Olfred Warend
It was the Darffday, the most important day of the Darffest and the day when the Throneholder competition would see its continuation.
The air in Vildorial was thick with anticipation, the cavern walls echoing with the distant sounds of celebration from the upper tiers.
Carved from raw mana crystals, the typical Darffest lanterns bathed the Upper City in a kaleidoscope of magical color.
Hanging in dense clusters, they resembled a friendly swarm of the Dust Locusts found in the Darvish desert—blocking out the natural twilight casted by Vildorial's glowing crystals and filtering the world through millions of glowing, crystalline bodies.
Yet for me, standing in the shadow of King Dawsid Greysunders, there was no celebration. Only duty. Only the endless, grinding weight of an Artifact that chained me to a king I despised with all my mind, body and soul.
I had to walk by Dawsid's right, slightly behind him as the lazy king, wearing jewelry and furs manufactured just to be used for the Darffday and never to be worn again, strolled the Anvilrun.
The furs were too heavy for the climate of the underground city, the jewelry too ostentatious, a declaration of wealth that bordered on the obscene.
Each step the king took was a performance, a reminder to the people of Darv that their ruler was untouchable, that their struggles were beneath his notice.
"My people, my people!" Dawsid saluted, waving his hand around and laughing to himself, his voice loud, reverberating across the Anvilrun.
The sound of it grated on my ears, a cacophony of false cheer that masked the emptiness beneath.
The queen, Glaudera Greysunders, behaved similarly to her husband, greeting men and women more like a Rolleykeg announcer than a monarch. Her smile was painted on, her words hollow.
And just as the king, the queen too wore like she was personally insulting all the people that struggled each day, working and working.
But if I had to be fair, it wasn't like the people of the Upper City were very different from their monarchs.
As we passed along the Anvilrun, dozens of nobles that quietly challenged the monarchs in lavishness lined the streets, their own displays of wealth a competition of excess.
This was going to be a boring and annoying day. The hours stretched before me like an endless tunnel, each moment a reminder of the life I had been forced to live.
I found my mind drifting to the kid—Finn Warend, the Prince of Elenoir in disguise. He had departed three days before the Darffday, at the start of the Darffest week, for the Pits. I had no idea what he was planning, but I knew Elder Rahdeas trusted him and I trusted Elder Rahdeas.
"Hey, Olfred," I turned my eyes slightly to the left and saw my "fellow" Lance: Mica Earthborn, a dwarven woman that despite not being much younger than me looked more like a short human girl.
"Got anything fun to tell Mica? Plans for the Darffest?"
"No," I replied sternly, ignoring the antics of the Earthborn. My eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, my expression unreadable.
Acting, Elder Rahdeas had taught me, while being the strongest weapon of an actor, was also that of a merchant, and also for a Lance in my situation, bound to a king I was not loyal to.
"Is your... nephew—how is he related to you anyway?—Mica means Elder Rahdeas's grandnephew, Finn," Mica said, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "Is he at the Warend Trading Company? It would be fun to meet him."
"No, he's not there," I replied, repressing the infinite annoyance Lance Ohmwrecker caused me.
"Oh, really?" Mica asked, amused. "Mica has to admit Mica kind of wanted to see him continue in King Dawsid's competition, you know? An underdog is always likeable."
Underdog, huh? She had no idea. Elder Rahdeas never made wrong bets, and he had betted on the kid. The kid will win. I kept the thought to myself, letting the silence speak for me.
"You will see him," I said. "Now stop this charade and get back to work."
"Always so formal, always so cold," Mica crooned. "Mica says that it's the Darffest! Even you should let it loose from time to time, Oldfred. You know there is more in life than your stone golems and your job?"
I scoffed back at her. Of course I knew that there was more in life than my magic and this awful job as Lance. There was my loyalty to my foster father and to his dream: the dream of a prosperous Darv, free from the Greysunders. That dream was the only light in the darkness of my existence, the only thing that kept me going.
"Oh, a scoff! How novel, Oldfred," Mica teased, using again that annoying monicker. "How old are you even? Sixty going to seventy? And I don't see no friends, no lovers, nothing in old Olfred's life."
"You are the one to talk, Mica," I said, rolling my eyes—my patience having reached its limit. "I don't that much in your life either, yeah sure a fifty years old lady looking like you certainly struggles to find—"
My voice was stopped as Mica gave me a mana-strengthened punch to my side. I used my earth magic to make a small version of Hell's Armour under my uniform to absorb the hit. The impact was still jarring, but I didn't flinch. I had been trained for worse.
"Hey, Olfred! Listen here!" Dawsid called me, turning his fat neck so he could look at me. His voice was irritating as ever, a grating sound that set my teeth on edge.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" I asked, head low, expression unreadable. I had perfected this mask over the years, the face of a loyal servant who asked no questions and harbored no doubts. It was a lie, but it was a necessary one.
"Has the little guy—what was his name..." Dawsid stumbled, looking at his wife. "Glaudera! A bit of help."
"Flint, my dear," Queen Greysunders said. Flint? Did they mean the kid? To not even remember the name just because he had Warend as surname and not that of a Monolithic House... "Or maybe Finn... I am not sure."
"Finn! Finn right!" Dawsid exclaimed, clapping his hands as he remembered the name. "Olfred, has the kid improved that Water Generator of mine? Maybe making it brew beer!"
Water Generator of mine? Dawsid's audacity and sheer arrogance as always never stopped to amaze—or disgust—me. The Water Generator was the kid's invention, a gift to the people of Darv, and Dawsid had already claimed it as his own.
"Or maybe elven wine!" Glaudera added, causing her husband to chuckle.
"Yeah, elven wine too," the king said, his mind lost in gluttony. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw even Mica cringing at Dawsid and Glaudera. The Earthborn Lance, for all her annoyances, still had a shred of decency left.
"No, he has not, Your Majesty," I replied, my tone as servile as always.
"What?" Dawsid's expression turned into a grimace. "How does he think he can keep up with the Throneholder competition if he doesn't do what I asked him to do?!"
Never had Dawsid asked the kid to make "his" Water Generator brew beer or wine or any other drink the greedy monarchs might have wanted. But it was a classic from that dwarf.
He was so self-entitled and lazy that many times he never voiced his own orders and yet demanded them obeyed nonetheless. Many were imprisoned or even executed because of these whims of his—and none of them were nobles, of course.
The stiff king returned to his walk, his mood soured by the perceived slight. I followed, my mind already racing ahead, wondering what the kid was doing in the Pits.
The Hall of Lords, the massive brilliant geode that housed all the most important meetings of Darv—both because the Monolithic Houses thought themselves better than the royal family and because the Greysunders didn't want to dirty Lodenhold—was the first stop of the king.
The Throneholder candidate of the Silvershales was here: Daymor Silvershale.
Entering the massive geode was always an experience. There were few things that could surprise a white core mage, but the inside of the geode always pleased my sight.
A silvery mist hid the floor of the Hall of Lords, a series of floating stones, carved with great care in the shape of steps, formed a staircase toward the floating crystal at the centre of the geode where the most important meeting table of all Darv was located.
The hundreds of floating candles that illuminated the Hall of Lords reflected the colours of the geode itself, casting light over the large space that would otherwise be pitch black.
"Olfred!" Dawsid exclaimed. "Make a pillar of stone for me and Glaudera to reach the meeting table! Those steps are far too steep!"
The floating steps were, in fact, not steep at all, positioned in such a way that even the oldest of noble lords could reach the meeting table.
But Dawsid was just that lazy, or maybe he wanted to hear his own voice by barking orders to one of the Lances under his yoke.
Nobles always took a sadistic pleasure in commanding those who were their betters, elevated above them only by the blind whims of chance or fate that had placed such people under their tyrannical authority.
"With pleasure, Your Majesty," I said, and following a bow of my head toward the lazy king and a movement of my foot, I shaped a pillar of earth to bring Dawsid and his wife up toward the meeting table.
—
Daymor Silvershale's meeting with Dawsid was an ode to the hypocrisy that reigned in Darv. As we exited the Hall of Lords, I mentally cursed the words exchanged by the young Silvershale and the king.
Nobles, nobles, nobles—that's what they talked about.
As if Darv was made entirely of a few dozen families. The rest of the people, the commoners, the Powders, the forgotten: they were nothing but footnotes in the grand narrative of the Monolithic Houses.
My inner rebellion was, however, cut short when we stepped outside the Hall of Lords. There was chaos in the Upper City. It was expected for the Darffday, but this was the chaos of shock.
I immediately rushed forward, Mica following close by. We looked down, toward the plaza of the portal that was the end of the highest division of Vildorial, and from Middle Vildorial a procession of hundreds of dwarves was ascending the Anvilrun.
From the Middle City, a free flow of people walked toward Lodenhold.
"What's happening?!" Dawsid exclaimed, walking to look down the edge of the Anvilrun. His voice was a mixture of confusion and irritation, as if the world itself was conspiring to inconvenience him.
"Dawsid, be careful you might slip," Glaudera said, walking to her husband's side, completely uncaring of the world around her. Her focus was entirely on the king, her hand on his arm, her eyes fixed on his face. The procession below was beneath her notice.
"Olfred, is that your nephew?" Mica asked, a hand under her chin. "Mica guesses so."
Leading the procession of dwarves coming from the lower levels of Vildorial was the kid.
Finn Warend spearheaded the procession as more and more people joined him, the dwarves down in the streets—those that didn't remain in their estates, the true inhabitants of Vildorial—all joined the procession.
They moved with a purpose that was almost tangible, a collective will that had been forged in the darkness of the Pits and was now rising to the light. He was directed to Lodenhold, he said as much to me and Elder Rahdeas when he proposed his plan, but to see it working was unexpected.
This gambit, if it worked, was going to make him gain quite a few enemies amongst the nobility who will certainly feel themselves insulted by this "affront."
Namely, just common Vildoriallans walking the Anvilrun like they owned their own city.
"I admit that's quite funny!" Dawsid exclaimed, oblivious to the deeper significance of the Prince's actions. "Mica, tell the guards to not obstruct ehm... Flynn."
"Finn, dear," Glaudera corrected.
"Yeah, Finn, whatever," Dawsid exclaimed, waving his hands around as Mica went to obey the monarch's orders. "I want to see where this goes. Do you think he wants to apologize for not having worked on my Water Generator by throwing this spectacle, Olfred?"
Anyone else in Dawsid's position would be thinking about a coup, but this dwarf? Paranoia required too much mental work for him, and the kid knew that perfectly. But where did he get so much people to begin with? Were they coming from the Pits?
"I cannot say, Your Majesty," I replied to the king, my voice as flat as I could make it.
"I always have to do things alone here!" Dawsid exclaimed as he started to walk down the Anvilrun. "I will meet with Finn Warend next!"
"B-but dear the Earthborn Institute is closer and Hornfels Earthborn looks like a good lad for the Throneholder place," Glaudera complained.
I needed to say something. The kid did it—somehow he got the interest of Dawsid enough to make him ignore the Monolithic Houses candidates. I expected Dawsid to dismiss this and order the procession to be put down, not to indulge in the Prince's gamble.
"We will visit him later," Dawsid said. "Right now I want to see Flynn."
"Should I return to palace, Your Majesty?" I asked.
"Mica needs to make sure this funny thing isn't interrupted by my incompetent guards," Dawsid said, his disrespect for the very people that avoided him getting assassinated by the nobles or killed in a revolt clearer than the scorching sun of the surface. "You will stay by my side."
"As you wish, my king," I replied, following the Greysunders toward Prince Corvis and his procession.
"Oh, my king!" The Prince greeted as soon as he saw the royal escort reaching the portal of Vildorial, his acting seemed practiced for this very moment for days. "What greatest honour to have you come to me personally!"
Finn Warend kneeled in front of Dawsid, he was wearing the same fancy robes Elder Rahdeas made him wear for the Gem Banquet. The procession behind did the same, each one bowing.
"Warend," Dawsid asked, curious. "What is this ploy of yours?"
"Thanks for the question my king!" Finn Warend said. "This is the greatest parade in Darv's history, all to show my new invention to you and Her Majesty, my king! The new gift that House Greysunders has for their people!"
"I present to you the Servo-Limbs!" The kid announced and all of a sudden many people from the procession—those who followed closer to Finn—showed their green-coloured limbs: arms and legs.
"Ah! This is fun!" Dawsid exclaimed, laughing while holding his belly.
"But you have to admit, dear, that those are really nice jewels," Glaudera whispered to Dawsid, then to the prince she said: "what are they made of? Malachite?"
"Great eye, my queen," the Prince replied. "These Servo-Limbs are indeed malachite, but they are far from simple jewelry. Let me show you!"
A mage stepped forward and showcased his magic with his Servo-Limb, and the immediate reaction of Dawsid was shock.
"What?!" Dawsid exclaimed as he awkwardly sprinted toward the Prince taking him by his collar.
I made to prepare myself to intervene, but something within me stopped my body from obeying—the Lance Artifact binding me stopping me from doing anything even remotely against the king.
"Y-you can heal crippled mages?!" Dawsid exclaimed, spitting inelegantly on the Prince as he did so. "Can you heal mana cores?!"
Why did Dawsid care so much about healing a mana core? He was a mage once, but he renounced it when he became king after his father, Boris.
"Of course, my king," Finn replied. "Not yet, but I will be able to do it."
"Then work on it!" Dawsid boomed and everyone in the square heard him. "Work on it!"
Corvis Eralith
This—this must have been the most frustrating thing I have ever done.
The thought, full to the brim of frustration, echoed in my mind as I trudged through the road of the dwarven capital, my footsteps heavy against the red stone of the Anvilrun.
Eleven attempts. Eleven times I had died and returned, each loop a fresh wound on my patience, each reset a reminder of how much I had overestimated the dwarven king.
I had used REtrocurrent many times during the Darffest week to learn how to make Dawsid Greysunders come to me on his own and ensure that he would never forget me.
The process had been excruciating, a gauntlet of humiliation and frustration that had tested every ounce of my resolve. I had been humiliated in front of all of Darv, showing myself at Lodenhold as if I owned the palace, foolishly believing that Dawsid Greysunders would remember me.
I thought that bringing people from the Pits, showing how "generous" House Greysunders was (even though I was obviously the one who had done everything) to grace so many Powders with new limbs and hope would leave everyone speechless.
I had envisioned the moment as triumphant, a culmination of all my planning.
Unfortunately, if it were as simple as that, Elder Rahdeas could have done it already without ever needing my help in the first place.
What happened instead? Oh, well. Dawsid's wife—Glaudera, the dwarven queen—had to remind him of my name, and when he finally remembered who I was... I was expelled from Lodenhold because I hadn't made "his" Water Generator suddenly able to brew beer or wine or liquid gold or whatever material desire Dawsid could think of.
The memory of that moment still stung—the dismissive wave of his hand, the way he had turned his back on me as if I were nothing more than an insect.
But that wasn't all; I had been arrested by the Vildoriallan guards as soon as I stepped into the Upper City more times than not if I didn't arrive at the exact moment King Dawsid was on the Anvilrun, able to see me and give orders to stop the guards from interfering.
And even then—when I wasn't expelled from Lodenhold or arrested—when I managed to catch Dawsid's attention...
I could have been the greatest seller of all times: Dicathen, Epheotus, or Alacrya, but if Dawsid wasn't interested, I could present him with the formula to turn dust to gold, and he would still ignore me.
Okay, perhaps not that (Dawsid was as greedy as one could be) but he remained unsatisfiable, a bottomless pit of desire that no offering could fill.
The fact was: I had overestimated Dawsid's memory, his human—dwarven, whatever—decency, his empathy, his care for Darv, Vildorial, or a single dwarf who wasn't him. I had overestimated his everything.
He didn't care at all about Servo-Limbs, about the people of the Pits, about the hope I was trying to bring to his kingdom. But he cared about one thing I could use: being able to return to being a mage.
The novel had been clear about one thing when considering Dawsid's past.
He had once been a mage, a pretty good one relatively speaking—an orange core.
Yes, I had reached that level by four years old, but I had Cherry's core to help me, Soleil disguised as Coco to facilitate my mana absorption, the Hallowed Hollow, Alea, and REmould that even when I didn't know about it was always helping me in the background.
Dawsid had no such advantages.
His core had been crippled after an affair—after rape, truth to be told—with a peasant woman. The husband of said woman, upon discovering the king red-handed, had assaulted Dawsid and irreversibly injured his mana core.
Glaudera Greysunders obviously didn't know about this. It was Dawsid's greatest secret, and I had used that secret to my advantage.
Back to manipulating people, are we, Corvis? I asked myself, and I shook away that inner voice with a powerful shake of my head. Dawsid didn't deserve pity.
The man had built his kingdom on the suffering of others, had turned a blind eye to the Water Barons' tyranny, had let the Pits crumble and the Powders rot. He had earned every ounce of manipulation I was willing to use.
I entered the Warend Trading Company, directed toward Elder Rahdeas's office. The building inside was mostly empty, everyone having their day off because of the Darffday, but I knew Elder Rahdeas wouldn't stop working even if it were a national holiday.
The silence was a relief, a balm on my frayed nerves. I walked quietly, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpets, and when I reached my destination, I knocked on the office door.
"Ehm... Merry Darffday, Elder?" I greeted as soon as I stepped inside, not being entirely sure what the Darvish equivalent of "Merry Christmas" was.
I had heard many different versions all across Vildorial—some formal, some crude, some heartfelt; I had settled on the simplest.
"Finn, I have been waiting for you," Elder Rahdeas said, his voice carrying a warmth that I hadn't expected. "I have to say I had my doubts about this whole ascent from the Pits plan, but once again I am satisfied to have been proven wrong."
"You were watching?" I asked, and Elder Rahdeas just nodded, his one good eye fixed on me with an expression that was impossible to read.
"I think few of the relevant people have not witnessed your 'parade,' as you yourself put it," Elder Rahdeas commented, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.
"Is that a bad or good thing?"
"Both, I would say," Elder Rahdeas continued, deep in thought. His fingers drummed against the polished wood of his desk, a rare sign of agitation. "On one hand, now Finn Warend can't be dismissed as a secondary candidate anymore. But that also means you are not a dismissible threat any longer."
"You think someone could try to assassinate me?" I asked, unafraid of what it meant. I would just return from the river and prevent it from happening the next time. Death had lost its sting, its finality and even its fear factor after I faced Agrona's tremendous will by now—it was just another tool in my arsenal.
"We are not humans, Prince," Elder Rahdeas said, his voice carrying a note of caution. "Assassinations are not impossible, but they are very rare in Darv."
"Oh, I might be challenged to a duel, or to a demonstration of prowess in front of the Crown?" I asked, and Elder Rahdeas smirked.
"We are not elves either," he said.
In Elenoir, every single political crisis between lesser and Sister Houses was resolved in front of the Crown. The rivalry between Chaffers and Auddyrs? They raced to see who were the best soldiers of the Eraliths.
A clash between two heirs? Always the Eralith monarch was the one to solve it. In elven society, the concept of "House affairs" was indistinguishable from that of "Crown affairs." The Crown was the ultimate arbiter, the final word in all disputes.
"So... what to expect?" I asked, my mind already racing ahead.
"House Feuds, this is how matters between nobles are settled in Darv," Elder Rahdeas said, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries. "Have you ever wondered why Darv never had a direct war? Other than the limited support to Sapin during the Second War because of the Sehz Pact?"
I shook my head. The Asuras, I wanted to reply, but surely Elder Rahdeas didn't mean it that way. The answer, it seemed, was far more mundane—and far more grim.
"It's because dwarves—nobles—make war between each other," Elder Rahdeas sighed.
"What?" I echoed, the word escaping me before I could stop it.
One of the few good things about this world was that—excluding Alacrya, of course, but they were ruled by some of the people that created the Warworn Rapids with their Insight—there didn't seem to be inner war within the races.
"You already know that the Greysunders aren't well-liked," Elder Rahdeas said. "But the only thing that the nobility hates more than the Greysunders is each other. The House Feuds are born to decide who shall become the new King of All Dwarves should the Greysunders finally perish."
"And the King does nothing?!" I asked, my voice rising with disbelief.
"Oh, he does many things," Elder Rahdeas said sarcastically. "For one, he prohibits the House Feuds from being waged in the Upper City."
"Which leaves the rest of Vildorial prey to the nobles..." I finished, the pieces clicking into place.
"Exactly," Elder Rahdeas said.
"And I can guess that to avoid the rule of not waging war in Upper Vildorial being broken, King Dawsid proclaimed the Throneholder competition," I reasoned. "Seeing the infertility plaguing him and the queen. That is... quite an intelligent move."
I thought the Throneholder competition was just a way for Dawsid to have fun while pretending to take an interest in the nation's future, but it was much deeper than I thought. It was a pressure valve, a way to channel the violence of the nobility into a controlled contest. It was cynical, yes, but it was also brilliant.
"As they say..." Elder Rahdeas began, a rare smile crossing his weathered face. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day. But yes, the Throneholder competition these last years has managed to keep the House Feuds in check."
"That was until Olfred killed the former Throneholder..." I said, immediately regretting my decision to voice that thought. The memory of that confession hung in the air between us, a ghost that would not be exorcised.
"Regrettably, yes," Elder Rahdeas said sincerely.
"You really think the nobles will risk a House Feud for me?" I asked.
"I can't say, but what is sure is that you cannot rely on the Warend status as commoner anymore for safety," Elder Rahdeas said.
Which meant I wasn't an underdog anymore. It meant now everyone would look at Finn Warend and truly see a Throneholder. Not only the people of Burim or those of the Pits, but all dwarves.
The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying. The weight of that expectation settled on my shoulders, a reminder that I was no longer just a boy playing at politics.
It was time to think about my next actions; I needed to speak with Evascir, Soleil, and Avicenna. I needed to plan, to prepare, to ensure that I was ready for whatever came next.
As I was about to leave, Elder Rahdeas called me back: "Finn, where are you going?"
"Home. I have been missing for quite a few days," I said.
I had been spending so much time in Darv lately with all these loops taking me back to random points in time of the Darffest week that I really needed to return home and return to being Corvis Eralith.
"During the Darffday?" Elder Rahdeas asked, his voice carrying a note of surprise. "Olfred will be freed from his duties soon; wouldn't you stay to celebrate Finn Warend's win?"
I was left speechless by the offer of the so-often mysterious elder. It was a gesture of acceptance, a recognition that I was no longer just a tool in his plans, a convenient client, or even a useful ally, but a part of something larger.
The warmth of it spread through my chest, a small flame in the darkness of my exhaustion.
"I—yes, I would like it."