Drillohiem
Drillohiem wandered the stone corridors of Whitewater Castle with no real direction. His feet moved on instinct while his mind gnawed at the same thought again and again:
What war rages inside Uncle Grodak?
He didn't need true sight to see the turmoil burning behind Grodak's eyes. It was a war the orc was losing. And that terrified him. Grodak had conquered the Casarn curse — something no orc in recorded history had ever done. How could anything break someone like that?
His thoughts drifted to Grall… to the memories Grall had forced into him with his dying breath.
That still unsettled him.
It wasn't like Grall to share anything of himself — much less the deepest sorrows he kept buried. But the memories were there all the same, raw and jagged.
Drillohiem could still feel the lingering ache of Grall's grief. The isolation. The guilt. The knowledge that one desperate, righteous choice had saved many lives yet condemned him in the eyes of his own people.
Drillohiem imagined what he would have done in Grall's place.
And much to his own surprise… he would've done the same thing.
Maybe it was his elven half, or perhaps the lessons burned into him by the elders, but he understood Grall's reasoning far more than the elders ever had. How disgusting, Drillohiem thought bitterly, that Grall suffered exile for the same kind of decision Grodak was praised for making.
He sighed, rubbing his temple—
—and suddenly realized he had wandered into a vast chamber lined with towering shelves.
"A… library?" Drillohiem blinked. "How did I even get here?"
He turned to leave.
A hooded figure blocked the doorway.
Drillohiem froze mid-step.
More shapes shifted in the shadows. Black-cloaked figures appeared between the shelves, slipping out like phantoms until they encircled him completely.
The figure by the door stepped forward, white fangs glinting beneath the hood.
"Who sent you?" the voice growled.
Drillohiem blinked, startled. "Fluffles?"
A dangerous, warning rumble answered him.
"Speak again, halfling," the voice said, "and I'll open your throat."
---
Fluffles
Fluffles had watched the halfling wander Whitewater's halls with growing unease. His steps were too casual, too distracted, too reminiscent of—
Him.
Grall.
And then the memories rose unbidden.
Grall's quiet voice one evening, while watching Fluffles' adopted goblin son play by the fire:
> "I once had a child named Drillohiem…
But I wouldn't have been the father he deserved. I gave him to an orphanage after he was born. When I went back years later—"
Grall's voice had cracked. His shoulders had trembled.
Fluffles never saw him look more broken than in that moment.
He'd tried to comfort him, but Grall rejected comfort the way wounded animals reject food. His pain was locked inside, festering, bleeding into every mission they took.
Fluffles had suspected then — with his own heart twisting — that Grall believed his son dead.
And now… here wandered a halfling with Grall's gait, Grall's mannerisms, even the same maddening way of staring at walls while thinking too deeply.
It was too much.
When the halfling drifted into the Queen's library, Fluffles signaled his men to surround him. The moment Drillohiem turned and peered into Fluffles' hood, something inside the tabaxi spy cracked.
"Who are you?" Fluffles rasped.
"Fluffles?" the halfling said — so close to Grall's voice that Fluffles almost stepped forward, almost embraced him.
But that was impossible.
It had to be.
Fluffles forced his heart back into stone.
"I'll ask one more time," he growled, letting anger mask the tremor in his chest. "Who are you?"
The halfling swallowed. "M-my name is Drillohiem."
The world stopped.
Drillohiem.
The name Grall had whispered with grief thick in his throat.
Panic surged through Fluffles. If Xierma learned Grall's son was here—
She would kill him instantly.
"What are you doing here, 'Drillohiem'?" Fluffles snapped, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
"I… I don't know," Drillohiem admitted. "I was thinking and wandered without noticing where I was going."
Theo stepped forward, hand on his sword. "Why are you roaming the castle without an escort?"
Drillohiem hesitated—then spoke too honestly, too boldly.
"I am Drillohiem, son of Grall. I came to speak with my uncle Grodak, who gave me permission to move freely while I search for my inheritance."
Dead silence spread through the room.
Fluffles cursed. Every man here had standing orders from Queen Xierma:
Kill anyone who served Grall. Kill anyone who claims his blood.
And here the fool had just declared it loudly enough to echo.
Fluffles made a decision in a heartbeat.
The only way to protect Grall's son…
…was to pretend to try to kill him.
With a snarl, Fluffles lunged — swinging his blade in a dramatic, wide arc that any trained fighter could dodge.
"You liar!"
Drillohiem slipped past the blow with ease and darted out the door. Shouts rang behind him. He sprinted down the corridor, ducking into the nearest room and locking the door.
Footsteps approached.
"What are you doing?" muffled voices hissed.
"Check the rooms down the hall," Fluffles barked. "If you find him, do NOT kill him. I want the pleasure myself."
A cold shiver ran through Drillohiem.
The footsteps faded.
He searched frantically — a window too small, no vents, no other door. He positioned himself behind the main door, ready to fight to the death if he had to.
A click.
The door opened.
Drillohiem tensed—
Fluffles stepped in alone and slammed the door behind him.
The hood fell from his head.
His angry mask melted away.
He exhaled shakily.
Then he turned toward Drillohiem.
Drillohiem
"Is what you said true?" Fluffles asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Are you really my master's son?"
Drillohiem froze. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as panic clawed at him. A lie could save his life. A truth could destroy it. He had very few principles, but denying his father—denying the blood of Grall—felt like a stain he would never wash away.
And besides… despite everything, despite the fear and resentment… he knew Grall had cared. The memories Grall left him made that impossible to ignore.
"Yes," Drillohiem finally breathed. "I am the son of Grall… nephew to Lord Grodak."
Fluffles let out a long, shuddering sigh and buried his face in his hands. For a moment, Drillohiem wondered if he was already dead—if Fluffles was merely mourning the necessity of striking him down.
Instead, Fluffles lifted his head and said, with a resigned grimace, "Okay. Attack me."
Drillohiem blinked. "…Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Fluffles tossed his sword aside; it clattered across the stone and slid out of reach. He spread his arms wide. "Attack me and make it look good."
"Why?"
"Don't ask questions," Fluffles hissed, teeth bared. "Just do what I tell you."
Drillohiem stepped forward slowly, mind racing. He understood. If he defeated Fluffles—the strongest warrior in the castle—then none of the others would dare pursue him. Fluffles was offering him a chance… at the cost of his own honor.
And Drillohiem took it.
He struck fast, without finesse, fists slamming into the tabaxi's jaw, ribs, stomach. Fluffles didn't block. Didn't dodge. Just absorbed the pain with a tight jaw and a knowing, resigned look.
It wasn't a battle. It wasn't even a fight.
It was an execution of trust.
With one final blow, Fluffles collapsed to the stone floor—unconscious, breathing shallowly.
Drillohiem stood over him, chest heaving, guilt burning deep in his stomach. His father had never been honorable. Drillohiem supposed this was the closest he would get to following in his footsteps.
He bowed his head once.
"...Thank you," he whispered.
Then he fled the castle, snow already falling as he made for the place where Grall had left the remnants of his legacy.
---
Scarlet
A red-haired woman and a long white dragon descended through the twilight toward a small hut hidden beneath the forest canopy. Logs patched with moss formed the walls, and smoke curled lazily from a crooked stone chimney. It was modest—two bedrooms at most—and old enough to creak every time the wind shifted.
The woman knocked once.
The door swung open to reveal a tall man with the same vivid red hair, though his eyes glowed a warm yellow unlike her bright green ones.
"Scarlet…" Aziel breathed, openly surprised. "We weren't expecting you for a few more weeks."
She stepped inside with a tired smile. "I know. Plans changed. We're traveling farther than usual this time, so… I wanted to bring money first."
Before Aziel could answer, a small blur burst from the back room.
"Mommy! Mino!"
A boy no older than eight—with wild white-blonde hair and mismatched eyes—raced toward them. Amino coiled around him like a protective ribbon of feathers and scales, lifting him gently off the ground. The child's laughter echoed through the tiny hut.
Scarlet's smile softened. She took him from the dragon's back and pressed him to her chest. "Hello, my love. Oh, spirits—you've gotten bigger again! What is your uncle feeding you?"
"He doesn't stop growing," Aziel laughed, settling at the round wooden table with only three usable chairs. The fourth leaned broken in the corner. Everything in the house was old—patched, repaired, and soon beyond saving.
"I gots to eat lots so I can be strong like Mino!" the boy announced proudly, scrambling back onto the dragon.
Scarlet laughed, rummaging in her bag. "Speaking of strength… I brought this." She handed Aziel a pouch of gold and silver.
He frowned. "Where are you headed?"
"West. Toward Whitewater." She exhaled slowly. "Work's been scarce. Not many contracts after… everything that happened with that orc, Grall."
The room grew quiet for a moment.
Scarlet's hand drifted to her stomach—habitual, protective.
"I just want enough to keep my son safe," she whispered. "Whitewater might be the last place left that can pay."
Amino's tail flicked uneasily behind her.
Neither of them noticed the faint shimmer of light at the edge of the woods—something watching, listening, waiting.
---
Drillohiem
The cold wind cut through Drillohiem's clothes as he trudged through waist-deep snow. Each breath froze against his lips. But he pushed on.
This was the place. His father's memories guided him here.
"If Uncle Grodak was right…" Drillohiem murmured, exhaling a cloud of frost, "then this is where he left them."
He took another step—and collided foot-first with something solid.
He cursed, pulling his foot free and rubbing it until the numbness faded. Then he knelt and brushed away the snow.
A black hilt gleamed up at him.
Oathbreaker.
His father's blade.
His hands trembled as he dug deeper, uncovering pieces of armor—dark orichalcum, warm to the touch despite the frozen air. He strapped the armor on, feeling a strange pulse in the metal, as though it recognized him. Accepted him.
The last thing Grall left behind.
He searched for the other weapons—the spear, the knives, the enchanted relics—but they were nowhere to be found. Either buried deeper… or taken long ago.
With a frustrated sigh, Drillohiem sheathed Oathbreaker and turned back toward Whitewater.
He didn't want to return.
But his uncle deserved to know Grall's legacy hadn't been lost.
As he walked, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying faint echoes—Grall's memories stirring within him.
And buried beneath them… a strange tug.
A sense that Grall wasn't as gone as the world believed.