The council's decision was final—they would not send scouts into the dense forests of the south. The unknown dangers, combined with the recent ambush by the invaders, made it too risky.

Instead, they turned their focus to fortifying the south gate, ensuring that if the invaders returned, they would not break through so easily.

"Reinforce the walls," Miran instructed. "Make them thicker, stronger. Use the knowledge of earth magic to bind the stones together."

The Ashelians and Elves worked together, using wooden beams and large stone slabs, carefully placed without the need for nails, just like the traditional joints used in ancient craftsmanship.

While fortifications would protect the city, the elders knew that walls alone would not be enough. The people needed better weapons.

Edros, studying one of their wooden spears, gritted his teeth.

"These break too easily in battle."

"We must improve them," Althea said. "If we cannot yet forge metal, then we must find another way."

1. Reinforced Wooden Spears – Strengthened with layers of hardened tree sap and fire-treated wood to make them more durable.

2. Stone-Tipped Spears and Arrows – Sharpened stone attached with strong fiber and resin, making them deadlier.

3. Heavier Wooden Clubs – Designed to break through enemy defenses with sheer force.

4. Bow and Arrows – Light but deadly from a distance, crafted using the strongest wood available.

The Elves contributed their knowledge of woodcraft, showing the Ashelians how to create bows that could shoot farther and faster.

Rhaelor, overseeing the effort, turned to Vaelora. "Your people are skilled in the way of the forests. Can you teach us how to fight like you?"

Vaelora nodded. "If we are to survive together, then yes—we shall teach you our ways."

The sounds of construction and training echoed across Ashelia.

Walls rose higher, reinforced with magic.

Weapon crafting became an urgent priority.

The Elves and Ashelians trained together, preparing for the battles that would one day come.

The elders watched in silence, knowing that this was only the beginning.

Weeks had passed, and the once-wounded elves had fully recovered. Their town, nestled within Ashelia, continued to grow. More homes were built, and the elves adapted to their new life within the city's walls.

On a quiet afternoon, in a house built with traditional elven craftsmanship, Vaelora's father finally opened his eyes.

Vaelora gasped, rushing to his side. "Father! You're awake!"

The Chief groaned as he tried to sit up. His body was still weak from weeks of unconsciousness. He looked at his daughter, then around the room, noticing the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Where... are we?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

Vaelora smiled. "We are safe, Father. The Ashelians have given us a home."

Later that evening, the Chief asked to see Rhaelor.

When Rhaelor arrived, he bowed slightly, respecting the Chief's position.

"You protected my people," the Chief said, his voice still weak. "For that, I am grateful."

"It was my duty," Rhaelor replied humbly. "Your people are under Ashelia's protection now."

Vaelora stood nearby, watching the two speak. Before Rhaelor could excuse himself, she placed a hand on his arm. "Stay for a while," she said softly.

Rhaelor hesitated but eventually nodded, sitting near the bed.

Their conversation was simple, filled with short exchanges. But in between their words were stolen glances, faint smiles, and the occasional blush.

The Chief watched them closely, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

Once Rhaelor left, the Chief turned to his daughter.

"Tell me, Vaelora," he began. "What do you think of that boy?"

Vaelora's face turned red. "W-We're just friends, Father!"

The Chief arched a brow, unimpressed. "Just friends? You act as if your hearts don't race when you're near each other."

Vaelora looked away, flustered.

The Chief let out a deep sigh. "I made a promise to your mother," he said, his tone softer. "That I would not give your hand to anyone unless they proved themselves worthy."

Vaelora nodded. "I understand, Father."

Before the Chief could say more, Vaelora suddenly remembered the scroll.

"Father, there's something you must know!" she said, pulling the ancient parchment from a wooden chest.

She explained everything—the Architect's words, their true origin, and how they were once born from a sacred tree named Yggdrasil.

The Chief's face darkened. "So... Yggdrasil truly was our source."

"You knew of it?" Vaelora asked in shock.

The Chief nodded. "Long ago, when I was a boy, our elders spoke of a great tree that once stood in our homeland. But... one day, it vanished without a trace."

Vaelora's eyes widened. "Then that means our past was never truly forgotten..."

The Chief clenched his fist. "If Yggdrasil was taken from us... then we must uncover the truth of its disappearance."

North of Ashelia, past the city's unfinished walls, lay a vast plain and a sparse forest. The trees were not dense, allowing sunlight to filter through easily. The land was quiet, save for the occasional rustling in the bushes.

Yet, hidden among the foliage, small figures moved cautiously.

They peered through the leaves, their eyes widening as they gazed upon the towering stone walls of Ashelia. Guards patrolled the perimeter, while others worked tirelessly to complete the construction. Soldiers trained in the distance, wielding wooden weapons in preparation for the future.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

But something else caught their attention.

Among the people of Ashelia, they saw them.

"Elves!?" one of the figures whispered.

Another murmured, "It's the elves... They survived?"

The group exchanged uneasy glances.

"They're living together with humans?"

"It looks like they're in good terms with each other."

"...What do we do?"

Silence.

Then, one among them spoke with determination.

"We'll ask for their help."

And so, the figures stepped forward, leaving the cover of the forest. As they moved into the open plains, the sun revealed their short but sturdy frames, their broad shoulders, and their thick beards—each one a sign of their ancient lineage.

They were dwarves.

At the northern gate, an Ashelian guard stood watch, scanning the horizon. He saw movement in the distance—a small group approaching from the plains.

At first, he gripped his spear tightly, his instincts urging caution. But as he observed their movements, he sensed no hostility.

Still, he signaled to the others. More guards took position, ready but not aggressive.

Among them stood an elven warrior, one of the many who had sworn loyalty to Ashelia.

When his eyes landed on the newcomers, he froze.

"...Dwarves?" he muttered under his breath.

The others turned to him, curious about his reaction.

"You know them?" an Ashelian soldier asked.

The elf nodded. "They are no enemies of ours. If they have come this far, then they seek aid, not war."

With that, he stepped forward and spoke to the guards.

"Lower your weapons. Let them through."

As the dwarves approached the northern gate, they slowed their pace, seeing that the Ashelian guards were on alert. However, when the elven warrior stepped forward and signaled for the guards to lower their weapons, the tension eased.

One of the dwarves, broad-shouldered and with a thick silver beard, stepped ahead of his kin. He wore a simple yet well-crafted tunic, fastened with a belt that held various small tools. Unlike the elves, whose beauty was ethereal and graceful, the dwarves carried a rugged and sturdy presence.

The dwarf cleared his throat and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice.

"We come in peace, humans and elves alike." He placed a firm hand over his chest as a sign of respect. "I am Grumli, son of Doram, of the Ironhearth Clan."

Behind him, the other dwarves did the same, tapping their fists to their chests.

"We are travelers," Grumli continued. "But we've come seeking answers... and perhaps, an alliance."

His gaze shifted to the elves among them, his brows furrowing slightly.

"It's been many years since we last saw elves. We thought your people were lost."

One of the elves, a tall warrior named Sylvarin, stepped forward. His silver hair fell over his shoulders, and his sharp emerald eyes studied the dwarves carefully.

"We thought the same of your kind," Sylvarin responded. "Where have your people been all this time?"

Grumli sighed. "Scattered. Hiding. Digging underground, where the surface dwellers wouldn't find us."

He crossed his arms and looked around the city's entrance.

"But you... you live among humans. A city of stone, a city in the making. Tell me, is this a place of unity or just another kingdom in the making?"

The elves and Ashelians exchanged glances. Before anyone could respond, Rhaelor arrived, having been informed of the dwarves' arrival.

He stepped past the guards and addressed Grumli directly.

"This is Ashelia. We are no mere kingdom. We are a people bound by more than just blood—we are bound by choice."

Grumli raised an eyebrow at his words, intrigued.

"...Then perhaps, we've come to the right place."

Rhaelor led the dwarves through the streets of Ashelia, their arrival drawing attention from the people. The Ashelians, having only recently come to accept elves, were astonished to see another new race walking among them. Some whispered among themselves, others simply stared in awe.

The elves, however, recognized their old kin. Though they had not seen the dwarves in a long time, the memories of their existence remained. The dwarves, in turn, recognized them as well.

Grumli and his companions took in the sight of the city—the stone roads, the wooden structures, the organized districts. Though still unfinished, it was a sign of progress, something that fascinated them.

"A city built by human hands... I never thought I'd live to see the day," one of the dwarves muttered under his breath.

Rhaelor led them straight to the council room, where the elders of both the Ashelians and elves gathered once more.

As the dwarves settled inside the council room, Grumli stood before the elders and bowed deeply.

"We come not just as wanderers, but as exiles. Our people—our clans—have been taken from us."

The room fell silent. The elders listened intently.

Grumli took a deep breath before continuing.

"The ones who took our homes were men—not like you, but humans who speak in tongues unfamiliar to us."

He clenched his fists.

"They sought our knowledge of metalwork. They wanted us to forge weapons of war for them, tools of conquest and bloodshed."

Grumli's face darkened.

"But we are not smiths of death. Our craft is our pride. We create to build, not to destroy."

The elves nodded solemnly, understanding the dwarves' refusal.

Another dwarf, a younger one named Borik, spoke up.

"When we refused, they enslaved us. Many of our kin were shackled and forced to work against their will. Some broke free and fled to the mountains, where they now hide. Others..." He swallowed hard. "...chose death rather than betray their craft."

A heavy silence filled the room. The Ashelian elders exchanged glances, while the elves looked at one another with sorrow.

Grumli's gaze hardened as he looked directly at Rhaelor and the elders.

"We ask for your help. Help us free our kin, and in return, we shall offer you our knowledge—the secrets of metalwork. With our skill, your city will no longer be bound to wood and stone alone. We will teach you how to forge weapons and tools, stronger than any seen before."

The offer was tempting. The Ashelians had yet to master metalwork, and the dwarves' knowledge could elevate their civilization.

But war was not something to be taken lightly.

Rhaelor and the elders sat in deep thought. Was this the right time to engage in battle?

After a long pause, Rhaelor spoke.

"Where are your people now?"

Grumli's expression was grim.

"Hiding in the deepest mountains to the west. Waiting. Hoping."

He then knelt before them.

"I do not kneel easily, but for my people, I will humble myself. Will you aid us?"

With the elders' approval, the rescue mission was set. By tomorrow, the strongest warriors of Ashelia would march west, with Rhaelor among them.

That night, he returned to the elven town, guiding the dwarves to an empty house where they could rest. But before they could settle in, a familiar voice called out from behind.

"Hah! So you thick-headed fools are still alive?"

The dwarves turned sharply, and their expressions shifted—from confusion to grins filled with mockery.

"Look who's talking! I thought you pointy-ears would've wilted away by now!"

Laughter erupted as the elves and dwarves exchanged sharp words, their insults laced with warmth.

Rhaelor, watching from the side, tensed. He had no idea what was happening, and to him, it sounded like they were on the verge of fighting.

Before he could step in, Vaelora placed a hand on his arm and shook her head.

"It's just how they greet each other," she whispered, hiding her embarrassment. "It's... old tradition. We're all used to it."

Rhaelor blinked, bewildered. To him, it looked anything but friendly. But seeing their laughter, their slaps on the back, and their joy in reuniting, he understood.

Leaving the dwarves to their reunion, Rhaelor and Vaelora walked together through the town, heading toward her home. The night was quiet, but Vaelora's heart was restless.

Inside, as she set out warm herbal tea, Rhaelor finally spoke.

"Tomorrow, I'll be going with them."

Vaelora froze. The cup in her hands trembled slightly, and she turned to look at him, her usual composure shaken.

"You're going to war?"

Rhaelor nodded. "I have to. The dwarves need us, and I won't stand aside while their people remain in chains."

Vaelora clenched her hands into fists. She wanted to tell him not to go. But deep down, she already knew—this was who he was. A warrior. A leader.

She bit her lip, her heart warring with itself. "You don't have to do this," she finally said, her voice softer now.

Rhaelor reached out, placing a hand over hers. "I do. If I am to protect this city, this land, and the people within it, then I cannot be afraid to fight for what is right."

Vaelora lowered her gaze. She could see his resolve—he had already made up his mind.

"My father and grandfather told me to never fear death," Rhaelor continued. "And I won't. But I promise, I will return."

Vaelora swallowed hard. "You better," she whispered.

For the first time, she realized just how much he meant to her.

The night was deep, and Ashelia rested in silence. The guards rotated their watch, patrolling the unfinished walls while the city lay in slumber.

But in the quiet of his unfinished home, Rhaelor knelt—his hands clasped together, his forehead touching the cool wooden floor. The flickering candle beside him cast long shadows against the walls.

"My Lord, My Master... your servant asks for your guidance," Rhaelor prayed, his voice steady but filled with conviction.

"Tomorrow, I march into battle to save the dwarves. Please, grant me the strength to overcome my enemies. Let my forefather and foremother pray for my safety. Let us return unharmed."

The air shifted. A presence filled the room, unseen yet undeniable.

A voice, deep and eternal, spoke from beyond the veil of the mortal world.

"I have heard your prayer, Rhaelor."

Rhaelor lifted his head, eyes widening. The Architect had answered.

"Tomorrow, when you reach the mountains, I shall grant your armies the strength to overcome your enemies. Your bodies will not be pierced, for I shall forge your flesh like hard steel."

A warmth spread through Rhaelor's chest, like light filling an empty vessel. He bowed once more, placing his fist over his heart.

"I am honored, My Lord."

And just like that, the presence faded.

The room returned to silence, but Rhaelor's heart burned brighter than ever.