Corvis Eralith
Before letting the Portal Frog I had left in Xyrus Academy swallow me, I used REmould and became Finn Warend, changing my clothes alongside my identity—something I had recently become able to do by continuing to refine my control over the Arbiter's authority over the Edict of Vivum.
Now, as long as I had the clothes I wanted to wear in my storage ring, I could change them simultaneously with my appearance.
The next thing I felt, after the river's call, was the underground atmosphere of Pitrah. The air was thick and mineral-scented, carrying the earth and stone that had pressed down on this place for centuries.
I stretched my arms high above my head and turned, facing the former Pits of Vildorial.
The cavern stretched before me, vast and shadowed, its ceiling lost in darkness broken only by the warm glow of countless bonfires.
The makeshift dwellings that had once dotted the landscape had begun to slowly, but surely, transform: their crude walls reinforced with proper timber, their roofs patched with materials brought from the world above.
The transformation was slow, but it was happening.
The Djinnic portal I had brought here last week had not been moved from its original position, remaining separate from the centre of the "city," yet it had already become the beating heart of this reborn place.
Many Powders were busy working throughout the underground cave, bringing supplies that had been delivered by portal to the far corners of the former slums.
"It seems Elder Rahdeas is fully supporting the efforts in Pitrah," I observed pleasantly.
The supply crates bore the insignia of the Warend Trading Company, their dark wood and iron bands a familiar sight, and many familiar Unravelers from Burim were guiding the Pitrans in their work.
Alongside the view, the sound of hammers and saws echoed through the cavern, a music of construction that sang of a people determined to rebuild.
Speaking of Elder Rahdeas, though... next time I was going to meet him, I would need to bring Chul with me.
But I wasn't here to gauge dwarven industry or wonder what new information about Chul's father Elder Rahdeas might reveal.
I was here to continue my experiments with the REbelves after giving the first batch to Lilia Helstea. Retrieving a second ampoule of Manacites from my storage ring, I roamed around the Pits in search of Filbrass Torserian.
It didn't take long to find the dwarf.
Filbrass Torserian stood poised, guarding the portal of Pitrah with unwavering concentration, helping other dwarves here and there with carrying the supplies from the Warend Trading Company.
His buzz cut was as short as the last time I had seen him, and his three-striped goatee was perfectly groomed. For a Powder who had lived in misery all his life, Filbrass truly liked to take care of his appearance, a small act of dignity in a place that had denied its inhabitants so much.
Moreover, there was no Marko Felsen around!
Hopefully that Water Baron was back in Lower Vildorial for the time being; the less I interacted with the criminal, the better.
"Filbrass!" I greeted the dwarf, who raised his head from what he was doing.
"Lord Throneholder!" Filbrass saluted me, a gesture quickly copied by many other Pitrans alongside him, as well as other dwarves who shared a similarity with the Torserian dwarf.
They all were wearing leather armours dyed with the same metallic brown: bronze.
"I see you have organized a group to guard the portal," I commented, noticing how the various armoured Pitrans were acting as guards of the tall Djinnic gateway.
"Precisely, Lord Throneholder," Filbrass said. "The Bronzhers—that's how we call ourselves."
"Bronzhers? Wouldn't having bronze armours be better, then?" I asked before shaking my head. "Right, you don't have anything like that down here. Anyway, I have brought you this."
I passed him the ampoule with the Manacites. The glass was cool against my fingers, the blue liquid within shimmering with a faint, ethereal light.
"It is the formula I have been working on that I told you about," I informed him. "It should help with the awakening process even if your are past that age."
Filbrass stared at the ampoule with focused eyes, muttering something, a prayer to Mother Earth or to Darff, under his breath.
"Thank you for this gift, Lord Throneholder," Filbrass said, his voice thick with emotion. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Actually... yes," I said, my gaze sweeping across the cavern. "What is happening around here? I see a lot of movement."
"Thanks to the portal connecting us to Burim, your great-uncle can now send us supplies much more easily than before," Filbrass said. "One of his best dwarves, Damien Malaisson, is making sure we are not discovered by the Kingdom of Darv."
The way he spoke of the Kingdom of Darv, as if it was a foreign nation just like Sapin or Elenoir... the Alacryans must have used this same sentiment in the novel during their occupation of the dwarven nation.
The thought sent a chill through me, a reminder of the fragility of the unity I was trying to build.
However, hearing that Olfred—using his cover identity—was also helping Pitrah warmed my heart; the Lance, too, just like Rahdeas, had been a Powder once.
"And what have you been using the supplies for?" I asked.
"You should ask Lord Felsen," Filbrass said, not fearing to say his name in front of me, but still uttering it in a lower tone. His voice carried a hint of deference that I couldn't quite place.
"I don't see the Water Baron anywhere around," I retorted. "And as far as I know, I am the closest thing Pitrah has to a leader. Not him."
The words came out a bit more... authoritarian than I wanted them to be. Pitrah's rulers were the Powders, not I, nor Marko Felsen. But my distaste for the Water Baron had gotten the better of me, and the weight of my frustration seeped into my voice.
"I apologise, Lord Throneholder," Filbrass said, his voice carrying no judgemental undertone. "The materials are being used to renovate the buildings of Pitrah. We are making them homes worthy of the name."
"That's nice," I said, my tone softening. "What about the mining expeditions we talked about?"
Filbrass smirked, satisfied by my question.
"That is our next goal, Lord Throneholder!" he exclaimed. "When Pitrah will be able to stand on its own once more, we will venture into the old mines. The tunnels are dangerous, but they hold the key to our future as you yourself said."
"You will need equipment for that," I said, looking at their leather armours and remembering what I had spoken to Fatima about regarding the Adaptarmour. "I will resolve that personally. As for you—drink that."
It was time to work on a first true set of war gear for the future of Dicathen, and the Bronzhers were going to be the first subjects.
—
Burim, the City of Hammers, Band of Two, Makkroggin Wedge; headquarters of the Unraveller's Company.
Blistering heat rolled off the main forge adjoining the company's compound, roaring to life before me as molten bronze was channelled into precise moulds, casting the structural plates of the armour Evascir and I had designed together.
The white-hot alloy hissed violently as it settled, plunged straight into cooling vats of oil that sent plumes of pale steam billowing into the rafters.
Without missing a beat, the dwarven smiths fell upon the pieces with enchanted tongs, hammers, and shaping metal magic, coaxing the tempered metal into its modular contours.
"The first of many," I murmured as the inaugural suit took final shape, hoisted onto a heavy iron mannequin to cure.
The stifling temperature inside the foundry would have been lethal to ordinary men, tolerable only through Finn Warend's rugged dwarven constitution and my own command over fire.
As I watched the master craftsdwarves—all employed by Elder Rahdeas—ply their trade, I made myself useful by weaving a broad veil of fire magic.
The Flame of Darv, Finn's signature deviant fire magic, unfurled in ripples of pale slate, siphoning away the ambient furnace heat to grant the labouring smiths a pocket of merciful respite.
They all thanked me by making thumbs up, a satisfied grin on their faces damp in sweat, smoke and sooth.
"Here you have, lad!" The head smith, exclaimed. "Your art piece made armour!"
I flushed at his comment. Damned, damned Asclepius instincts making me seek aesthetic and art in all things, even armours.
The design of the bronze armour was inspired by the armours worn by Mycenaeans on Earth during the Bronze Age:
Overlapping bronze plates formed the torso of the armour, while other rounded plates were connected to the shoulders and reached the upper arms. On the top part of the armour there was a raised gorget that protected the neck from any deflected projectile that might hit the cuirass.
Finally the helmets came into different colours: tall and conical all, terracotta coloured for normal soldiers while burgundy for the leaser—for Filbrass Torserian.
"How long do you think it will take you to make the other pieces?" I asked.
"A few days. The materials have to arrive and the forge to be ready again," the head craftsdwarf said. "Moreover the armour still needs to properly cool down and be hammered a little but more—some things are better done without magic, ya know?"
"Yeah..." I said, offering a parting nod as I turned toward the forge's exit.
Berna was waiting by the threshold, idly snacking on scraps of surplus metal as though they were salty, delicious chips.
"Good luck with the rest of the batch," I called back to the smiths. "I will make sure Great-uncle Rahdeas pays you a bonus!"
Outside, in the narrow and busy streets of Burim that circled around the city centre—its portal—giving the underground city its characteristical cog-like, round shape if seen from above I activated Massbinding the ochre runes of the Kain Clan blazing bright on the back of my hands.
But now that I also had the Quadra-Elemental Greatrune on my lower spine Massbinding felt way more powerful. I could truly feel the gravity magic flowing in the divine runes of Berna's Acquire Phase, something that I could barely grasp since now, relying heavily on REmould to use my bond's Beast Will to its best.
"Berna keep up," I told my Guardian Bear. "We are going to my apartment."
Crouching low, I paid no mind to the reverent gazes of the gathered dwarves, each one looking upon the boy they hoped would claim the mantle of Throneholder, and perhaps one day, King of All Dwarves.
I vaulted upward, calling upon the gravitational forces of Massbinding to alternately push and pull me through the cavernous expanse of the City of Hammers.
The jagged subterranean vaults became my sky while below, the dense, interlocking rooftops of the underground city turned into launchpads beneath my boots.
Beside me, my Guardian Bear mirrored every leap, bounding effortlessly from ridge to ridge. Berna defied gravity in tandem with my ascent, her contentment radiating so purely across our bond that it sparked a bright bloom of joy from my own mana core.
My quarters in Burim were hardly a place I often frequented.
It was a modest three-room flat Elder Rahdeas had arranged for Finn's cover, providing his supposed great-nephew with a residence well away from Vildorial to keep inquisitive eyes and inconvenient questions at bay.
I touched down upon the flat roof of the Warend estate building, Berna landing heavily beside me just seconds later as she reached our destination.
Hearth fires glowing from the windows of neighbouring blocks—stocky dwarven tenements that spanned several storeys yet remained remarkably squat—cast long, amber beams across the labyrinth of narrow streets below.
Jumping cleanly off the roof's edge, I dropped down to the stone alley below.
The neighbourhood was remarkably quiet, all things considered. Most of the residents would still be labouring in the foundries and other jobs at this hour.
I walked up to the tenement entrance, pushed through the unlocked iron door, and mounted the stairs toward Finn Warend's apartment: third floor, door on the right, if memory served.
However, once I reached my desired floor I saw a familiar face knocking on the door.
A dwarven teenager with long sideburns turned his head upon hearing footsteps from the stairs; my footsteps.
"Gilbert!" I exclaimed. "It's been a while..."
Last time I met the Hammerfell boy, when he accompanied me through Vildorial as member of my entourage for the Darffest, we haven't parted the best of ways. Despite him not denouncing me, he still hated the fact I was, in fact, Corvis Eralith and not Finn Warend. At least to his eyes.
"...Eralith," Gilbert said, his jaw clenched. "You finally show up. I have been coming to knock on this door since the Darffest hoping to find you."
Couldn't someone come to tell me this? I sighed in my head. Surely someone from the Warend Trading Company could have informed me of Gilbert.
"I am here, now," I said. "What do you need?"
"I... I wanted to tell you I have come to a decision regarding your secret," Gilbert said, solemnly. "No matter how much I want to hate you—you are helping Darv too much. I have seen what you have done with the Pits. Pitrah, now, right?"
"Who told you?" I asked, frowning. No one, but the Pitrans themselves and selected members working for Elder Rahdeas were meant to know about the status of the Pits of Vildorial.
Gilbert raised his hands in defense.
"Elder Rahdeas asked my family to help with keeping the secret trade route with the Pits here in Burim secret," Gilbert said. "We make sure Monolithic House Lonuid remains in the dark."
It made sense, Olfred alone couldn't do it. He had many more duties to take care of—his role as Lance and son of Rahdeas.
"I am happy to hear it," I replied. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me?"
"Actually there is," Gilbert said, his tone returning that of the dwarven friend I knew before I revealed my secret to him. "Remember Lord Hornfels?"
"Yes, we met him during the Darffest. At Ruby Drinks, in Middle Vildorial," I said.
"He is being quite adamant on recruiting us for his retinue," Gilbert sighed. "He promised me—and my family by extension—a lot of things if I convinced you to join him and support his race for Throneholder."
I snickered at the thought. As if I would bow to Hornfels Earthborn, he was a likeable dwarf, but that was all he had to offer to me.
"What have you replied?" I asked, crossing my arms and Gilbert shrugged.
"That he could go kiss Mother Earth's ass," Gilber laughed. "I obviously didn't use those words, but you catch the meaning."
"I do," I said. "Thanks for... your loyalty."
"As long as you continue to bear the Warend name as you have been doing, you won't have any more trouble from me," Gilbert said. "Not that I could cause you problems anyway, after what I witnessed in Lower Vildorial. You really are far too strong, Finn."
I flushed a but at the compliment, if only he knew hiw much stronger I got from back then. Then, an idea sparkled in my mind as I searched for something in my storage ring.
"Wait Gilbert," I said. "I would like you to have a new invention of mine, I should have still one more spare. Here!"
I retrieved a third ampoule of Manacites, one I kept as a spare. Gilbert was already a mage, and a metal deviant at that. He could be useful to see if it could be worth giving Manacites to already awakened mages.
Gilbert took the blue ampoule.
"What is this? An elixir?" He asked.
"You might have heard what I promised King Dawsid," I said, hands on my hips and chin held high. "That, dear Gilbert, is my answer to the monopoly over magic that Dicathian nobility has held for centuries: the Magician Potion, the commercial name for my special concoction."
"Magician Potion, huh?" Gilbert echoed. "But I am already a mage, yes I am just a dark orange core, but I am quite proud of it nonetheless!"
"Drink it," I prompted him. "And once you've become a stronger mage, there's no need to come thanking me."
I simply had to find a way to mass-produce these Magician Potions.
At my current pace, I could brew perhaps ten a week—a paltry figure set against the overwhelming tide of Alacryan mages we would be facing in just a few short years.
"Cheers, then!" Gilbert barked, downing the draught with all the gusto of a dwarf sinking a pint of ale. He smacked his lips, blinking in bewilderment. "Wait... is this non-alcoholic cider? Finn, are you insulting Darv himself with this?"
A genuine laugh escaped me at Gilbert's playful outrage.
"It's formulated for children of every race," I replied dryly. "Not everyone possesses the iron liver of a dwarf. I am Dicathen, remember?"