High above the wreckage of the Khazad-Dar battlefield, the very fabric of the sky screamed as the resurrection ritual reached its terrifying zenith. The figure emerging from the churning black thundering clouds was not merely a ghost; it was a demonic manifestation of ancient power, a being dragged back from the embrace of oblivion.
The ancient king, Gronak Stone Head, slowly coalesced, his form shaping into that of a colossal dwarf, but one stripped of humanity. His hair, thick and long, was the pure, chilling white of mountain snow, a stark contrast to the bruised, chaotic sky. His eyes were not merely dark; they were pitch black, resembling bottomless, lightless caves—terrifying voids where no known route or salvation could be found. He was a demon forged in the hell of forgotten tyranny.
Jai (Arthur), lying broken in the Medical Annex below, witnessed the phenomenon through a distorted palace window. The catastrophic sight jolted a memory from the recesses of his mind—a line penned by the great sage and Human King, DD, in his esoteric text, The Epoch Walker:
"When the ritual of rebirth is complete, fueled by the sacrifices of many, the reborn shall descend. Their hair shall be white, like the floating snows from the sky to the mountains, and their eyes, pitch black, shall mirror the dark cave where all routes are unknown."
The horrifying accuracy of the prophecy sent a fresh wave of panic through Jai, momentarily overriding the pain. The thing emerging was not a king; it was a resurrected calamity.
Gronak floated down, his enormous silhouette blotting out the sun, his very presence exuding a crushing pressure that heralded the end of an era.
Opposite this horror, high in the air, stood King Borin. He floated effortlessly, an island of calm amid the elemental frenzy. Borin wore only a simple white shirt and black pants, his powerful physique—handsome like his son Zayn, and surprisingly thin for a dwarf—emphasized by the simplicity of his attire. His yellow eyes, piercing and filled with the absolute, indifferent balance of the 18 elements, looked like the golden gaze of the true, natural king. His long, white hair billowed and danced wildly in the colossal winds generated by the thundering clouds.
The space around them—the scene of the final confrontation—was already warping, forming an ephemeral, terrifying graveyard in the air, where dimensions seemed to crackle and weep.
On the decimated battlefield below, Thrain Ironhand was concluding his relentless, bloody charge against the remaining enemy soldiers. Suddenly, the earth beneath him violently trembled not from conventional force, but from a profound magical signature. He heard the deafening, unnatural thunder and felt a familiar, chilling vortex—the signature of the ancient royal lineage.
Thrain looked up. He saw the massive figure descending, the white hair and overwhelming aura instantly triggering a cascade of forgotten, agonizing memories—a psychic backlash that ripped through his consciousness.
Thrain's soul was violently transported back to his childhood village, a forgotten settlement in the distant, barren regions of Khazad-Dar. His family dwelt in the shadow of the peaks, where the Great White Mountains began their relentless climb into the sky. Their home was a solitary wooden structure—small, dark, and utterly simple. The windows, few and narrow, were perpetually open to the mountain breeze, breathing the thin, cold air in and out of the low-ceilinged rooms. For their safety, they possessed but one guardian: a stout, unyielding wooden door, the only barrier between their small lives and the vast, silent wilderness at the mountain's foot.
His family—Venzo Ironhand (his father) and Ancella Ironhand (his mother)—were dirt-poor, working tirelessly on a farm belonging to a cruel landlord. They were so destitute that meat was a luxury consumed only once a year.
His older brother, Terros Ironhand, was their only beacon of hope. Terros, sixteen years old, had defied the odds by awakening two elemental powers (Fire and Water) early—Dwarves typically awaken at fifteen. This rare power allowed him to join a respected local hunting and protection squad, and he was the one who brought home the annual meat feast.
One afternoon, when Thrain was a mere eight-year-old child, playing innocently in their humble home, his father sat exhausted, and his mother cooked the meager meal. A sudden, unexpected knock struck the wooden door. Thinking it was Terros, Thrain excitedly rushed to open it.
Instead of his brother, he saw several grim-faced villagers holding a large wooden box. He called out in confusion for his parents. Venzo and Ancella rushed forward, their eyes widening in horror as they saw the box. Ancella instantly collapsed, her scream choked by shock. Venzo staggered toward the object of their despair.
Inside the box lay the lifeless body of their firstborn, Terros Ironhand.
Venzo collapsed over the box, sobbing uncontrollably. Thrain, eight years old and confused by the torrent of adult grief, tried to climb the edge of the large box. A kind-faced man, Denson Stenson, Terros's close friend from the squad, gently lifted Thrain to look inside.
Thrain saw his older brother's pale, still face. "Hey, what happened to my brother? Why is he sleeping?" Thrain asked, tears welling in Denson's eyes.
"We were attacked by a great bore," Denson replied, his voice cracking. "It struck him first. The attack was too strong. He... he died on the way to the healers. He had one thing he made me promise to tell you: 'Thrain, Mother, Father, please be careful. Make sure Thrain does not die like me—a death without pride, alone and unremembered.'"
Denson then handed Thrain a creased, sealed letter—Terros's final farewell.
The family was devastated. They buried Terros on the slopes of the great, snowy "The Great White" mountain. The light had gone out of the Ironhand home.
Ancella could not cope with the loss. She became mentally ill, withdrawn, and unresponsive. At the age of eight, Thrain was forced to join his father in the backbreaking farm labor to keep the family barely alive.
Three months into his labor, Thrain and Venzo returned home in the evening. As was their custom, Venzo made Thrain wash his hands and legs at the water tap, magically maintained by a weak Water Magic stream. Thrain entered the darkened room and light up the candle and he called his mom but, she didn't respond so he call her again and turn back and froze in shock. His mother, Ancella, lay still. On the wooden table beside the bed, Venzo found a hastily scrawled letter.
The father and son read the agonizing lines: "I can't forget about my old son. I am also going to him. Sorry once again, and please take care of Thrain. GOODBYE! DEAR AND MY YOUNG STAR."
Ancella had committed suicide, cutting her wrist with the kitchen knife.
Venzo buried his beloved wife right beside his son's grave. The tragedy, however, was not yet finished. Sometime later, when Thrain was only ten, his father, Venzo Ironhand, succumbed to a persistent, debilitating illness, dying after a month of suffering. Thrain was left utterly alone, a destitute, orphaned child in a cruel world, all before he even reached the age of awakening his own powers.
"When Thrain was alone and abandoned by fortune, Denson Stenson—his deceased brother's friend—arrived at the threshold of the empty Ironhand dwelling. Denson implored him to come and seek shelter and companionship, but Thrain, hardened by grief and solitude, refused. Denson, tears welling in his eyes, offered a plea that shook Thrain's heart: 'Hey, I also don't have any family and am single. Please, think of me as your brother.'
These simple words pierced the boy's armor of stoicism. Thrain's mind instantly flooded with agonizingly sweet memories of the past, vivid flashes of a time when they were not rich but were undeniably happy. He saw his family gathered on the cold dirt floor, illuminated by the flickering, meager light of a single candle, sharing the simple food lovingly prepared by his mother. The sound of their shared laughter—the easy, genuine sound of his mother, father, and older brother—overwhelmed him, and he finally succumbed to the crushing weight of emotion."
Thrain, his heart heavy yet his posture kingly, accepted the generous offer, finding refuge within the spacious manor. For a span of moons, a fragile peace settled over the two companions. Yet, even amidst the newfound happiness, the ghost of Thrain's old memories, the sorrow of his severed past, clung to him like a shroud of deep shadow.
One evening, as they shared a simple, nourishing meal—Denson noted the vacant gaze of Thrain Thrain's spoon lay untouched; his spirit was clearly adrift in the tides of remembrance.
Denson set down his own bowl, his voice low, imbued with a quiet, hard-won wisdom. "My brother, your mind is far from this table. Perhaps a shared sorrow is a lighter burden. Permit me to offer you the tale of my own origin, a story of cold rejection and painful truth."
Denson then began his devastating confession: "When I was but a sapling, my parents cast me out. They saw not a son, but an inconvenience, a burden upon their path. Through years of hardship, I eventually unearthed the dark truth of my lineage. Then, one day, a messenger from the capital of the Dwarf Kingdom appeared, bearing news of my birth parents."
Driven by an unquenchable fire, Denson undertook the arduous journey, confronting his mother and her new husband. His voice trembled as he recounted the crucial, heart-shattering question: 'Why did you abandon me?'
"Her answer," Denson whispered, "was a blade of ice. 'You were a mistake,' she stated, eyes cold as glacial rock. 'A flaw born of your biological father. I desired no such burden, so I journeyed far to abandon you, believing the harsh lands would ensure your silence. It seems the common folk of this town possessed more compassion than my own blood.'"
The raw finality of the truth nearly shattered Denson's spirit. He inquired about his father, only to learn that the abandonment was his father's vile proposition. Overwhelmed by this betrayal, Denson was immediately seized by the urge to embrace oblivion, to seek finality and peace.
"But it was your brother," Denson finished, his eyes meeting Thrain's, "your true spirit, who anchored me to this world. I clung to him, seeing in him the family like you i think of Terros(Thrain Old Brother) as my own brother, the fraternal bond, that my own blood ruthlessly denied me. He became the reason my life continued."