The dwarf grabs her arm, forcing her to stand. Still in shock, Valerie lets him guide her toward where Marion lay unconscious on the floor.
- You have my sincere gra—
As Valerie began to speak, the dwarf clasped the chains back around her wrists.
- ...titude... sir, you must tell me what this was all about!
You shatter the chains just to chain me again?!
Why not simply unlock them and give me some slack so I could reach her? She was just a couple of meters away!
- Couldn't find the key.
- It is right there! Hanging on your belt...
- I'm a blacksmith. I forge weapons — good ones. Blades sharp enough to cut through anything.
- Yes, sir. And yet you seem to be lacking common sense. You took thirty minutes for what could've been done in less than thirty seconds.
The dwarf let out a low grunt — not quite annoyance, not quite amusement. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't rise to her words. Instead, he adjusted the axe on his shoulder and turned his gaze away, as if the wall suddenly demanded his full attention. The silent lasts one or two seconds before he mutter under his breath, the admission gruff but honest.
- Hmph. Should've been faster.
Valerie blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, she almost felt guilty for her tone.
- So you, sir, do agree, then?
- Not the key. The craft was slow — I should've finished sooner.
He tugged the chain slightly to test its strength, then nodded to himself with faint, professional satisfaction.
- It was slow, but it holds well. That's what matters.
Valerie watches him in silence for a humble second, her tone soft when she finally speaks.
- I suppose it does... though I would have preferred the strength be used for something other than holding people down.
The dwarf gives her a sidelong glance — not angry, just unreadable — and walks toward the forge's glow again.
As Valerie checks on Marion, a bucket of water and a towel is quietly set beside her. She offers a faint, grateful smile, but the dwarf's attention remains fixed elsewhere.
Gently, Valerie begins cleaning Marion's face. Relief floods her: Marion doesn't seem as hurt as she had feared. Her clothes, made of worn leather, are cheap and patched, laced with little cords crossing her chest. As Valerie starts loosening the top of Marion's tunic to clean her, Marion stirs, blinking into awareness.
- What a nice surprise... I wasn't expecting this from you, little naive butterfly—or should I say, naughty one?
Marion smirks, her teasing lightening the tension despite the situation. Valerie looks flustered for a moment before regaining her composure.
- Oh... you're awake, my lady.
I was growing concerned for your state.
Please, try not to move too much... How does it feel?
- With such a soft pillow, I have no intention of moving just yet.
Marion keeps her playful smile, as if it were her finest attire. Her head rests against Valerie's thighs, her leather top shifting slightly. Valerie's gaze quickly averts, discomfort flickering across her face.
- P-please... refrain from making improper remarks, my lady.
- Marion, love. Surely we've been introduced before. Why do you speak so stiffly? I wish we could be closer.
- M-my name is Valerie. I do not require nicknames, Lady Marion.
The dwarf's deep voice cut through the moment, shifting the atmosphere.
- Never met an elf so... bold.
Valerie looks at Marion, perplexed. She had noticed her unusual appearance before, but she had thought elves were merely a myth.
Valerie had read about elves countless times in the ancient tomes lining her family's library. They moved like the wind over sun-dappled leaves... graceful, untouchable, and impossibly delicate. Their ears were slender, sharply pointed, almost translucent in the torchlight, like finely carved crystal kissed by dawn. Hair flowed like woven strands of spring leaves or golden wheat, catching the light in subtle glimmers; while their eyes, golden as autumn sun or the purest blue of a summer sky, held a calm, unyielding intelligence.
Elves were tall, their figures lean yet athletic. The women carried a rare, breathtaking combination: generous, firm curves softened by supple elegance; breasts and hips sculpted in perfect harmony with long, lithe limbs, every movement a whisper of strength and grace. The men were wiry but defined, their muscles taut and precise, exuding endurance and quiet power.
It was written that every step, every glance, seemed a symphony of controlled elegance, and Valerie remembered her mother's words, whispered late at night beside the fireplace: "They are magnificent, yes, but cold. Aloof. Their beauty is a shield, and they grant warmth only to those who earn it. Do not expect mercy where pride reigns."
Valerie stares at the woman laying across her lap. Her eyes glimmer golden like autumn sun, her hair darker, more like the deep green of winter leaves. Tentatively, her hand reaches for Marion's loose dark green hair, stroking it gently before revealing one of her ears. A jagged scar cut across the top, painful-looking, despite her otherwise human-like shape.
Marion flinches, her abdomen tightening as if struck again.
- Aack—
- Be careful, Lady Marion...
Her teasing tone vanishes.
- I'm a half-blood... half elf, half human.
- That does not change the fact that you're injured. We must tend to your wounds.
For a moment, Marion's eyes meet hers... pride or shame flickering behind the gold... then she looks away.
Valerie helps her remove the leather top. The dwarf watches from his seat, unmoving.
- Sir, would you mind, please?
A grunt. He turns his chair aside, closing his eyes, but his hand remains on the axe.
- We won't run away. We only ask for some privacy, sir.
Another grunt, heavier this time, followed by a sigh. He nods once.
They work in silence.
- S-sir... could you please tell me what you intend to do with us?
A low rumble answers.
Valerie frowns, quietly returning to her task.
Half an hour passes. The dwarf snores softly, his arm hanging over the axe handle. The weapon slips, barrels roll, a shovel jumps, and jars crash from a shelf.
- Sir! Be careful!
He jolts awake, barely dodging the falling jars.
- T–thank you...
- Oh, you don't need to thank me, sir. Are you hurt?
- What's wrong with you??
If he'd been knocked out, we might've escaped!
- I could not let him get injured, Lady Marion. He has shown us restraint.
Valerie was still grateful to him for stopping the enraged dwarf from before.
The dwarf watches her, confused. A faint drip echoes.
- Your arm is bleeding. Please, let me tend to it.
He hesitates, then steps closer. Valerie dips a cloth in water, cleaning the wound with calm precision.
- You're patching up the enemy now?
- He hasn't been cruel. Perhaps he's only obeying orders. Dwarves have hierarchies too. And if we're still alive, there must be a reason. Isn't that true, sir?
- ...Baliot.
- Sorry...?
- My name. Baliot.
Her expression softens.
- It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Baliot.
Marion blinks, incredulous. Valerie offering kindness again... to no one other than their captor.
Valerie had read about dwarves too, though never in as much detail as the elves. They were a solid, enduring race: short, compact, and robust, their torsos and shoulders broad as if carved from stone, while their legs, though strong, seemed almost delicate in contrast. Arms thick with muscle swung hammers and axes with ease, carrying centuries of tradition in each motion. Their skin was often weathered, hands calloused from endless labor, eyes dark or sharp, reflecting both cunning and suspicion.
Dwarves were known for their gruff temper, their humor as black as the coal of their forges. The older they grew, the more their anger was tempered by experience, yet the young ones—impetuous and fiery—could be consumed by fits of rage over the smallest insult or mistake. Pride was not a veneer; it was a shield, a test for outsiders.
Valerie's mother had whispered to her once, beside the hearth, "Dwarves are loyal, child, but only to those who show strength of heart, respect, and honor. Earn it, and you will gain allies unshakable as stone. Fail, and their temper will crush you."
Every dwarf she had imagined was a living testament to resilience and discipline, their fury and fidelity two sides of the same iron coin. Valerie is pulled away from her thoughts by a deep voice.
- Our women left. They want no part in the war between dwarves and humans.
- That must be difficult.
But if they reject war, why persist in fighting?
- Humans are not kind either. They call us big-nosed children. They steal our boots.
- Well, they're not wrong.
Baliot lowers his gaze hearing Marion's comment. Feeling his unease, Valerie reacts quickly.
- Wait—Mr. Baliot, she didn't mean—
- VALERIE!
Startled, she rises too fast. The chains pull her down with a sharp clang. Baliot moves instantly, catching her.
- Thank you, Mr. Baliot.
- Valerie! Are you all right?! Get your filthy hands off her, you stubby freak!
- I'm fine. Mr. Baliot was only helping.
- Helping?! He chained us! Are all noble ladies this hopelessly polite?!
- Lady Marion, please. Anger clouds judgment. Mr. Baliot's been nothing but gentle. Perhaps you could learn from his restraint.
Baliot blinks, uncertain, and turns away to fetch something.
Heavy steps echo above. The low rumble of boots vibrates through the stone floor, each thud carrying weight and authority. Dust drifts from the ceiling, scattering in the torchlight like falling ash.
Baliot released the girls and led the way upstairs. The dark, narrow stairwell made Valerie tremble. Gray bricks lined the walls, cracked and worn, as if the whole structure could crumble at any moment. The air was thick and rough, carrying a nauseating mix of dust, smoke, and something she couldn't quite identify.
Each step made her legs quiver more. The groan of the stairs under their weight echoed through the space, blending with distant cries. Reaching the floor above, the sound intensified. Screams tore through the halls, mingled with the grunts and shouts of men... some calling for fallen comrades, others in panic. It was a symphony of chaos, as though a massacre were unfolding just beyond their reach.
Valerie swallowed hard, gripping the railing, her mind flashing back to the nights she had spent silently listening to her father's punishments... and she knew, with a chilling certainty, that she could not look away this time.
Four years ago... Past
The sleepy girl opened her eyes slowly. The room was dark—dark enough to make the shadows hide, yet somehow as loud as when they roamed freely. She sat up on the bed instinctively, afraid of whose screams tore through the night... and of who—or what—might be behind them.
Her father's voice echoed faintly from the corridor, each word a tremor that urged the little princess to rise and follow her fear. Her bare feet brushed the cold, polished floor. Step by step, tracing a dangerous path into the dark.
Here and there, the faint glow of half-burnt candles flickered, lit by the servants long ago. The tall white walls stretched like an endless labyrinth: rigid, cold, and painfully familiar. A map etched into the child's mind. She followed the dreadful cries that made even the scent of lavender turn nauseous.
Step by step, tracing a dangerous path into the dark... she left safety behind.
She peeked down the stairs leading to the underground prison. The sounds echoed even louder below, bouncing off the stone walls in endless waves. The princess felt the rough, dusty air gently scratch her face, and for a moment, hesitation dimmed the curious light in her eyes.
But a thirteen-year-old's curiosity, and her lack of survival instinct, couldn't be tamed that easily.
She went down.
Step by step.
Her father's voice grew clearer now: "How dare you lie to me?!"
As she descended, the lavender scent was replaced by the stale dampness of stone and mold. Her small foot caught in her nightdress, and before she could react, she fell... hard. Her knees hit the stone with a dull crack, scraping raw against the rough surface. A thin trickle of blood began to slide down her shins, unnoticed. She bit her lip, forcing back a cry. Her legs trembled, but she stood again. The voices were closer now... and she kept walking. Step by step, tracing a dangerous path into the dark.
The corridor opened into a vast chamber faintly lit by torches. Valerie froze behind the corner, her small hands clutching the cold stone wall. The scent of smoke and sweat filled the air. Chains clinked somewhere ahead. Her father stood in the center, his cloak drawn back, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. A man knelt before him: torn clothes, trembling shoulders, blood dripping from his lip. The guards flanked him, their boots firm against the gray though stone. Valerie just watched quietly as the man was tortured.