting his gaze with steely resolve.
"Ever since I discovered the truth about the Drydalis... life hasn't been easy."
Tolgarn nodded once, raising his glass in a quiet salute—a gesture of trust, of challenge.
"Good. We hold council tomorrow at the peak of day. Rest while you can."
I raised my glass, clinking his, the sound ringing clear—a pact sealed in amber and steel.
The next afternoon, I stood below the dais, seven seats circled around me like a ring of judgment—stone thrones carved with dwarven runes, worn smooth by centuries of debate. Seven of the most prominent and powerful figures in Thoringard made up The Emberforge Senate. Seven thrones, each older than the mountain they ruled from. Each carved for a voice that could decide the fate of empires. And today, they decided mine.
Tolgarn Emberforge, the king—and my adoptive father, his gray beard stark against his dark armor.
Taldric Emberforge, Tolgarn's first son and heir to the throne.
Ruvik Flameheart, Phoenix Commander of the Emberguard.
Brannik Ironsoul, Supreme Commander of the Molten Vanguard.
Odrin Ashenforge, Master Artificer.
Velmira Goldbarrow, Guildmaster of trade.
Gralden Coalburn, High Priest of Tharnak.
Alythiel and Torglel stood by my side—Alythiel steady, her daggers a quiet threat; Torglel stiff and rigid, shoulders squared in a way I'd never seen. Not even when we fought his greatest fear—a giant spider, all legs and venom—had he looked this tense.
Tolgarn's voice broke the silence, deep and resonant. "I have summoned you all today regarding Solari Emberforge, Grand Shadow of the Shadow Hand. He wishes to extend diplomatic relations with Thoringard."
The words hung—and then arguments erupted like a forge gone wild.
"The Shadow Hand is a rot beneath our mountain," Gralden Coalburn snapped, staff scraping the stone like a bad omen. "Dwarves do not lurk in shadows. We stand in the forge-light of truth—or we are ash."
"I agree," Ruvik Flameheart added, ice in his voice. "They are a dangerous element."
Velmira leaned forward, rings clicking like coin on steel. "The Shadow Hand could prove profitable."
Taldric Emberforge folded his arms. "If we play this right, it's an asset. He was raised by Tolgarn. That should mean something."
Brannik's voice cut through it all like steel: "Do they possess strength worthy of dwarves? That's all that matters."
I stood there, silent, while they debated whether I was a weapon or a liability.
Finally, Odrin raised his soot-stained hand. "As it stands, only Brannik and I remain undecided."
All turned to him.
"I propose a test," he continued. "In the belly of the Smeltfire Deeps lies our richest mineral veins. We abandoned them long ago because of the monster that dwells there: the Deepfire Drake."
Gasps followed—faint, but sharp.
"Its scales are resistant to most metals, and it breathes fire hotter than forge-flame. It's no mere beast—it's a relic." Odrin's fingers curled into a fist. "We've tried and failed to defeat it. And so the Deeps remain closed."
Tolgarn's eyes grew fierce. "Odrin, are you suggesting Solari face something even we couldn't defeat? This is how we test loyalty now?" he asked, his voice hard. "Throwing him to monsters?"
Odrin's gaze did not waver. "It's how we test everyone."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Brannik said, "this is the best way to prove he can act in Thoringard's interest."
"Tharnak's judgment falls where it must. Even in the depths," Gralden muttered, knuckles white on his staff.
Tolgarn gave a slow nod, eyes heavy with burden. "Then it's decided. Solari will defeat the Deepfire Drake. Do that, and Odrin and Brannik will vote in favor."
The chamber fell silent—then they dismissed.
Torglel clapped a hand against my back like he meant to break something.
"Finally!" he roared. "We get to fight an actual dragon!"
Alythiel sighed. "It's a drake, not a dragon."
Torglel grinned. "Drake, dragon—same thing."
I didn't argue. Not then. But later, I'd wonder if Torglel had been right. The Deepfire Drake wasn't just a trial.
It was old. And waiting. And it remembered the ones who left it alive.