CHAPITRE 41: THE RED FORGES
THE DWARVES
The blast furnaces roar like ravenous beasts, spewing tongues of fire and thick black smoke that rise to the highest underground domes. Instead of tools for craftsmanship and scaffolding meant to rebuild collapsed galleries, it is weapons that take shape. War axes, crossbows, heavy arquebuses, and dwarven artillery pieces are forged in assembly lines, amidst a deafening metallic clamor.
Artisan and merchant guilds from across the kingdom flock to this new flourishing market, opened under royal directive. King Durmar himself has signed massive production orders, promising wealth, underground concessions, and exclusive rights for new gallery prospecting to those capable of meeting his demands. The atmosphere is fiercely competitive—everyone wants their share of the spoils.
The priority is clear: supply the army. Weapons of war, provisions, medical supplies, and stocks of earth oil to fuel torches and siege machines. It’s an unprecedented mobilization. But not everyone supports this fervor.
In the troglodyte palace of a wealthy dwarf, within a grand hall adorned with pillars carved with ancient runes, Durgil the Sage, also called the Wise, an influential politician and merchant, raises his voice. His robe is lined with silver threads, a symbol of his wealth that overshadows even his conservative alignment. Ironically, despite his opposition, he profits from the situation. As a magnate of earth oil, this wartime economy is swelling his coffers, and he has not hesitated to take part in the royal market.
— “The king pours colossal resources into the forest, but he forgets the reconstruction of the walls, the galleries that shelter our people!” Durgil exclaims, slamming his fist on the massive stone table.
Around him, voices rise. Elders, guild leaders, and notables—all gathered in this informal council to debate the kingdom’s future.
— “This is madness!” shouts a dwarf with a gray beard braided with obsidian stones. “We must convene the council, reason with our king! He’s gone mad…”
— “Mad? No, blinded by ambitions he cannot control,” retorts a sharp-eyed dwarven woman. “He sees the forest as a treasure to conquer, not a threat to manage.”
Durgil nods, pleased to see the anger growing.
— “We must organize a delegation. Not just to talk, but to impose limits. It’s time the king understands that our people’s survival relies on stone, not on reckless expeditions into cursed forests.”
A murmur of approval spreads through the hall. But beneath this indignation lies something deeper: fear. Fear that this brewing conflict with the humans, the inquisitors, and even the dragon will surpass anything the kingdom has known. Fear that war will seep into the deepest tunnels, where even the stone itself may no longer protect them.
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— “It’s his young cousin! Thorvak Bloodrune has planted dangerous ideas in his head… opposing the Inquisition is madness,” murmurs a dwarf disapprovingly, herself a cousin of the king.
Her remark casts a chill over the assembly. The Inquisition always has that effect, but now, with the nation mobilized in a war effort involving them, their very mention has become even more taboo. Everyone here knows Thorvak’s role in all this. By far, he is the most dangerous of the old king’s cousins—not the most ambitious, but the one most capable of seeing his plans through. He’s already secured exclusive initial rights to explore the site of the cataclysm…
Durgil thinks that instead of opposing Thorvak’s insistence, he should have pushed for warrior guilds in which he has interests to also obtain exploration rights. Now it’s too late—the machine is in motion. So, it’s better to undermine the king’s authority, especially Thorvak’s, who increasingly appears to be the new contender for the throne.
Celia, cousin to both King Durmar and Thorvak, is an important figure for Durgil. It's her that just blamed her cousin, her that sent a chill mentioning inquisitors. The magnate fully intends to use her to satisfy his thirst for wealth and power—she would make an easily controllable puppet.
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THORVAK
The day has been long, the night even longer. After the audience—first with the council, then face-to-face with the king, and again with the council—it was decided that the kingdom would mobilize, that it would not let the Inquisition decide the fate of the Fissure Forest once more. It is unacceptable for our people to be trampled by an order for whom the forest is just an adjacent territory, more under our jurisdiction than any other power’s.
But beyond the words, what I truly saw in my cousin’s eyes—the king’s eyes—was greed. The greed to slay the dragon and turn it into a millennial legacy—the desire for vengeance, to kill the demons of his past, demons his father and ancestors nurtured through oral terrors about the Inquisition. He wants to prove himself superior, that the dwarven people are stronger, prouder of their runes.
As for me, I want money, recognition, and above all, power. And the love of my wife, though I believe I already have it. The battle is fierce—not the one against the Inquisition; that hasn’t even begun, and perhaps our show of force alone will suffice. No, the real battle for me is the one for the old king’s legacy. His throne longs for new leadership, his kingdom for a new mind, and I long for a country to lead.
Bran, ever energetic and admittedly exhausting, interrupts my megalomaniacal thoughts, nearly yanking a handful of hair from my red beard.
— “Boss, I heard Hildas’ group has arrived…”
Perfect. For now, the dragon is ours. Ours alone. And though the forges are running at full capacity, merchants flooding into the capital mere hours after the announcement—for now, I hold the monopoly on the dragon.
It’s a trump card, the most valuable one imaginable. But I need to play it. And soon.
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ADMIRAL OR ALBION
This man is strange; he clearly doesn’t speak my language. I almost want to touch his face, now so close to mine, because he’s so different from what I know, from what I’m used to. Yes, he’s human—that much is certain. I see it in his eyes, in the pores of his skin, in the way his beard and growing mustache are rooted.
It’s obvious he hasn’t shaved in several days. We don’t understand each other, yet we both widen our eyes, staring. A strange scene, one that doesn’t seem to bother those around us—humans, elves, or even our captors. Despite our common traits, he remains so different. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what's wrong, what feels off. Maybe it's more of a sensation than anything tangible—but it's there, deep in my gut.
Who could he be?