The gates groaned wide, and warmth rolled over them like a rising tide.
Throneforge lived.
The old forges — dead and dusted just days before — now blazed with ancestral flame. Great vats of molten iron hissed and churned. Smoke curled through the air, not choking, but fragrant — thick with roast meat, firewine, and the strange scent of stone made fertile once more.
Above them rose the Emberhalls — vaulted like cathedral ribs carved from volcanic glass and reinforced with runes that shimmered in gold and red. Light pulsed through every wall, as though the mountain itself had become a heart again. And that heart… was beating.
Dwarves moved in droves — smiths, guards, runepriests, maidens with braids thick as chains, all laughing and bellowing and singing over the thunder of celebration. Kegs were rolled. Fires were stoked. Meat was carved in slabs larger than shields.
And in the center of it all, seated beneath a towering crown of anvil-thrones, was King Rurik.
His beard was woven in braids of black and ember, streaked with gold. His cloak — ash-gray and trimmed with flame-thread — draped over one shoulder. His gauntlets glowed faintly as if the Forge itself breathed through them.
He raised a mug the size of a helm.
"To the waking Forge!"
A roar answered him.
And then, the Deepguard entered.
The hall quieted — not fully, but enough.
Eyes turned.
A path cleared.
And into that space walked three figures:
A stranger with shadow behind his gaze.A beastkin with wary fire in her step.And a dwarf — not in armor, nor robe, nor crown.
Prince Durik.
For a breath, no one spoke.
Then Rurik stood — slowly.
He was shorter by inch than Durik, not what Rei had imagined, but the weight of him filled the hall. Not just mass, but presence — like the first stone laid in a mountain.
Durik paused halfway across the hall, gaze level.
Rurik looked at his son.
Then at Rei.
Then back again.
The corners of his mouth twitched.
And he laughed — deep and full, like gravel catching fire.
"My son walks with shadows and gods!" he bellowed. "And brings them home to drink!"
Another roar of laughter, louder this time.
Rurik stepped down from the dais.
No guards moved.
No threats were drawn.
Just firelight and ale.
He embraced Durik first, clapping his back with the weight of ten years of silence.
"You vanish for seasons, reappear from the deep with the Riftborn in tow, and your first thought was not to write?"
Durik grunted. "You'd have burned the letter."
"True," Rurik grinned.
Then he turned to Rei.
Eyes sharp. Studying.
Not cruel — but searching.
"So this is the boy."
He didn't ask for a name.
Didn't need to.
Rei inclined his head.
"I'm Rei."
Rurik's brow raised. "A short name for one who carries the long fire."
Then he turned and bellowed, "Drink, eat, play the drums until the stones sing!"
The hall erupted.
Durik snorted as they stepped back from the dais, tankards in hand. Kaia walked just behind them, still watching every shadow.
Rei tilted his head, glancing up at the towering throne behind them, then sideways at Durik — who, despite his thick limbs and broader frame, stood almost eye-to-eye with the King.
Then he looked down at himself. And sighed.
"…Okay," he muttered, "but can I just ask—why are you and your father so tall for dwarves?"
Durik blinked.
Kaia raised an eyebrow.
"I mean," Rei continued, gesturing vaguely. "Aren't dwarves supposed to be, you know… shorter?"
Durik squinted at him, then slowly lifted his tankard and took a long, deliberate drink. When he lowered it, his grin was crooked.
"Careful, lad," he said. "That's how duels start in some holds."
Kaia laughed — actually laughed — for the first time in days.
Durik shook his head. "We're of the royal line. King's blood. Taller than most, heavier than most, louder than most. Comes with the burden."
Rei raised a brow. "And the ale belly?"
"That too."
Kaia nudged Rei. "You just insulted a prince and a king in the same breath."
Rei shrugged. "I'm already carrying a cursed gem and being haunted by a chained god-goat. What's a little royal offense?"
Durik grunted, "Fair."
Durik, Rei, and Kaia were led to a long stone table dressed in meats and brass cups. Kaia sat with her back to a wall, eyes sharp despite the comfort. Rei took a seat across from her, his fingers brushing the gem of Skarnveil, still hidden beneath his cloak.
Durik was already pulling meat from a haunch the size of a child.
As the feast thundered on, dwarves came in waves — some to pay respects to Durik, others to simply stare at Rei like a relic cracked loose from legend.
A Runepriest offered him a drink blessed by the Flame-Father.
A little girl with soot on her cheeks shyly gave him a token — a carved stone with a burning spiral etched on it. Rei took it, quietly stunned.
"They think I'm something," he said softly.
Kaia sipped her firewine. "You are."
He looked around. "They're… happy."
"They think the dragon's theirs," she murmured. "That the mountain has remembered them."
Durik set down his mug with a grunt. "We're not blind, you know."
Rei blinked.
Durik's voice was quieter now, pitched only for their ears. "My father celebrates because he thinks the gem will give him the Forge. That with it, he can bind the Wyrm. Return dwarven glory. Reignite the world with fire and steel."
He tore another piece from the haunch.
"But not all fires answer to chains."
Rei said nothing.
Later, as the feast dimmed and the bards began to play songs of deep-stone and lost kings, Rurik called to them from the throne.
They approached together — the Riftborn, the beastkin, the prince returned.
Rurik sat reclined, mug in hand.
"So," he said, "the Skarnveil Gem is with you."
Rei nodded. "It found me. Or… I found it."
Rurik's eyes twinkled. "No matter. The mountain has no need for romance."
He stood.
Behind him, the great firewall of Throneforge pulsed brighter.
"There is a Wyrm that stirs now. A thing born from the first Forge, bound in slumber by flame and pact. When it wakes — and it will — we must be ready."
Durik stepped forward, voice measured. "Is that what this is about? The feast? The songs? You celebrate because you think you've tamed a god?"
Rurik turned slowly.
"I celebrate," he said, "because our people have lived like embers for too long."
His hand rose, gesturing to the veins of flame above.
"Now the fire lives again."
Durik's voice hardened. "And the Wyrm?"
Silence.
Even the drums stopped.
Rurik's face became still.
Not angry.
But heavy.
Like a truth too long buried.
He stared into the heart of the forge.
And whispered,
"We do not tame it."
"We remind it who we are."