“Adar the Third, S̆ams̆ādūr the Fifth, Abnāel the Second-”

S̆ams̆ādūr - the sixteenth of the name - smiled as the droning voices of the children drifted past his ear. It didn’t feel like that much time had passed since he was sitting among them, learning the history of the great durgū. If only I was still there, he thought ruefully. Those were the days.

But time stands stills for no one, and his smile slipped as the events of the past few hours surged back into his mind. He suppressed his shudder, though, not wanting his father’s guards to see it. S̆ams̆ādūr despised interrogating prisoners, but weakness was not tolerated amongst his kin, especially not in the third prince of the dwarven kingdom of Birānāti.

Unfortunately for him, his skills were too useful to allow him the freedom his younger brothers got to enjoy. It was rare, after all, for a dwarf to gain a class from the inquisitor tree, and rarer still for it to be a mage-oriented variant. It wasn’t all bad; thanks to his class he wielded a power that few third sons of second wives would ever see, but S̆amsādūr wasn’t blind to the costs. He saw the muttered curses and dark glances thrown his way when the guards weren't looking, the looks only reinforcing the impenetrable stain he felt on his soul. Truly his god had cursed him.

But S̆ams̆ādūr immediately vanquished the thoughts, balling up his dark musings and shoving them into the furthest corners of his mind where they could not disturb him any longer. For a change, his father, King Halṣūtu had given him the rest of the day and the next two off, a pleasant relief from the endless stress of the last few months.

S̆ams̆ādūr already had it all planned out. His friends and mistress were waiting for him at the harbor, and if he knew them, they were no doubt already on his boat and halfway through a keg of beer. From there, they’d cruise along the coast of the inland sea drinking, partying, and - if he wasn’t too drunk to hold a pole - perhaps fishing.

But his dreams were dashed when he felt the necklace dangling around his throat begin to heat up. Damn it. He knew too well what it meant - his father was summoning him. S̆ams̆ādūr could only grit his teeth in silent fury as he reluctantly turned around, heading to the throne room. His only hope was that whatever his father wanted would be brief.

The throne room lay at the top of the great fortress, built into the highest peak of the mountain they called home. It would have been a daunting trip if anyone was forced to walk there, but the dwarves were too paranoid to allow such easy access to the heart of their kingdom. No walkways had been built to the throne room, which was protected on all sides by sheer cliffs. The only access, or at least the only access that was public knowledge, was through the runic lifts which made the ascent up the mountain quick, easy, and completely controlled by the crown.

The lift mage offered S̆ams̆ādūr a friendly nod as his entourage stepped onto the platform. He ignored it for a second, in a decidedly foul mood, but his better senses prevailed and he nodded back. S̆ams̆ādūr had enough enemies in the castle; there was nothing to be gained from making more.

The platform rose swiftly, soaring past level after level of the capital city, before reaching the icy heights where his father dwelt. Today’s mage was more skilled than most. Rather than the usually abrupt jerk, the platform came to a smooth halt at the top, and S̆ams̆ādūr tossed him a coin in gratitude as he stepped off the platform, making sure to fix the mage's face in his mind for the next time, before continuing into the grand hall.

The ceiling vaulted far above his head, held aloft by polished pillars carved from the very rock that the dwarven kingdom's wealth was founded upon - black granite streaked with thick, rich veins of silver. Each pillar was unique, carved in the shape of long-forgotten durgū heroes who watched over their descendants with disappointed expressions. The floor was the true marvel of the fortress, though. Every inch of its surface was covered in layer upon layer of interlocking runes, weaving a spell of protection that their best mages could not even begin to understand.

Despite having roamed these halls since he was but a lad, S̆ams̆ādūr never got past the feeling of awe the ancient hall inspired in him. The dwarves built nothing unless it was on a grand scale, a testament to their power and wealth. Privately though, S̆ams̆ādūr had always felt that the sheer size of their architecture was also a testament to their not-so-subtle insecurity about their height.

Still, whenever he was called to the throne room, whose hallowed halls were built long before the kingdom’s foundation, he couldn’t help but call to mind the myths he had been taught as a child. His nanny, a positively ancient old relic, had told him many stories of the days when dwarves were giants. The mightiest and most warlike of the races beneath their father’s light, the durgū had ruled all the lands from the inland sea to the western shores until the elves, jealous of their power, cursed them to be forever bound close to the earth. Diminished in a quite literal sense, the dwarves had withdrawn into their fortresses, biding their time until they could take their revenge. It was a ridiculous story, of course, but sometimes, when wandering through the oversized halls, he wondered if the old woman’s myths had contained a germ of truth.

But if the dwarves were shadows of what they had once been, they had become as gods compared to the races that surrounded them. Ever parsimonious with their use of magic, in large part because few dwarves were even born with a talent for essence, they had not suffered the precipitous loss of power that the Empire had, which was, no doubt, the reason his father had summoned him. The dwarves had long grown restless in their mountain homes, no longer content with kingdoms in place of empires. More and more, the nobles spoke of reclaiming their lands of old, even if those claims were little more than myth.

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As he approached the great throne, S̆ams̆ādūr saw his father was not on it. Instead, a table had been set up at the base, around which a host of dignitaries were gathered. He recognized a few of them immediately, nobles and heads of the important clans from around his father’s kingdom, but a large group quite literally stood out from the rest.

Enormous men and women draped in thick fur cloaks, there could be no doubt as to their identity. Strythani, he realized, but what the hell are they doing here? The strythani, or skinchangers as the dwarves often derogatorily called them, were their neighbors to the north. A collection of largely independent clans - although they claimed to all be ruled by an unseen divine ancestor - the strythani were valiant warriors, nearly unkillable on the battlefield thanks to their healing transformations. They would prove valuable allies indeed if his father could win them to his side, but S̆ams̆ādūr was skeptical. Although they lived outside the empire’s borders, the strythani had longstanding ties with the Corsythians. What is father doing?

His elder brother, Abnāel, already engaged in close conversation with the delegation, caught his eye, and S̆ams̆ādūr headed over to join them. Smothering his irritation, he plastered a smile as he approached the group, his hands carefully hidden in his cloak as he begin to cast the spell that had stolen his freedom. S̆alas̆īnu.

The meeting stretched long into the night. The idle chatter, the fake smiles, the hollow laughs - everything about these events grated on S̆ams̆ādūr, with the sole bright spot being the magnificent feast spread before them. His father, whatever other faults he may have had, was a generous host. The table was piled high with every imaginable delicacy, while a troupe of dancers, deep under the influence of illurū swayed and twirled to the singing of the bards. But he plastered on his brightest smile, and mingled with their raucous guests.

He focused his attention on the strythani, lurking on the edges of the crowd as his older brother - ever the charismatic one - held them spellbound. S̆ams̆ādūr was the one casting the real spells, however, spamming S̆alas̆īnu over and over again, as he sought to catch a glimpse of their minds. As always, most of what he saw was useless - men leering at the scantily clad dancers, thinking of home, of the next bite of food they were about to eat, of their desperate need to relieve themselves - but S̆ams̆ādūr had long ago discovered that if you cast your net out often enough, you eventually would catch a fish.

It was nearly dawn when the festivities finally drew to a close, and the Strytahni delegation, most of them deep in their cups by now, were led back by the servants to their rooms. No such rest awaited S̆ams̆ādūr. He sat on the steps to the throne, his eyes half-closed in exhaustion, until his father finally made his appearance.

Halṣūtu was a large man - for a durgu, that is - with shoulders as broad as an ox and muscles that rivaled a Gemlirian’s. His nose with red with drinking and his steps were uncertain as he sat down beside his sun. S̆ams̆ādūr waited patiently as his father drained a potion. The effects took effect almost immediately, driving the degradations of the drink away.

With suddenly clear eyes, the king turned to face him. “Well, can the Strytahni be trusted to hold up their end of the deal? With their aid, we could crush the king of Hadīn’s forces before the emperor has time to reinforce him. As long as the elves and Djinn stay out of it, the war would be as good as won.”

S̆ams̆ādūr closed his eyes, contemplating the various thoughts he had managed to steal throughout the night. He knew the answer his father was hoping for, but the information he had gathered painted a more complicated picture. The leader of the Strytahni, a woman calling herself Naqmah, was completely sincere in her offer. S̆ams̆ādūr hadn’t succeeded in uncovering the reason for the Strytahni’s hatred, but he had gained enough information to be certain that Naqmah bore a deep-seated grudge against the Empire, a grudge that she was eager to satiate in blood.

But few in her delegation share her hatred. The Strytahni were the only race of men to dwell on the western shores of the Inland Sea, surrounded on all sides by the many dwarven lords, and they had long looked to the empire as their natural allies. Despite the empire’s current weakness, those feelings did not die easily, and she was not the only heir to her clan.

“No,” he finally concluded, opening his eyes. “I don’t think you can rely on them as allies, father.”

The king scowled but gestured for him to continue.

“I believe Naqmah is completely sincere in her hatred of the Corsythians, but her leaders can not be trusted to support her. I detected in more than one of them thoughts of treachery against her. If she concludes an alliance with you, father, I doubt she will live long enough to see it through.”

After a long moment of silence, the king grunted in acknowledgment. “Very well, it was too much of a stroke of luck to hope for I suppose. Our plans will proceed as usual then.”

“Are you going to warn her father?” S̆ams̆ādūr wasn’t really sure why he’d asked; maybe, if he was able to be honest with himself, he could have acknowledged that the beautiful barbarian had caught his eye, but S̆ams̆ādūr was never a big fan of self-reflection.

His father simply shrugged. “Why? If she cannot deliver on her promises, what use do I have for her? The strythani will someday crawl at our feet, but not until we have dealt with their shield.”

“Don’t you think their divine king will stop you?”

The king snorted. “No one alive today has ever heard or seen their supposed protector. He is nothing more than a myth, son, a tall tale they tell to fill gullible minds with fear. Their only true shield is the empire, and once that has fallen, they will have to bow to us - with or without Naqmah’s support. Let her sort out her own problems - what good is an ally who cannot manage her own people?”

With a sigh, the king stood up and begin the long trek up the cascade of stairs that rippled down from the great throne. But he paused a few steps up, looking back at his third son with a rare expression of fondness. “You know, Dūra, you should really be running to your boat now. My messages can’t thwart your plans if you aren’t here to get them.”

S̆ams̆ādūr didn’t need to be told twice, and this time he made it out of the palace without the necklace summoning him back to the throne room. But not before stopping at a certain leader’s room and whispering a few quiet words of warning in her ear.

His father was wrong - even a weak ally was better than none at all.