Tense silence hung in the air of the council chamber. Dahlen sat on a short wooden bench that rested against the wall – the same bench Daymon had sat on when Dahlen had first laid eyes on the chamber after the battle of Belduar. His entire body ached and groaned, muscles knotting and burning. Blood was caked into his hair, and he could feel it clinging to his skin, mingled with dried sweat and dirt. All he wanted was to bathe and sleep, and yet he feared the nightmares he knew would plague him once he closed his eyes. The nightmares that touched him even then, clawing up from the pit of his stomach: the blood, the death, Ihvon's body, the look on Daymon's face as the axe carved through his arm.
Dahlen drew in a deep breath, running his hand through his blood-matted hair, shaking the thoughts from his head. Nightmares could wait for him in his sleep. He was sick of dealing with them while he was awake. He turned to Belina, who sat next to him. "Are you all right?"
She was leaning forwards, her arms rested on her knees, her short hair dangling over her face. She drew in a long breath, then lifted herself upright, turning to Dahlen. Her lip was split, dried blood marked a gash that ran from the back of her jaw to her chin, and much like Dahlen, her face was marred by a mix of grime, blood, and sweat. She nodded, her usual snark and charm nowhere to be seen. She gave Dahlen a weak smile, despondency in her eyes. "I've known Ihvon a very long time. A very long time. He always did right by me. Even when I didn't do right by him." She shook her head and Dahlen could see a tear glistening on her cheek. It felt wrong to see her like this. "The last place he would have wanted to die is down here. At least he is with Alyana and Khris now, stuffing his face in Achyron's halls, complaining about the smell of dwarves." She let out a soft, choking laugh, then drew another deep breath through her nose, exhaling slowly, the brief moment of levity fading. "That was really fucking close."
Dahlen nodded, unable to muster any words that would matter. Ihvon was dead. So was Daymon. All the anger and irritation Dahlen had held towards the young king had vanished in an instant when he saw Daymon take that axe. The pettiness and squabbling meant nothing. Death had a way of stripping back things to their essential parts, and, in essence, Daymon had been nothing more than a lost young man desperately trying to cling to his father's legacy and failing. That was something Dahlen could relate to.
He lifted his gaze to where Kira and Elenya sat on their thrones atop the raised semi-circular dais, a sombre mood hanging over them as they sat in silence, both still garbed in full plate. Queensguard with cloaks of both the crimson of Durakdur and the black and white of Ozryn filled the chamber, surrounding the dais and forming a line from the thrones to the entrance, Yoring, and Almer among them.
On the other side of the chamber Lumeera Arian stood with Oleg Marylin and a number of the Belduaran nobles Dahlen recognised from his meeting with Daymon. After Kira and Elenya had cleared the Azmaran dwarves from the refugee quarters and discovered Daymon's body, they had escorted all those who might be considered for succession to the council chamber in the Heart. Oleg and Lumeera had been brought along due to their stations, while Mirlak had told Dahlen and Belina that Kira had requested their presence specifically. The queen, however, hadn't spoken to them since they'd arrived.
Dahlen shifted at the sound of armoured boots echoing from the corridor outside the chamber, pausing as the doors creaked open. Dahlen and Belina rose to their feet, the entire chamber turning to watch as an escort of Kira's Queensguard, Mirlak at the front, led a dwarf in sharp-cut plate through the doors, a green and silver cloak draped over her shoulders. They led her through the chamber, dropping her to her knees at the foot of the dais, chains clinking around her wrists.
Dahlen pushed his way towards the dais, low whispers and the sounds of shuffling feet rippling through those gathered.
"The Commander of Azmar's Queensguard was slain in the fighting, my queen," Mirlak said, looking up towards Kira on her throne. "This one claims to be the highest ranking left alive."
Dahlen looked at the dwarf who knelt at the foot of the dais. She was young. Her face was marred by blood and bore a few fresh wounds. The rings in her hair were mostly bronze, one or two silver, and no gold.
Kira lifted herself from her throne, a number of her Queensguard moving closer as she stepped down from the dais, eyes fixed on the kneeling dwarf. "Your name?"
Wearily, the dwarf lifted her head. "Almat."
Mirlak gripped the back of the kneeling dwarf's neck. "You will address the queen as Your Majesty."
"Your Majesty." Almat fell forwards as Mirlak let go of her neck.
"Where is your queen, Almat? First, she orders a cowardly attack on the guards of both Durakdur and Ozryn, turning on her own kind. Then she launches a full assault on the Belduaran refugees, and now she has fled?" Kira moved so she stood over Almat, muscles tensing in her jaw. "You will answer in her stead. Do not make me ask twice."
Almat looked up at Kira. It seemed as though she was going to speak, but then Kira's gauntleted hand smashed into her cheek. Almat fell to the side, catching herself with one hand, spitting blood onto the stone.
"If you do not give me the answers I seek, I will take your head from your shoulders and show it to the next dwarf I drag in here. You have spilled the blood of your kin on this day. You have started a war that could break our people. Do not think I will find mercy for you. Heraya will not save you from Hafaesir's wrath."
Almat pulled herself upright, wiping the blood from her mouth, chains clinking. "Queen Pulroan is dead, Your Majesty."
The look of pure shock on Kira's face was mirrored in the murmurs that spread through the chamber.
Behind Kira, Elenya stood from her throne, fire-red hair curling over her armour, eyes narrowed. She pulled a short hand axe from a loop on her belt. "I spoke to Pulroan only hours ago. If you are lying, I will skin you alive with my own blade."
"By Hafaesir, I swear to you, Your Majesties. We were guarding the refugee quarters, as commanded, when Queen Kira's guard arrived with the humans and the wagons. Our captain sent word to Queen Pulroan that the Belduarans were receiving aid. But when the messenger returned, he did so with the remainder of our queen's guard and all the forces we had brought with us through the Wind Tunnels. Queen Pulroan was murdered as she bathed. Our commander caught the assassin in the midst of the act, and in his haste to escape, the assassin dropped his knife." Almat grunted, shifting her knees and straightening her back. "The blade bore the sigil of Belduar on its crossguard. King Daymon of Belduar ordered the death of our queen. We didn't wish conflict with Durakdur or Ozryn, but honour demanded we exact vengeance."
"This is all you have?" Kira asked, tilting her head. "You spilled the blood of your kin, started a war between the kingdoms of the Freehold, and attacked the refugees of a nation under our guard because you found a dagger? Do you have this dagger?"
"I… no, Your Majesty. It was our commander who found it, may Heraya embrace him."
"And you did not think to bring any of this to us?"
"Honour demanded we—"
"Honour demanded you kill your own kind?" Elenya roared, stepping closer to Kira, veins bulging in her neck. "That is not honour, it's pride."
Tense silence filled the chamber as Kira looked down at the kneeling dwarf, her breath visibly swelling in her chest. "Take her," Kira said to Mirlak, releasing the air from her lungs. "Confine her with the others. If this is true and Pulroan is dead, there is much that will need to be discussed."
"It will be done, my queen." Mirlak bowed his head, dragging Almat to her feet by her hair and passing her to a Queensguard who stood at his side. Mirlak moved to the side as the rest of the prisoner's escort marched her from the chamber, the doors closing heavily behind them.
"Well," Belina whispered. "That's not good."
The tension in the chamber was palpable. Both Kira and Elenya's expressions were unreadable, while Dahlen could see the Belduaran nobles whispering to each other. There were six of them in total. Four men and two women, all looking as though they had seen at least forty summers. Dahlen had spent enough time around Daymon's court to know most of them were snakes in fine clothing but hadn't bothered to learn much more about them.
"Is it true?" Kira's voice echoed through the chamber, quieting all whispers. The Queensguard who stood between her and the Belduarans shifted, moving out of the way so as to create an open space.
None of the Belduaran nobles uttered so much as a whisper, fear evident in the language of their bodies. Dahlen couldn't blame them. They stood in a closed chamber, surrounded by dwarves in heavy plate with sharp axes hanging from their backs. Not only that, both Kira and Elenya looked as fierce as lions in their sharp-cut plate, ring-laden hair tied in braids — and Elenya still held a tight grip on her hand axe, her knuckles pale.
"No." Oleg Marylin stepped forwards, leaving the group of whispering nobles behind him. Of them all, Oleg was the last voice Dahlen had expected to hear. The man was usually quiet and reserved. Conflict had been something he'd regularly shied away from. He often seemed lost in his own head. The man scratched nervously at his unkempt beard, his feet shuffling. "Your Majesty," he added, hastily. "It is not true."
"And do you have any proof that it is not?" Elenya stepped down from the dais, standing beside Kira, her eyebrows raised.
"Forgive me, Queen of Ozryn." Oleg swallowed hard, settling himself with a long breath. "But the burden of proof does not lie with the accused. It lies with the accuser. If I were to accuse you right now of the same deed, would I need to prove your guilt or would you need to prove your innocence?"
Belina leaned close to Dahlen, whispering. "That little man has the stones of a bull. The face of a hog, but the stones of a bull. I like him."
A tense moment passed where Dahlen was worried Elenya might strike Oleg down for simply suggesting she might have had a part to play in what had transpired, but then, surprisingly, she smiled. "You speak truth, Oleg. But still, the queen of Azmar is dead and your king stands accused of her murder, after already being accused of others. That is not promising."
"It sounds more convenient than anything else, Your Majesty." The words that left Oleg's lips were surprisingly strong and confident with a hint of snark, the usual chirpiness gone from his demeanour.
Dahlen had never seen him like this. The man had pulled a cloth from his trouser pocket and now clenched it between his fingers. It was only then Dahlen realised Oleg's hands had been covered in blood and dirt, which now marred the cloth. He had forgotten the man had insisted on carrying Daymon's body back to the young king's sleeping chamber before leaving the refugee quarters.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesties." Oleg twisted the cloth in his fingers, his gaze lingering on the floor for a moment before lifting to meet the attention of the two warrior queens. "Many of the men and women I've known for years are now dead. They lie in their own blood waiting to be burned, returned to ashes. My people are scattered about the kingdoms of your Freehold, starving and without a home. And now, my king, a young man who I watched grow from a babe, lies dead, alone, no mother or father to weep over him. I do not believe he arranged for the killing of Queen Pulroan. I do not see how it would be possible, given that we were confined to the refugee quarters. What's more, it is a little too convenient that the assassin would drop a blade marked with the sigil of Belduar. I'm no assassin, but I don't believe one worth their salt would make a mistake like that. Please, for the sakes of all our people, can we find a way to move past this?"
"Well, I am an assassin," Belina whispered to Dahlen. "And I can safely say there's plenty of idiots out there who'd do just that… but he's right."
Kira stared at Oleg for a long moment, then turned her gaze to the nobles. "Do any of you have anything to say of this? You who believe yourselves worthy of the crown."
Silence. A few of the nobles shuffled, uncertainty plain on their faces, but none spoke.
"There is a way," Kira said, glancing towards Elenya. "Once word of Pulroan's death circulates throughout the Freehold, and Daymon Bryne's name is spread as the one who gave the word, the dwarves of Azmar will want more blood — no matter how convenient the proof. But if the people of Belduar were to be under my protection and that of Queen Elenya, the Azmarans would not have the strength to move against you."
The air in the chamber shifted, the weight of Kira's words setting in.
"I fucking knew I liked her," Belina whispered, folding her arms, puffing out her bottom lip appraisingly as she stared at Kira.
"What are you saying?" One of the nobles — a tall, stringy man with a long face, white-grey hair, and wrinkled tunic of deep purple — asked, taking a step towards Kira. Judging by the tone in his voice, Dahlen was reasonably sure the man knew precisely what Kira was saying.
Kira's steps echoed as she walked through the opening of Queensguard, stopping before the tall man and tilting her head sideways as she stared up at him. Now they stood beside each other, Dahlen could see Kira was at least a foot and a half shorter but somehow seemed the far more imposing figure. She said nothing as she stared at the man. "And what is your name?"
"I… ehm…" The man collected himself, straightening his back. "My name is Lord Geor Darna, son of Ulder Darna, son of…"
The man's words trailed to a stuttering halt as Kira held her hand up. "I don't need the name of every man who came before you. Their deeds are their own. You cannot live off them." Kira turned, walking back to the foot of the dais, where Elenya stood, then turned to face the nobles, Oleg, and Lumeera. "What I am saying, Lord Geor Darna," Kira continued, "is Elenya and I will continue to feed and house the people of Belduar while you gather yourselves. We will reach out to Azmar and negotiate the release of your people in the refugee quarters there before the rumours begin to spread. After that, we will aid you in the reconstruction of your city. Reports say that the empire has abandoned the ruins due to the wars breaking out across the continent."
"You have our humblest of thanks, Your Majesty." Geor bowed so deeply that even Dahlen was a little embarrassed by it.
Kira simply looked at the man, waited for him to stand straight, then continued. "In exchange, the city of Belduar will become a vassal of the Lodhar Freehold."
Gasps of shock broke out through the nobles, and Lumeera's face dropped. Oleg's expression didn't change. It was clear he had been expecting something along these lines.
"Unacceptable!" a woman with her dark hair tied into a plait roared. "The Kingdom of Belduar has stood for thousands of years!"
"And now the city has fallen, and its king is dead!" Kira snapped, her demeanour changing in an instant. "My people came to your aid and died for your freedom. It is by the grace of our generosity that you still draw breath, that you have food and water to fill your bellies. If we had not brought you here from Belduar you would be nothing but char and ash." Kira took a step closer to the nobles as she spoke, each one of them shifting backwards. "And in that time, you haven't shown even a trace of gratitude. Your presence has brought nothing but blood and death. You can go," she said, throwing her arms in the air. "Take your people and march through the Southern Fold Gate. Trek along the mountain passes. Rebuild your city with your bare hands." Kira narrowed her eyes, the rings knotted throughout her blonde hair glistening in the bluish-green of the flower lanterns that hung about the chamber. She stood at least a foot shorter than any of the nobles, and yet before them she was a giant. "Watch as your people starve and wither. Over a hundred thousand Belduaran souls reside within the Freehold. You have no fields. No crops. No medicine to treat the sick. You have no wagons or horses. You have precious little of anything. Your people will be dead, dying, or fled within a fortnight. Each of you covets the crown, yet none of you understand what it is to care for a kingdom."
The Belduaran nobles stared at Kira, their expressions shifting from indignation to disbelief and back again.
Behind Kira, Elenya spoke. "As a vassal of the Freehold, the dwarves of Azmar would be unable to move against you. Belduar would be given the time to gather and care for its people. You would be provided food and water and would be granted access to the Freehold's Craftsmages to assist in the reconstruction of the city. And a Keeper of the Mountain would be appointed to act as the city's leader."
"We would need time to think on it," Oleg said to looks of scorn from the nobles, who clearly saw him as having little right to speak in these discussions.
"The time for thinking has passed, Oleg," Kira said. "This decision is to be made here and now. The future of Belduar is to be decided within the walls of this chamber."
"You're not giving us much of a choice," one of the nobles said. He looked to have seen at least fifty summers, his jaw square, his shoulders broad enough to have been a warrior's.
"We are giving you more of a choice than you deserve."
"We could take what we need at the blade of an axe," Elenya added, lifting her own axe slightly as though for emphasis. "But that is not what we want."
The broad-shouldered man stared at Kira and Elenya for a moment, then gave a gruff nod and turned back to the other nobles, murmurs spreading through the group as they discussed in hushed whispers. Voices rose and fell. Dahlen couldn't make out the words being exchanged, but tempers were clearly fraying. One man with white speckled hair jabbed his finger into Geor Darna's chest, then turned and stormed from the chamber, another man following him, leaving only Geor Darna, the square-shouldered man, and the two women.
Silence held after echoes of the closing door faded, then the broad-shouldered man turned back to Kira and Elenya, sucking in his cheeks, his eyes tracing along the ground. He drew in a long breath, then released it as he lifted his gaze. "We agree. We will need time to decide who will bear the mantle you propose. This Keeper of the Mountain. But we will swear fealty to the Freehold in exchange for everything you have offered."
"You misunderstand," Kira said, shaking her head. "We will choose the Keeper. Not you."
"Absolutely not!" the woman with the dark plait said, folding her arms across her chest.
"We will not allow that." Geor Darna added, his voice firm.
"This is not a request," Kira said. "It is a condition. If Belduar is to become a vassal of the Freehold, then the first Keeper will be chosen by the Freehold. In the future, you will be allowed to make the decision for yourselves, but we are at a delicate point in our history. The fate of our two peoples hangs in the balance. In his short time, Daymon Bryne's arrogance and unwillingness to compromise fractured our long-standing friendship. We will not allow that to happen again. And so our decision is made."
The silence that filled the chamber, hanging on Kira's words, was so complete Dahlen was sure he would have been able to hear a feather brushing against the ground.
Kira's gaze passed over the gathered nobles, unflinching. She turned back to Elenya, who nodded, then drew in a deep breath and spoke. "Oleg Marylin." All heads turned to the emissary, eyebrows raised, gazes flitting. None looked more shocked than Oleg himself. "You have served as the Belduaran emissary to the Dwarven Freehold of Durakdur for many years. You understand our culture and our people, just as you do that of Belduar. You are wise, measured, and kind. It is our belief that with you as Keeper of the Mountain, the relationship between our two peoples can flourish. What say you? Will you help us mend this bridge? Will you help us rebuild what has been broken?"
"You cannot be serious?" Geor Darna scoffed. "He is not of noble blood. He is an emissary, nothing more!"
"Hear, hear," the dark-haired noble said.
"You humans place too much stock in blood," Elenya said with a sigh. "There is no such thing as noble blood. Blood is blood. Nobility is in the doing of things. In that, Oleg has shown far more nobility than any of you." Elenya turned back to Oleg, who still looked as though he had just woken up from the most shocking dream of his life. "Well then, what say you, Oleg Marylin?"
Oleg looked down at the floor, the blood-stained cloth clenched between the fingers of both his hands. Around him, the Belduaran nobles were bickering, doing their best to hold back their contempt. The man shuffled his feet, lost in thought, then lifted his head, his gaze moving from Kira to Elenya. "The bodies of my king and my friends lie cold, awaiting their return to ash. If you help us take the bodies through the Southern Fold Gate and arrange proper pyres so that they may return to ash under the light of the sun, then I will accept. But not until that is done." He shook his head. "Not until they rest."
The nobles descended into silence as Kira stared back at Oleg. "It will be done, Oleg. Even in this, you show why you are the wisest choice. The sun will set within a few hours. I will arrange the Craftsmages to construct the pyres. Mirlak, arrange the virtuk wagons." Kira nodded towards Mirlak, who nodded back and made for the chamber's entrance, taking a handful of the Queensguard with him. "Come. Much has been lost this day. Let us see that the dead are sent into Heraya's embrace with the dignity they deserve."
Hours later, with the light of the setting sun spraying over the mountain peaks, Dahlen stood in the open basin that fronted the Southern Fold Gate. The warmth of the funeral pyres washed over his dirt and blood crusted skin, the light of the flames dancing across the faces of those gathered. It was only as he stood there he realised he'd not stopped shifting the bodies onto the carts long enough to even splash his face with water.
The basin was packed to overflowing with Belduaran nobles, Kingsguard, Durakduran and Ozyrnian Queensguard, and a spattering of other faces Dahlen didn't recognise. It would not have been possible to allow the entirety of the Belduaran people to witness the returning to ashes, but Oleg had said a ceremony would be performed once Belduar was rebuilt.
Dahlen stared into the fire, his chest tight as a clenched fist. Even there, as he felt the touch of the sun's light for the first time in months, he couldn't bring himself to find more than a sliver of happiness. In the heart of the flames, he could still see Daymon and Ihvon's cloth-wrapped bodies amongst the hundreds of others. The familiar sensation of tears threatened his eyes, his gaze unwavering.
He'd held no love for Daymon, but in a strange sort of way, he'd found a kind of kinship between them. They were both two young men, trailing in their fathers' shadows, trying to find their place in the world. Dahlen understood that pressure. The pressure to be something more, to be something special.
In travelling the continent with Erik and their father, Dahlen had not come across many people he had ever truly considered a friend. Growing attached to a person only meant it would be more difficult when he would eventually have to leave them or lose them. But in Ihvon, Dahlen had found a true friendship. The kind that simply was. The kind that needed few words and fewer explanations. Dahlen not only respected Ihvon, he had genuinely enjoyed the man's company. As the sparks rose into the dusk sky, Dahlen found himself thinking back to when the pair had sparred in the Heart's training yard — to when Ihvon had left Dahlen flat on his arse.
'Nine times out of ten, you win that fight.' A soft smile touched Dahlen's face as he thought of the words Ihvon had spoken when he had beaten Dahlen in the practice yard. "I guess we'll never know, my friend. I guess we'll never know…"
A few minutes passed in relative silence, the snap and crackle of the fire, the sniffle of tears, and the shuffling of feet the only sounds. Before the pyres had been lit, Oleg had spoken a few words to those gathered. A soft lament for the men and women lost. Even the nobles had barely uttered a word since then.
"You were my first choice."
Dahlen raised an eyebrow, turning his head to see Kira standing beside him. She had finally removed her plate armour and now wore a leather cuirass that flowed down into silken skirts, her muscled arms on display. The crown atop Kira's head and the rings in her blonde hair glinted in the firelight.
"You were my first choice," Kira repeated, answering Dahlen's raised eyebrow. "Oleg will make a fine Keeper. But you were my first choice."
"I'm not even Belduaran."
"No," Kira said plainly. "You're not. But the men and women of Belduar respect you. I see where I have no eyes, and I hear where I have no ears, Dahlen Virandr. Even so, had I chosen you, they would have had no choice in the matter."
"Then why didn't you?" Dahlen kept his gaze on the flames, drawing in a sharp breath as the fire truly caught on the cloth that garbed Ihvon, burning brighter.
"Because I see this is not yet your place. Where will you go? To your father?"
Dahlen nodded, feeling a steady stream of tears rolling over his cheek. "I will go to Argona. Our contact there should know where my father is. Or at the very least, he will be able to reach my father. I'll stay to see that Oleg is settled, then I will make my way."
"Will your companion be travelling with you?" Kira nodded towards Belina who stood a few feet to Dahlen's right, the light of the flames casting shifting shadows across her dark, blood-stained skin. He'd never seen the woman so sombre. It felt wrong. Like seeing water flow upwards.
"I'm not sure. That's like trying to predict which way the wind will blow."
Out of the corner of his eye, Dahlen saw Kira nodding. "Let me know what you require for your journey, and I will see you have it. Your father has been a friend to the dwarves of the Lodhar Freehold for hundreds of years, but you have now earned that in your own right, Dahlen Virandr. You are a friend here."
Dahlen pulled his eyes from the funeral pyres for a moment, meeting Kira's gaze. He allowed a half-smile to form on his lips, then dipped his head ever so slightly. "May your fire never be extinguished and your blade never dull, Queen Kira."