In the dwarven hall of the Stonemasons Clan, the lava pools reflected a crimson glow in the banquet hall, and the fat from roasted ibex dripped onto the embers, sizzling and filling the air with its aroma.
Imar held up a jewel-encrusted goblet and personally filled Abar's glass with the fine wine. In the amber liquid, star-like mineral powders shimmered, making the wine look incredibly mysterious.
"For the health of the Great Chieftain!" The dwarf chieftain raised his wine cup, his copper belt jingling from the deep bow.
"I have witnessed the friendship between orcs and dwarves!" Abar ripped open the human-style cloak, revealing a brand-new star-iron breastplate underneath, a fine piece that the Stonemasons Clan had just presented as tribute last month.
He took the horn from the dwarf chieftain, tilted his head back, and gulped it down.
"Delicious! But to be honest, your dwarven wine is a little weak compared to ours on the plains!" The orc chieftain's laughter seemed to shake the nearby stone walls.
He casually tore off a leg of the roasted ibex and took a big bite, the grease dripping from between his fingers onto the silk tablecloth.
Imar rubbed his hands together, his brass ring gleaming in the lava firelight, just like his anxious heart.
"I heard that the harvest of frost wolf pelts on the grasslands is particularly bountiful this year..." He lowered his voice just right, "In order to support our orc friends' campaign, our miners are working in the freezing cold and need some cold-weather supplies."
Abar's one eye suddenly narrowed, and the half-eaten lamb leg stopped at his mouth. The entire banquet hall fell silent instantly, with only the crackling of the torches.
"You want to trade?" The chieftain of the royal tent slowly put down the bones, his oil-stained hands reaching for the skinning knife at his waist. "Sure, if you hand over another 50% of the original weapons, we'll exchange them for an equivalent amount of wolf pelts!"
"Great Chieftain, you can't say that!" Imar felt like he'd been hit on the head. "The armaments we've built for the Royal Tent over the past few years could arm a formidable army anywhere, and those… were practically given away for free! Considering the enormous contributions of our Stonemason Clan, can't the Royal Tent give its friends a small return gift?"
"A small return gift?" Abar's eyes widened, his tone suddenly becoming more serious. "You clearly just want a free lunch!"
The dwarf waiter beside him was so startled that he knocked over the wine jug, and the deep red wine spread across the stone floor.
Imar broke out in a cold sweat; he hadn't expected Abar to be so disrespectful to his friend.
"Of course not!" The dwarf chieftain clapped his hands with a dry laugh. "How could this be a free lunch? The weapons we forged for the royal tent are enough to arm a powerful army. To ensure timely supply, several mines have been depleted! By our ancestors' grace, we even melted down the altar's candlesticks to forge arrows..."
Abar suddenly sprang to his feet, slamming his massive hand down on the stone table. "If I remember correctly, this is clearly your duty. Don't forget what you promised us before the grassland warriors helped you reclaim your chieftainship!"
The orc chieftain's eyes flashed with a fierce light, his aura intimidating. "In the traditions of our grasslands, those who break their promises will be severely punished!"
Imar shrank back. "Ah! Of course I haven't forgotten my promise, great Chief Abar!"
But at this moment, the orc chieftain burst into thunderous laughter: "However, I am a benevolent chieftain and an understanding friend. The Stonemason Clan has indeed provided us with great assistance. Since you wish to obtain Frostwolf pelts, I can allocate a batch from this year's harvest to the Stonemason Clan."
He plopped down in his seat again and said in a muffled voice, "But this year's arms shipments really do need to be increased by 20%!"
Although the chieftain had lowered his offer by 20%, Imar remained noncommittal, and the hall became noisy again, with neither side seemingly willing to continue the discussion.
When the banquet ended, Abar left drunk, while Imar was stopped by two guards from the White Wolf Clan as he was leaving.
"The Great Chieftain wishes to meet with you alone!"
Imar's heart tightened. "I have something else to take care of. I'll see the Great Chief later."
Abal's personal guard nodded. "Yes, but please do it as soon as possible!"
...
Two hours later, the door to the stone chamber slammed shut behind Imar, and the animal hide curtain blocked out the light from the lava pool. Abar's armor hung on the stone wall, gleaming coldly under the eerie blue glowstone lamp.
"Sit." The orc chieftain pointed to the low stool in front of him, so high that the dwarves had to look up at him.
Imar's fingers fidgeted nervously on her knees. "What did you call me here for?"
"Imar!" Abar smiled knowingly, then suddenly leaned down, the bloodshot veins in his single eye spreading like a spiderweb. "Have you heard something?"
His rough fingers tapped on the stone table, each tap causing the bronze cup on the table to tremble slightly.
The dwarf chieftain paused for a moment, then, under the other's stern gaze, his Adam's apple bobbed: "There are indeed some rumors..."
"Are you referring to my defeat?" Abar slammed his hand on the table, causing Imar's bronze cup to tip over, the liquid snaking across the stone table in a serpentine pattern.
"This...this..." The dwarf chieftain stammered, unsure how to respond.
"Alright, I admit I've failed! But so what if I've failed?" Abar suddenly laughed, grabbed the wine jar, and took a big gulp.
"In the process of unifying the grasslands, I have suffered countless defeats! I have suffered the humiliation of seven defeats alone when facing the Grayhoof tribe!"
He tore open his breastplate, revealing a crisscrossing network of scars beneath. "But now, the warrior from the Greyhoof tribe is one of my most loyal and valiant soldiers!"
The orc chieftain said confidently, "The Aldor Kingdom is nothing more than another Greyhoof tribe! Sooner or later, they will submit to the royal court just like the other tribes on the plains!"
The dwarf chieftain forced a smile: "Great Chieftain, you jest. I'm just worried about the clan's supplies... they are indeed running low!"
"Supplies?" The orc chieftain suddenly lowered his voice, a strong smell of alcohol hitting Imar's face. "When I return to Aldor, all the iron mines there will be yours!"
His fingernails scratched deep marks on the stone table. "But now—you must continue to support me without reservation, so that I can fight without distraction!"
Imar's palms were sweaty as he kept an eye on the steel dagger tucked in his boot, hoping it wouldn't be spotted by the sharp-eyed orc before him.
The dwarf chieftain's courage fluctuated wildly. Before meeting Abar, under the influence of alcohol, he felt he should take a gamble, but upon actually seeing Abar, he immediately sobered up.
"Remember!" The orc chieftain finally released his hand from the table and instead placed it on Imar's shoulder. "No matter how strong the snowstorm is, it won't freeze the white wolf to death."