ALBION (HUMAN)

Our boots sink into the forest floor, a thick humus made almost acidic by the towering conifers. The ground here is a sort of podzol, damp and spongy underfoot. These trees—so tall their crowns vanish into the darkness of the night sky—would make excellent planks, I think absently. But the oppressive silence of the woods gnaws at me. It isn’t just the thirty-odd adventurers trudging behind me; there’s something else out here. I feel eyes watching us, humanoid forms darting between trunks, their shadows eerily illuminated by faint glimmers of light. I shake my head. The night is playing tricks on me.

Then my mind flashes back to the debris field. The twisted shapes I glimpsed there—arms, maybe legs—those fragments had seemed oddly familiar. What if there really is some kind of metallic race? Creatures of mineral or metal? There are stories of such beings far to the east, in the volcanic deserts where the oligarchies wage endless wars. But what would they be doing here? Could these demons command metallic machines, siege engines capable of soaring through the skies and crashing down into this land?

"You feel it too?" Lyrel murmurs beside me, breaking my thoughts. Her voice is low but tense, and I notice her sharp elven ears almost glowing faintly in the moonlit woods.

I meet her gaze, exhaling heavily as we clamber over another tangle of roots and undergrowth. "Yeah... I feel like—like I’m seeing things. Maybe I shouldn’t have drunk so much, or maybe I should’ve slept more..."

Groboln and another man stifle laughter behind us. It’s only my tenuous authority over this ragtag group that keeps them from laughing outright. Still, I shoot them a glare that makes Groboln grin mischievously.

"No, really," Lyrel continues, her voice steadier now. "I think we’re being watched. Could it be the dwarves?"

"The dwarves?" I reply, my voice tinged with frustration. "They confront us when we’re three hundred strong but just watch when there are thirty of us?" My irritation makes me speak louder than I intended.

Lyrel flinches slightly, her expression hurt. "Don’t yell at me," she snaps back.

This midnight venture is fraying my nerves. Damn it all.

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THORVAK (DWARF)

The tunnels are the same as always, save for the sprawling scaffolding and temporary installations still strewn throughout. The oil lamps burn steadily, day and night, casting their warm glow over the stone walls. Down here, we’ve all but lost our sense of time. I find myself fixated on the flickering flames, wondering idly if, without this oil, we’d lose our sight entirely, like those albino fish that swim in the isolated pools of the deep. Or worse, like the creatures from below—those vile abominations.

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Yes, all things considered, I much prefer the world above. Even with its monstrous dragons and insufferable humans, it feels... alive. My speech forms in my mind as I walk: a strong appeal to the council, highlighting the resources of the forest, the necessity of protecting the dragon (without revealing its great weakness), and most importantly, recounting the sheer insolence of the humans and Inquisitors who dared to insult our king and people. Even Bran, marching beside me, is barely able to contain his excitement despite the long, grueling day. Maybe I'll just go with telling them how insulted we were ?

The small door creaks open, leading us into one of the side room of the royal hall. There’s no grand public audience today—just a crisis meeting in an oval room. I am the center of attention, as planned. Ten years ago, I was just a brash youth, known only for the illustrious runes inherited from my bloodline and my distant connection to the royal family. Now, I stand as a prominent voice before the council, a rising leader with a guild poised to become the most influential in the realm.

"Thorvak Bloodrune, son of Sismar, you’ve returned safely from the surface. What do you have to report to your people and your king?" calls a herald.

I stride to the center of the room, placing myself directly on the table, sweeping aside their petty game pieces and useless maps. A few indignant murmurs ripple through the chamber. Soon, they’ll turn to cries and shouts.

"Dwarves of the Fissure Kingdom. King Durmar!" I declare, locking eyes with the sovereign. "Hear me today, for our honor, our dignity... and worse, our sovereignty has been directly threatened! Let those cowards who wish to cower like worms rise and proclaim their shame. Let those with so little pride they would endure insults—by humans, no less—stand before us now!"

My indignation spreads like wildfire. The room erupts into heated exchanges. Only one figure remains calm amid the chaos: Durmar himself. He watches me with an unnerving serenity, like an unshakable ship in the midst of a tsunami.

"Enough theatrics, Thorvak. You impress no one," says some red hair dwarf.

"WHO?" Bellows another, turning sharply toward me. "Who dares insult the dwarves?"

I smile faintly, looking away from the king and letting the chaos boil over. Some council members seem ready to call for war. I nod to Bran. He steps forward and roars louder than them all, his thunderous voice amplified by the crackling lightning of his runes. Normally, such a display of energy in the royal chambers would be considered a grave affront, but no one dares rebuke him.

"Thorvak is RIGHT. The HUMANS, the INQUISITION!" Even the boldest and most stubborn members of the council murmur in uneasy agreement. "They INSULT our entire people!" He spits on the ground with force. "They want the forest for themselves. May the stone collapse around me if I lie—they want the dragon, the cliffs, and even our fissures where the grains that feed our mouths grow! They swore they would return... FOR WAR! WILL WE LET THE DRAGON DIE? WILL WE CONTINUE TO HIDE WHILE THE EARTH-OIL RUNS DRY, AND THE LIGHTS FADE OUT FOREVER?!"

The council descends into pandemonium. Dwarves scream, some brawl, others tug at their beards in frustration. I remain standing on the table, the eye of this storm. Bran, however, receives a punch to the face from one of Durgil the Sage’s lackeys. Durgil, that miser who controls much of the precious oil that keeps us alive. But it’s too late—the balance of power has shifted, and for this fleeting moment, I am king.