Chapter Six – Embers in the Dark
1084 Words
They didn’t speak until the trees swallowed them whole. The path beneath their feet was little more than a deer trail, winding through roots that jutted like ribs from the earth. Overhead, the canopy thickened until daylight fractured into broken green shards. The forest seemed to breathe — the hush of leaves, the snap of distant twigs, the low hush of wind like a warning whispered too late.
Aksanaa’s breath had started to falter the moment the city vanished behind them, replaced by dense forest and shadows that moved like breath. At first, she chalked it up to exhaustion — too many close calls, too little blood. But somewhere along the ridgeline, she staggered.
“Stop trying to walk,” Saelwyn muttered.
“I’m fine,” she hissed, but her knees gave way before her mouth could lie again.
Saelwyn caught her before she hit the moss.
“You’re bleeding.”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes rolled back, and the world slipped sideways.
—
By the time she woke, it was cold stone beneath her, not earth. Dampness clung to her skin. The air tasted faintly of coal and rust. Somewhere nearby, iron hissed against water, and the rhythmic pounding of a hammer echoed through the cavern like a heartbeat slowed by distance. The ceiling above was rough-hewn, rippled with soot and age. Light flickered from a pair of wall-mounted lanterns.
A cave?
No.
A forge.
“Didn’t know I signed up to haul noble relic-snatchers across the forest,” Saelwyn muttered, his tone blunt and amused, but dry as ever.
Aksanaa blinked. Saelwyn stood near the entrance, arms crossed, the edges of his cloak dripping from old rain. He didn’t look at her.
“You could’ve found someone quieter to piss off,” he said. “But no. You had to go and steal from the one man whose blood runs hotter than his dragons.”
She squinted. “What are you talking about?”
Saelwyn didn’t move. “Your pursuer. That wasn’t just a royal guard. That was *Prince Daghan*.”
Aksanaa sat up too quickly, winced. “That was the *prince*?”
“Mm. And you kneed him in the jewels. So congratulations. We’re officially in hell.”
—
The hideout wasn’t just a cave. It was an ancient dwarven redoubt, etched into the mountain's spine long before the current kings were born. Faded murals lined the arching halls — battles, monsters, names no one remembered. Moss clung to forgotten sigils, and dust coated the grandeur like a funeral shroud. It was an old dwarven stronghold — tunnels carved into the rock like veins, half-collapsed, half-converted. The rebellion had made it livable, barely. But at its heart was still fire and metal.
They led her through dim corridors, past children wrapped in blankets, old women with haunted eyes, a few rebels sharpening blades in the corners like ghosts waiting for purpose.
Finally, they stopped at a thick iron door etched with blackened runes.
Saelwyn knocked once. Then twice.
The door swung open.
“About time,” came the gruff voice of **Runi Copperheart**. She was shorter than Aksanaa expected, her hair pulled into tight braids, goggles pushed up on her soot-streaked forehead. Her forge apron was scorched at the edges, and her arms were corded with muscle.
“You’re the dagger thief, huh?”
Aksanaa blinked. “...Yes?”
“Don’t look so proud. You bled all over my tunnel.”
Their eyes met.
Then — a grin.
“I like her.”
The forge was warm and smelled like metal and ash. Runi moved around her workbench with the ease of someone who knew how to break the world and rebuild it.
“You brought rebels here?” Aksanaa asked.
Runi nodded. “The kingdom forgot these tunnels existed. Good. We remember. That’s what dwarves do. We remember what the high towers forget.”
“Why help them?”
Runi’s hands paused. Then she shrugged.
“I lost someone. That’s another day’s story.”
She clapped her hands. “Come on. Supper’s on. You eat like you fight, I’ll need three more loaves.”
—
Dinner was a quiet affair. Aksanaa sat near the edge of the communal hearth, a bowl of stew in one hand, the dagger in the other.
She spun it slowly. Absentmindedly.
Runi noticed.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
Aksanaa handed it over.
Runi inspected the hilt, the rune work, the strange shimmer beneath the surface.
She tried to draw it.
It didn’t budge.
“Huh.”
She handed it back. “Try.”
Aksanaa took the dagger.
It slid free like water.
Runi exhaled through her nose.
“Well then. Looks like it’s chosen you.”
She met Aksanaa’s gaze.
“But be careful. Blades like this? Their loyalty doesn’t run deep. Only sharp.”
But as she turned away, her brow furrowed — a flicker of something unreadable passing across her face.
—
Elsewhere, the city choked on its own silence.
Daghan walked with purpose, flanked by clay guards. Their boots struck cobblestones like war drums. The scent of smoke still clung to his cloak from the forge he'd left behind. Every turn brought him more silence — the kind that only fear can command. Streets emptied before him like water parting around fire.
He said little. Asked less. Just kept moving — door to door, alley to alley, until even the rats had learned to vanish.
Grön lumbered beside him, quiet and watchful.
“She’s not here,” Daghan muttered. “I can feel it.”
But the longer they searched, the more eyes followed. Whispers thickened.
By midday, a royal courier found him.
“The High Council summons you. Immediately.”
Daghan’s jaw tensed.
The palace loomed soon after — sharp towers like teeth, banners limp in the still air.
In the council chamber, all was velvet and silence. Seven thrones. Six filled.
One — in the center, belonged to his father -- was empty. In the right next, Consul Vaerum was sitting.
Daghan met his gaze for the first time.
And saw nothing.
Just a smile. Thin. Patient. Terrifying.
“Prince Daghan,” Vaerum said, voice smooth as ink. “We’ve much to discuss.”
A breeze moved through the chamber — too faint to stir banners, but enough to shift a strand of Daghan’s silver-blond hair as he watched from the point where he hesitantly stood. This wasn’t going to be a pleasent one.
- Writer
