The Führer's Meeting Chamber
The chamber stretched wide and high, carved from marble and white concrete, a place built not for comfort but for awe. The floor was freshly laid, every polished tile of veined stone still glistening like a mirror. Each step upon it echoed faintly, the sound rolling down the length of the hall as if the walls themselves were listening.
There were no torches, no lamps. Instead, enormous windows lined the chamber, stretching from floor to ceiling, their glass flawless and bright. Through them, the capital revealed itself in full majesty: white stone buildings arranged in perfect grids, banners fluttering from sharp rooftops, and beyond it all the shadow of the mountains marking the horizon. From this vantage, the city was a living tapestry — a symbol of order and power under new rule. The light pouring through the glass filled the chamber with a pale, commanding glow, casting no shadows for traitors to hide in.
Along the walls hung vast paintings of conquest: cavalry charges frozen in oil, sieges broken beneath cannon fire, banners raised over fallen cities. Between them, the flags of the new Reich draped heavily, crimson and black, swaying faintly when the wind pressed against the glass. Together, the art and banners told a single story — of war already won, and wars yet to come.
At the far end of the long table sat the Führer. He was motionless, framed by the full backdrop of the city behind him. His gaze was sharp but unreadable, hands resting calmly on the chair's arms as though carved there by the same mason who had built the chamber.
Beside him loomed the giant of the Reich — Riese. Black armor encased his titanic frame, its edges engraved with faint runes that glowed like buried coals. A swastika flared upon his shoulderplate, stark against the darkness of his steel. Across his back rested a weapon of impossible scale — a machine gun built like a steel leviathan, its weight defying all reason. Only the enchantments pulsing beneath his armor kept him from being dragged down by his own wargear. Riese's very presence filled the room like a second wall — immovable, unchallengeable.
The chamber was silent until the measured echo of footsteps broke it. Two guards entered without introduction, their boots striking the marble in deliberate rhythm. Their uniforms were new, tailored with precision: no armor weighed them down, for they were killers from a distance. Rifles had made shields and steel breastplates relics of a slower age. These men needed only speed, aim, and the resolve to kill without hesitation.
They marched forward as one, then stopped a measured distance from the table. Heels clicked together sharply.
"Mein Führer," the right guard announced, bowing his head but keeping his eyes fixed ahead."The Dwarven Kingdom of Thearom will now see you."
The words hung in the pale-lit chamber, their weight sinking into the stone.
Riese shifted, the faint runes on his chestplate sparking brighter for a heartbeat. His gauntleted hand tapped once against the table, the iron thud reverberating across marble like a warning bell.
Hitler did not move at first. He simply leaned back slightly, the white light of the capital gleaming behind him, narrowing his eyes as if the dwarves were already standing in the doorway.
They were short and broad, their heavy boots striking the marble with dull weight. Each wore layered steel worked with runes, less ornate than human armor but solid, practical, made to last generations. Their beards were braided with copper and silver rings, and their cloaks bore the crest of their mountain kingdom — Thearom, the stone crown flanked by crossed hammers.
The three dwarven diplomats halted at the midpoint of the chamber, lowered their heads, and bowed stiffly. Their movements were precise, measured — pride would not allow them to kneel, but diplomacy demanded respect.
The Führer rose from his chair. His black coat shifted as he adjusted the lapels, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care. Behind him, the glow of the city's white towers and banners made his silhouette sharp against the glass.
"Welcome," he said, voice carrying across the marble. "Welcome to German land."
He extended one hand and gestured toward a chair set immediately at his right. The implication was unmistakable — not at the far side, not among the lesser seats, but at his side. A place of both honor and scrutiny.
The dwarves exchanged cautious glances, then strode forward. One by one they climbed into the offered seats, the furniture made for taller men creaking faintly beneath their compact frames.
Hitler let the silence linger only a breath longer before leaning slightly forward, his gaze fixed on them.
"I am certain you know who I am. Therefore—let us skip the formalities." His words cut clean, like a blade drawn across velvet. "Why have you come to the German Reich?"
The dwarves stiffened. Their eyes flicked between each other, silent words exchanged in hesitation. Then, the eldest among them reached into his cloak and produced a device — a small mechanism of brass and crystal, engraved with curling runes. He placed it to his mouth, pressed a stud on its side, and spoke.
A moment later, a voice rang out — distorted, metallic, yet clear enough to be understood.
"We apologize… we do not understand your language. We will use these devices… to bridge that distance."
As he finished, the other two dwarves drew similar instruments and fixed them to their mouths and ears. Runes glowed faintly, pulsing with each word they spoke and heard.
Riese shifted in his armor, one eyebrow raising slightly, though his lips stayed sealed.
The Führer's expression hardened, then slowly curved into a grin.
"Very well," he said, the words deliberate, almost amused. "Then let us try again."
He leaned forward, both hands resting lightly on the polished marble table.
"What," his voice sharpened, "do you all wish to discuss?"
The tension in the chamber thickened as the last of the dwarves adjusted the glowing device affixed to his beard. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of rune-powered translation, a whisper of magic bridging the gap between tongues.
Then, the eldest dwarf — easily the oldest in appearance, with a beard like braided obsidian and a broad frame clad in soot-darkened steel — leaned slightly forward. His voice, when filtered through the device, emerged calm, clipped, and professional.
"Yes, sir. We have brought many proposals for today's discussion… but first, we would like to begin with the matter of trade."
Hitler remained seated, unmoved. One pale eyebrow rose.
"Trade… is it."
The word wasn't hostile. But it hung in the air with weight — as if he were testing the depth of their intentions with a single probe.
The three dwarves nodded in unison.
"Yes," the middle dwarf confirmed. He was younger, though still weathered — his armor bore the markings of a traveler, not just a courtier. "Trade. Our kingdom possesses an abundance of material wealth. Iron. Tin. Coal. Stones that gleam with fire beneath the earth. But—" he tapped two thick fingers against a leather-bound packet of notes "—we lack sufficient food. Harsh soil. Long winters. And our population has grown… faster than our fields."
He unfurled the packet and laid out several pages atop the marble table. The papers were filled with blocky dwarven script, quantities, dates, transport routes, all stamped with the hammer-sigil of Thearom.
"We propose a trade agreement," he continued, voice steady, measured. "Your food. In bulk. We will compensate you fairly."
Hitler narrowed his gaze. "In return?"
The dwarf didn't blink.
"We will give you access to our rare earth metals."
There was a small pause. A flicker of silence between breaths. Riese tilted his head, ever so slightly.
The dwarf straightened his shoulders, as if declaring something holy."And more than that... something no other land possesses. Not east, not west. Only Thearom contains it."
He placed a small, blackish fragment of jagged metal on the table. It shimmered faintly with an unnatural sheen, and though it was no larger than a knife hilt, the stone beneath it groaned almost imperceptibly from its weight.
"We call it Super Alloy."
Hitler's voice lowered. "Super alloy?"
"Yes," the dwarf replied, tapping the object with reverent care. "It is a metal — forged not by flame, but by rune. Two hundred times stronger than steel. Resistant to corrosion, impossible to melt by natural heat. No forge can contain it. No flame can shape it."
"And yet," Hitler said slowly, "You managed to mine and refine it."
The right-most dwarf finally spoke. His voice was gravelly, his beard streaked with gray and copper. "That is correct, Mein Führer. I see you are truly a man of insight. This metal cannot be mined in the traditional sense. The ore is harvested in a dormant state — cold, dense, and inert — and shaped only by magical reinforcement. Runes etched directly into the forging chambers. It is a lost art to some. But not to us."
Hitler leaned slightly forward, both palms resting against the table now. His tone cooled.
"Such a rare and powerful substance… it would not be given freely. Not for food alone. What else are you after?"
A brief silence passed between the dwarves. The younger one cleared his throat, adjusting the translation rune slightly.
The eldest inclined his head. "That is fair, and expected. We wish to purchase your weapons. In large quantity."
The air in the room shifted. It was subtle. But sharp.
Hitler leaned back slowly, a faint creak echoing as the high-backed chair took his weight. His eyes did not blink. His fingers steepled.
"Offer denied."
The words came without ceremony. Without need for further explanation.
The middle dwarf's smile faltered — only slightly, but it was there. A tightening of the eyes. A shift in his posture.
"We… insist," he said carefully. "This metal — this offer — has never been extended to another kingdom. Not the elves. Not the beast-folk. Not even the Empire can master it. We offer it to you alone. Not as charity. As alliance."
The room fell quiet again. Even the city beyond the windows seemed to hold its breath.
Hitler's fingers tapped once against the armrest, the sound sharp on the marble.
He didn't raise his voice.
"You do not offer alliance," he said, eyes locked on the elder dwarf. "You want power."
The words hit like iron.
"Your kingdom… Thearom… has dug deep enough into the earth to believe it's reached the pinnacle of progress. You craft with rune, mine with enchantment, forge metals no heat can touch. To you, that is supremacy."
He leaned forward now, slowly, elbows on the table, the capital glowing behind him like a holy flame. His voice darkened.
"But then you saw our rifles."He let that hang for a beat."You saw a man with no rune… cut down ten others before they crossed a field.""You saw cities fall not from siege, but from fire and thunder."
The younger dwarf shifted in his seat, jaw clenching slightly.
"And you thought…" Hitler narrowed his eyes, "…How?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You believed yourselves the apex. But the true emperor…" He leaned in farther, his tone quiet now. Absolute."Has yet to come."
Riese remained stone-still beside him, his glowing runes pulsing like a heartbeat. No one else in the room dared move.
Then, as if casting off a distraction, Hitler leaned back once more, brushing dust from his sleeve.
"Let us move on, shall we?"
The dwarves hesitated. Their expressions, once confident, had dimmed. The elder offered only a slow nod, his mouth a firm line. The younger one, seated to his right, bared his teeth slightly — not quite a snarl, but close — then suppressed it, exhaling through his nose as he forced calm back onto his face.
A different dwarf — the one on the far left, more reserved until now — leaned forward and cleared his throat softly.
"Very well," the translator murmured in clipped tones. "Let us discuss a different topic. Investment."
Hitler tilted his head.
"There are rumors," the dwarf continued, placing a set of bound scrolls onto the table. "That human merchants are rising again. That your economy, once scattered and enslaved, is… stabilizing. There are smiths in the west, miners in the south, transport lines forming through the valley. We've read the trade manifests."
He slid the documents across the table. Riese didn't move, but his eyes flicked down at the scrolls with silent appraisal.
"We wish to invest," the dwarf said. "Quietly. Dwarven coin for human growth. Not as conquerors. As shareholders."
The words were carefully chosen.
"Mines. Steelworks. Machinery. If your people can build more of these 'rifles' and vehicles, it would serve both our interests. You maintain control. We expand trade."
The younger dwarf, still visibly annoyed, added through clenched teeth: "We are not fools. We do not demand your secrets. We offer prosperity. Stability."
Then silence again. The marble chamber held the weight of it, every heartbeat measured.
All eyes turned back to Hitler.
Hitler didn't speak for a moment.
He simply stared at the scroll the dwarf had pushed across the table. Then, without a hint of strain or spectacle, he leaned back in his chair, adjusted the sleeve of his coat, and said:
"Sure."
The dwarves froze. For a full second, they stared — as if they hadn't heard him correctly.
"You may invest," Hitler repeated. "In smaller companies. With approval from our National Bank."
Their translator devices hummed to life, filtering his words through the runic script. One of the dwarves blinked. Another shifted in his seat. The younger one's mouth parted, stunned.
"However," Hitler added, voice hardening just slightly, "you may own no more than ten percent shares per company."
He leaned forward again, tapping the table with a single finger.
"All of it will be recorded. Every percent, every contract, every clause. No handshakes. No backdoor deals."
The elder dwarf raised an eyebrow. "And the larger corporations? National-level companies?"
Hitler's gaze sharpened like frost over stone.
"Greed…" he said slowly, "…is what kills a man."
The middle dwarf jerked his head back, visibly taken aback by the bluntness. His chair creaked under the shift of weight.
The eldest tried to recover, clearing his throat before speaking again.
"Listen, sir," he said carefully. "We are here in good faith — trying to form diplomatic relations with your people. But your responses… are making such relations very difficult."
Hitler didn't raise his voice.
"And your negotiations," he replied, "speak as if we are the lesser nation. You come with riddles and terms as if we are desperate. Do not get your feet too high, Ambassador."
His voice dropped, steel-hard.
"We know your true reason. You want wealth. You want weapons. And you want an edge in the silent war you've been playing with the tree-hoppers."
The dwarves stiffened at the term — an obvious reference to the elven kingdoms. None of them denied it.
Hitler continued, fingers pressed together now, his tone as cold as the glass behind him.
"If you came here seeking an alliance to fight your enemies, or a puppet to exploit, you came to the wrong country. Be more reasonable — don't let your two-month journey end in failure."
For a long moment, the dwarves said nothing.
Then — without a word — the elder reached into a leather case and produced a thick scroll, bound in crimson ribbon and sealed with wax. He unrolled it, and the magical translator glowed as he spoke:
"We present this agreement as a gesture of trust. A non-aggression understanding — and a written pledge that we do not wish for war with your Reich. We only seek prosperity."
Hitler nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Good. Because speaking of trade and investments…"
He glanced at Riese, then back to the diplomats.
"How about this — we purchase some of your stocks as well."
The elder dwarf's face brightened instantly. "Perfect!" he said. "Mutual trade. Mutual investment. That is what we hoped for."
"A mutual Trade and Investment Act," Hitler said aloud. "We trade food for…?"
The youngest dwarf jumped in quickly, now eager. "We'll provide minerals. At reduced cost — aluminum, iron ore, copper, lead, even nickel if you require it."
"Not bad," Hitler replied. "But…"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Do you have tungsten?"
The three dwarves exchanged glances.
"Yes," the older one answered carefully. "But its hardness and value… it commands a high price, even within our circles. It is a strategic material — both dense and rare. Forging it is costly."
"Can you lower the price?"
Another pause.
"…Somewhat," the elder conceded. "But not without limits."
"Good," Hitler said at last, standing. "Then our trade is a deal. We will sign the non-aggression pact."
He stepped around the table, boots clicking against the polished marble.
"My people will draft your contract by tomorrow evening. You will also receive a sealed investment document addressed to your king."
The dwarves nodded slowly, almost reverently now.
"That is all we wished to present," the elder dwarf said. "Your firmness is noted — and respected."
"Great," Hitler said, extending his hand.
One by one, the dwarves stood and grasped it — rough fingers meeting his smoother, colder grip.
"I hope future relations improve with time," Hitler said.
"So do we."
Then Hitler turned toward the doors. "I hope you'll remain until next week."
The dwarves looked up, surprised again.
"Why's that?"
"We'll be holding our first military parade," Hitler said. "And I'll be giving my first national address to the reunited German people."
The dwarves smiled. The tension, for now, had passed.
"Yes," the eldest said. "We will attend. It would be an honor."
"I'll see you there."
At his signal, the guards stepped forward. In perfect coordination, they turned and opened the massive chamber doors.
The dwarves were escorted out with respectful precision — boots echoing off marble one last time.
The doors shut behind them.
Silence fell.
No footsteps.No breathing.Only the slow echo of the massive doors sealing shut.
Hitler stood alone at the head of the table, his coat still sharp, the city's pale light painting long streaks across the polished marble.
His eyes remained fixed on the doors for a moment longer, and then — without moving his lips, as if speaking through thought alone — he said:
"…Virella. Do you hear me?"
There was no shimmer, no glow. No entrance.
But her voice came — soft, distant, as though whispered into his mind from a dark corridor miles away.
"Yes, mein Führer."
His voice was flat.
"Did we kill the dwarven spies?"
A pause.
"No," Virella answered. "But we've taken all the information we need from their minds."
A beat of silence.
"Shall we kill them now?"
Hitler's eyes narrowed slightly, then drifted to the center of the table. He tapped a fingertip once, then shook his head.
"No. Put them in the cells. They will be used accordingly."
He walked to the edge of the table, his boots silent on the polished floor.
"Make sure sniper teams are watching the diplomats," he said. "If they make a move…"
He paused.
"…take the shot."
Virella's voice, still soft and obedient, replied,"As you wish."
Then—nothing. Her presence faded as if it had never been there. The runes beneath the floor dulled. The chamber returned to stillness.
Hitler stood before the far end of the table. With practiced ease, he reached beneath the edge and pressed a concealed latch. There was a soft metallic click.
A panel in the side of the table slid open.
From within, he drew a sidearm — black steel, pristine. The barrel gleamed under the pale light, cold and untouched. A custom grip. No insignia. Silent as the grave.
He looked at it.
No words.No expression.
Just the Führer and the weapon — a perfect reflection of one another.
Still.
Precise.
Waiting.