The lower district of Tharvaldur pulsed with a different kind of heat at night. Mana-lamps hanging from the cavern ceiling glowed warr than during the day, their light reflecting off steel beams and polished stone like fire caught in glass. Forges still burned in open workshops, orange and gold bleeding into the dark. Deep dwarven drums echoed sowhere beyond the bridges, steady and heavy, accompanied by bursts of laughter and the sharp clash of tankards eting in celebration.
Steam rose in slow spirals between suspended walkways, drifting like breath from the mountain itself.
They were nowhere near the noble quarter.
This was the worker’s district.
Balthor wore simple trousers and a dark tunic, sleeves rolled just enough to hide the royal embroidery stitched along the inner seams. No crown. No insignia. No polished armor. Just a broad-shouldered dwarf blending—imperfectly—into his own city.
Noel walked beside him with hands loosely in his pockets, posture easy. Noriel followed at their side, dressed plainly as well, though his straight back and attentive eyes made it clear he had not fully abandoned responsibility.
They had slipped out cleanly.
Noriel had inford the castle staff in calm, asured tones that the king was in a private strategic eting with both of them and was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. The phrasing had been precise enough that no one dared question it.
Now the "eting" consisted of drums, ale, and molten light.
Noel glanced around as a pair of elves passed them laughing, their silver hair catching the glow of nearby lamps. A human rchant argued cheerfully with a dwarf over the price of engraved daggers. Further down the street, two half-beasts were arm-wrestling on a reinforced crate while a small crowd cheered them on.
"There are more outsiders than I expected," Noel observed, eyes moving across the scene. "Humans. Elves. I thought Tharvaldur kept to itself."
Balthor snorted lightly, though there was pride in the sound. "We used to." He gestured vaguely toward the bustling street. "Then we decided the mountain had nothing to gain from hiding forever."
Noel tilted his head slightly. "So this is intentional."
"Aye," Balthor replied. "We opened trade. Opened festivals. Let the world see what dwarves can build when we’re not at war with ourselves." A grin tugged at his beard. "Turns out Tharvaldur is famous now. Not just for steel. For nights like this."
Noriel folded his hands behind his back as they walked. "It is, however," he added evenly, "technically imprudent for the reigning monarch to be wandering through the lower district without escort."
Balthor shot him a sideways look. "You’re here."
"That does not constitute an escort."
Noel smiled faintly as a group of dwarves pushed past them toward a tavern entrance, still arguing about who had lost the previous drinking round. "You worry too much."
"I calculate what could go wrong," Noriel corrected.
Balthor exhaled, shoulders easing as the music grew louder ahead. "Relax, both of you. Tonight we’re not discussing troop formations. We’re not discussing pillars or councils."
He looked ahead toward the forge-tavern where sparks briefly flared into the air like scattered stars.
"Tonight," he said, voice lighter than it had been in weeks, "we’re just three n who slipped out of a eting."
The music grew louder as they turned the corner.
It wasn’t refined court music or ceremonial drums. It was raw, rhythmic, layered with heavy percussion and stringed instrunts that vibrated through the stone floor. The sound carried laughter with it, thick and alive, the kind that ca from people who worked hard and drank harder.
The forge-tavern stood ahead, built from dark granite blocks reinforced with steel ribs along the entrance. Large windows frad in iron revealed the glow inside—warm light, shifting shadows, silhouettes raising mugs high. Sparks burst occasionally from a side annex where a smaller forge still burned, its chimney breathing smoke into the cavern air.
A carved sign hung above the doorway: crossed hamrs over a tankard.
The mont they stepped inside, heat and sound wrapped around them.
It was crowded.
Dwarves filled most of the long wooden tables, shoulders broad, voices louder than the music itself. A few humans were mixed in, red-faced from strong ale. An elf sat near the stage, tapping his fingers to the rhythm as if trying to adapt to the tempo. The air slled of iron, smoke, roasted at, and fernted grain.
This was not a quiet tavern.
Along one wall, two smiths were examining a half-finished axe head while arguing over balance. At another table, a group of miners were negotiating a contract with a traveling rchant, jugs already half-empty between them. Near the back, a raised platform held musicians hamring out a tune that made the entire floor pulse.
Behind the bar, an older dwarf woman with thick silver braids directed the chaos with sharp gestures and sharper eyes. She moved like soone who had run this place for decades and trusted nothing to chance.
And weaving through the crowd—
Brynja Ironvein.
Her hair was pulled back into tight braids, practical and clean despite the environnt. Sleeves rolled to her elbows revealed forearms marked faintly with old burns and the kind of muscle that ca from years at a forge rather than training halls. A leather apron hung at her waist, stained with oil and ash. She carried three tankards in one hand with steady ease while sliding a fourth across the counter without spilling a drop.
She didn’t look noble.
She didn’t look impressed by anyone.
She looked busy.
Balthor slowed.
It was subtle. Half a step. Barely noticeable.
Noel noticed.
Noriel noticed even sooner, his gaze shifting not toward the bar, but toward Balthor’s face.
Brynja turned slightly as she set down a tray, laughing at sothing one of the miners said. The sound of it cut cleanly through the music—low, confident, unrestrained.
Her eyes lifted.
They t Balthor’s across the room.
For a fraction of a second, neither moved.
Then she arched one brow.
And went back to pouring ale as if she hadn’t seen anything at all.
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