We made our way to the Broken Helm—boots scraping 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 wave of familiar noise—raucous, warm, thick with smoke and spilled mead.
A gruff voice cut through the clamor. "Torglel—back already? I'm insulted you didn't swing by sooner!"
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. When we were younger, the two of them sparred constantly just for the thrill of it—only when they fought seriously did things get dangerous. Some years back, they leveled half a wing of the palace. A brawl that ended with Tolgarn's bellow and a week of repairs.
Tulgren's grin never faltered—but for a heartbeat, I saw his eyes narrow as they took in Torglel's new armor. Like he saw something that didn't quite match the brother he remembered.
"I knew you'd sniff me out eventually, brother," Torglel laughed loud, clapping Tulgren on the shoulder hard enough to rattle tankards—his grin wide, familial warmth cutting through the tavern's din.
"Let's get a drink." Tulgren slung an arm around Torglel's neck, and steered him towards the bar like a pair of charging bulls.
As I turned to follow, a voice I know well pulled my focus: "You made it back."
Alythiel's soft words landed like a hammer, direct and hard.
She stepped from the shadows—smiling that quiet, knowing smile that always felt like it saw more than you said. Her eyes flicked down to my new armor. Her fingers skimmed the scalemail, slow and deliberate. It wasn't just admiration—it was a quiet memorization, like she was tracing a path she didn't want to forget.
"That looks really good on you."
There was a pause—air thick between us. Then she said, "come with me. Just for a moment."
We slipped out through a side door into a quieter corridor. Lanterns flickered in iron sconces, runes etched deep into stone walls, the scent of metal and burning oil heavy in the air. She walked beside me without a word for a beat—her pack swaying faintly.
Then she sighed—a sound heavy with thought, cutting the quiet. "Why does it have to be you?" she asked—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 the hero."
Her words hung between us.
I glanced over at her—her silver hair catching the glow. She stopped, turning to face me—eyes searching mine, piercing deep. I held her gaze 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 and just."
I let the silence stretch—let it hang between us like a blade just shy of the throat. My breath steadied. My voice dropped.
"I'm not the face they want. I'm the shadow behind it. The blade in the dark. I see the lines—and I know when they have to be crossed."
Her expression flickered, but It didn't break me.
"Heroes hesitate. They wait for the clean shot. The honorable choice. But all that gets you..." I allowed the silence to speak. "Buried. Burned. Forgotten. I don't need cheers. I need them alive."
I took a step closer.
"If becoming a monster is the cost of killing one... then so be it. I won't hesitate. Not for a breath."
I didn't flinch from her eyes. I wanted her to know.
She stared at me, moonstone eyes narrowing—not with judgment, but with something sharper. Disbelief, maybe. Or recognition.
"And what makes you different from him?" she asked, barely a whisper—but it cut deeper than steel. "What stops you from becoming his reflection—just another shadow with blood on its hands?"
My answer was resolute—a steel thread in the stillness. "Necessity."
Her frown was fierce.
I kept going.
"He kills because it gives him power. Control. Because he wants to instill fear."
I took a breath—slow, steady. My voice stayed even, but there was weight behind every word.
"He eliminates lives that are a burden to his plans."
I lingered for a second.
"Even blood ties."
I stepped closer, every step precise. The air between us tightened.
"I do it when it's the only way to protect the innocent. That's the difference."
I paused, eyes locking on hers.
"A mother who kills a threat to protect her child isn't a monster."
I shook my head slowly.
"She's a shield. A protector."
My voice dropped again.
"Zolphan is a threat. No one is safe. Not while he breathes."
I let the silence hang—let it dig in.
"I'm going to end him."
My hand tightened at my side. My breath caught, hard.
"Because I'm not killing for vengeance."
I took a breath.
"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. "You're not trying to be the hero," she said quietly—voice a whisper, realization threading through.
"No," I said. "I'm not. Heroes don't look into the dark. I stare at it, without flinching."
She stepped closer—her voice gentler now. "Then let me be the one who keeps the darkness from consuming you." I didn't respond. Her words sank into me like steel in stone—unraveling a tether I hadn't known I was holding.I
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 pandemonium, as usual—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, sending him sprawling.
Torglel caught a dwarf mid-swing—spun him into a chair with all the mercy of a thrown axe. Let the splinters fall, 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.
One dwarf had commandeered the chandelier—swinging back and forth like a pint-sized tornado, shouting in a language I didn't understand. Another had fashioned spoons into makeshift daggers, dueling with a flour-smeared baker.
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Not again," I muttered before dashing forward into the fray.
I vaulted onto the bar—wood groaning under my weight—hands crackling with latent lightning. My breath steadied. Then, with a thunderous clap, shockwaves erupted—blue arcs snapping through the room, felling every brawler. Groans faded. Silence slammed in.
Alythiel stepped carefully over an unconscious body—brow raised. "Does this happen often?"
She didn't blink. Didn't even glance at the dwarf groaning at her feet.
I jumped down from the bar, exhaling through my nose. "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 soaked in ale, beard tangled with debris. I hoisted him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Come on," I said. "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. "Place it on the table."
She took it out of her bag. Even wrapped in cloth, it pulsed faintly—like it was breathing, waiting. The hum in the air changed near it—low, buzzing, the way silence sounds just before lightning strikes.
Her fingers carefully 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.
"By Tharnak's beard! Where the blazes did you get an egg like that?" Torglel asked—shocked, eyes wide as he staggered closer.
"From the Drake's lair," Alythiel said coolly—voice calm, her focus on the egg unwavering.
"It's a bloody dragon egg?!?" Torglel exclaimed—hands flailing like a fight.
I rubbed my forehead, and sighed. "That was a Drake—and no, it's not a Drake egg. In fact, I've never seen anything like it before."
Alythiel's gaze went glassy—far-off, unfocused.
Without a word, she reached for the egg—fingers trembling slightly, drawn by a pull I couldn't name.
Like something ancient was calling her name in a voice only she could hear.
The moment her fingers met its surface, the world flickered—like a candle flame guttering in a storm. Then she dropped, her breath snatched mid-sentence.
I rushed to her side—boots skidding on stone, heart thundering—dropping to my knees as I reached her.
"Alythiel!" My voice cracked through the stillness, sharp with fear.
Her pulse was faint—but there.
Seconds crawled.
Then her eyes flew open—wide, wild—lungs heaving as she sat up, fingers digging into the floor like she'd just surfaced from drowning.
"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 drawn slow and cold. 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.
I should have known then. The egg wasn't a prize.
It was a key.
And something on the other side had already started turning the lock.