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Chapter 634: The Dwarf's Feast
Swish—
A faint ripple cut through space. The portal tore open with a sudden, violent snap. One after another, two golden dragons stepped through—large and small—emerging from the heart of the now-distant royal palace. Orola gently supported the wounded Titus as they stepped into the open air.
The dwarves sat on either side of a long, sturdy table, laden with exquisite delicacies—rare delicacies, mountain delicacies, and the rich, pungent meats and spices they adored. And of course, their beloved strong alcohols, whose potent aroma filled the air like a warm, intoxicating blanket.
Aivendeldan’s palace, a wonder crafted by the first Highland King millennia ago, was vast by dwarf standards—yet for an ancient golden dragon stretching over thirty meters in length, it felt almost cramped.
“Wings of Dawn!”
“Lord Titus! Lady Orola! You’ve finally arrived!”
“Good morning, Lord Titus! It’s such a joy to see you—I’ve been waiting for this moment for ages!”
The dwarven generals and court officials rose in unison, rushing forward with boisterous warmth, nearly surrounding the two dragons. The hall erupted in cheerful clamor.
Though their manners were crude and their bows uneven, their faces—bearded, weathered, and rugged—bore expressions of genuine reverence and heartfelt gratitude. Dwarves were blunt, passionate, and fiercely loyal. They never hid their feelings. Their emotions were worn openly, like armor.
To them, this “Dawn Dragon,” Titus, was a savior. In the darkest hour—when ogre hordes surged toward their gates—he had stepped forward, standing firm against wave after wave of assault. He had slain the orc chieftain, turned the tide of war, and saved their homeland.
In celebration, the dwarves had composed countless ballads—Golden Wings, The Dragon Who Brings Dawn, Flame of Blackstone Mountain—songs sung around bonfires during wild drinking feasts, their voices rising in unison as they danced in circles, arms raised, hearts aflame.
Even the youngest dwarven children, in their playful games, would hum fragments of those songs:
“He crushes ogres with his claws!”
“He breathes fire to burn entire armies!”
“Good morning, Lord Titus, Lady Orola. My rude subjects must be making quite the spectacle for you,” came a familiar voice from afar.
Titus gave a slight nod. “Good morning, Your Majesty. It’s been too long.”
The dwarves parted like waves, making way for the king. Aid, the Dwarf King, descended from his throne with steady, confident strides. His bearing was strong, his face alight—nothing like the broken, dying figure he’d been just days before.
Looking at Titus’s battered frame, Aid’s expression softened with concern. “Lord Titus, I’ve heard of your heroic stand against the Emperor of the Ashen Flame. How are your wounds?”
Titus shook his head. “Nothing serious. Just surface flesh wounds.”
He studied the king closely, his gaze sharp. A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes. “But you… how is it that you’ve recovered so completely?”
Through the unyielding clarity of True Sight, he saw it: though Aid’s body seemed robust, vibrant, and full of life—his very soul-fire, the Furnace Flame that sustained a dwarf’s life force, was nearly extinguished. Faint. Dying.
“Hahahaha!” Aid laughed heartily, slapping his chest with a thick hand. “This is the gift of our ancestors! Our greatest strength is endurance—our life force is unyielding!”
Titus remained silent. He didn’t need to speak. He already understood.
Around him, the dwarven officers and lords clapped each other on the back, laughing loudly, their excitement palpable.
“Hah! This is a dwarf!”
“Indeed! We were so worried—yet look at him, stronger than ever!”
“Our king said he’ll sit on the throne for at least two hundred years! To see the rebirth of the High Mountain Kingdom!”
Aid smiled broadly, brushing his beard with one hand. He gestured forward. “Lord Titus, please, take your seat. We’ve invited you here today to celebrate our victory in war.”
He paused, his voice lifting with pride. “Three days ago, our cavalry discovered that the orc army had completely evacuated north of Fullar Mountain. Gush’s conspiracy has been crushed—once and for all!”
The dwarves roared in unison, their cheers thundering through the hall. The air vibrated with triumph.
“Long live the rebirth of the High Mountain Kingdom!”
One dwarf raised his cup, his face flushed, his steps unsteady—clearly already drunk. “To victory!” he cried, his voice slurred.
Titus nodded calmly. “My allies, this truly is a moment worth celebrating.” He settled into the massive, specially prepared seat, while Orola took her place beside him.
“Long live the High Mountain Kingdom! Long live King Aid! Shield Dwarves will never submit!”
“Cheers!”
“Hah! To victory!”
The hall erupted in a frenzy of shouts, the clashing of mugs, the crackling of laughter, the thunder of voices—all blending into a chaotic symphony of joy.
Titus glanced around, curiosity stirring. “If this is a celebration of victory… why aren’t our elven allies here?”
Aid replied, “After the ogres retreated, Lady Ria returned to Serrynia at once, with her loyal weapons and retinue. She’s likely been summoned by the queen herself.”
Titus nodded, silent. But in his mind, a new thought took root: With the path of fate altered, the elven coup may come sooner than expected.
He would have to carefully consider when—exactly—to intervene, to ensure he secured what he sought within the Elven Kingdom.
At that moment, Aid stood, raising his cup toward Titus.
“To our noble, mighty golden dragon ally—Wings of Dawn, Lord Titus!”
“To Lord Titus!”
“Wings of Dawn! Wings of Dawn!”
“The dragon who brings dawn! He crushes ogres with claws! Dragon Who Brings Dawn—”
The dwarves roared in unison, chanting his name and title, some even breaking into improvised, raucous ballads—so loud, so wild, they seemed to echo across the polar wastes.
Even the usually solemn, dignified golden dragon felt uneasy in the midst of such frenzy. Yet, with careful precision, he extended one claw, gripping the towering wooden barrel before him. He drank—deep, long, and without hesitation.
“I did only what was necessary,” Titus said solemnly. “It was your courage that brought peace and victory to Aivendeldan.”
“Long live Lord Titus!”
“Praise the Golden Dragon!”
The dwarves erupted in even greater fervor, leaping up despite their size, clinking their mugs against the dragon’s massive claw. They didn’t care about dignity—only joy.
As the feast wore on, the dwarves drank deeper and deeper. Their faces flushed crimson, their laughter boomed, and the air thickened with the scent of strong alcohol. They ate with abandon, their arms draped with bracelets, circling the golden dragons, singing, dancing, laughing.
One drunken dwarf even climbed onto the table, belting out a song while dancing wildly—sending silver mugs and plates clattering to the ground. The hall became a mess of spilled drink, scattered food, and merriment.
“Long live the Golden Dragon!”
“Dawn Dragon! You are Aivendeldan’s savior!”
Though Titus and Orola were caught in the spirit of the celebration, they dared not join. Their size and strength were too great—were they to truly let loose, they might easily tear the palace apart.
The feast raged until deep into the night. By then, the dwarves were sprawled in drunken heaps across the floor—snoring, laughing, utterly spent. The palace was in ruins—cracked mugs, overturned tables, scattered dishes. Chaos reigned.
But Aid, sitting at the far end of the table, had barely touched his drink. He simply smiled, watching the golden dragons from afar—then rose slowly.
“Lord Titus, my subjects have surely embarrassed you. The palace is a mess now—too loud, too chaotic. Not a quiet place. Would you care to step outside? We could… talk.”
Titus understood. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Orola,” he said softly to the younger golden dragon beside him, “wait here. I’ll return shortly.”
Orola looked up, concern in her eyes. “Lord Titus… your wounds—”
Titus placed a gentle claw on her head, smiling warmly. “I’m not so broken that I’ll fall if I leave your side for a moment.”
Orola hesitated, then nodded, settling back into her seat.
“Please, come with me,” Aid said, extending his hand in invitation.
The great front doors of the royal palace creaked open. The Dwarf King walked ahead with steady steps. The ancient golden dragon followed—his limbs injured, his gait uneven, yet he kept pace with ease.
They passed through the garden, descended into a hidden mine shaft, and walked long, winding tunnels until they reached a secluded chamber deep within Blackstone Mountain.
The walls were carved with lifelike dwarf relief sculptures. Ancient dwarf script glowed faintly in the dim light.
Titus turned to Aid, his voice quiet. “Your Majesty… you brought me here for more than just catching up, I assume.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t waste your time.”
Titus folded his wings and lowered himself to the ground, bringing his eyes level with the dwarf’s. He sighed deeply.
“Then let’s talk, Aid. About your body.”
Aid smiled wryly. “I suppose you saw through me. Your magical insight remains as sharp as ever.”
He reached down, unclipping the war hammer from his belt—a relic of the High Mountain Kingdom.
“This hammer is our ancestral heirloom. When a royal dwarf dies, their body and soul are fused into it, becoming strength for future generations.”
He ran a hand over the intricate carvings.
“Months ago, I forcibly merged my body and spirit into this hammer. I gained immense power—temporarily. But the cost… was irreversible.”
He paused, voice low.
“In three years, my soul-fire will be drained completely. I will become part of the hammer itself.”
He looked at it with reverence. “I used an arcane ritual to reclaim a fragment of flame—enough to restore my strength for now. But my lifespan… is less than a year.”
Titus frowned, his voice grave. “There are ways to extend life. Why risk this?”
Aid turned toward the west, his eyes distant.
“I’ve lived long enough. To die on the battlefield is far better than lingering in suffering—than living as a corpse, trapped in a body that no longer belongs to me.”
He glanced back, meeting Titus’s gaze.
“You know the truth. The Empire of Ashen has conquered Northern Aether. Our kingdom lies directly in their path. The Red Dragon Emperor could march on us at any moment.”
He sighed. “I’ve seen the intelligence from the Lute Players’ Alliance. Their military power is overwhelming. If I remain weak…”
He looked down, a bitter smile on his lips.
“…before the Red Dragon even arrives, Aivendeldan will already be lost.”
Titus gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain in his limbs. He pushed himself upright, his voice trembling with resolve.
“I will help you. I will not stand by and watch that evil dragon destroy Aivendeldan! I will not let another ally fall to a monster’s claws!”
Aid looked at him, gratitude in his eyes—but then shook his head firmly.
“I must decline your aid, Lord Titus.”
“Why? Am I not your ally?”
“Forgive me, but you are too wounded. You’ve fought valiantly against the Empire of Ashen. You’ve already done more than any dragon should. And more than we could ever repay.”
He let out a hollow laugh.
“This war… it cannot be won. And you, Lord Titus—your existence is too precious. You must become the vital force that will resist invasion. You must play a greater role in the future. Not die here—now, in vain.”
Titus lowered his head, silence settling over him. The dwarf king was right. With his wounds, he could not withstand the Empire’s assault.
He had no words.
Better to wait. Better to plan. To unite allies across the land, to forge a lasting alliance—until they could stand as equals against the enemy.
But this was not just strategy. It was emotion. The real Titus—no longer a man, but a dragon in body and soul—felt the weight of helplessness, the sting of inevitability.
After a long silence, Titus looked up.
“Aid His Majesty… so. What do you want me to do?”
Aid met his gaze, his voice firm.
“I want you to guard the last lineage of the High Mountain Kingdom. If Aivendeldan falls… my last hope is that you will take with you everything I entrust to you. That you carry our people, our legacy, our hope.”
He paused, his voice soft.
“Then, even if our kingdom is lost… one day, our descendants will rise again. Our civilization will endure. And the glory of the Shield Dwarves will return.”
(End of Chapter)
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