As Laboritus stepped off the field, Torglel hollered, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall!" His voice boomed across the clearing, brash and bright, echoing through the forest.
Laboritus said nothing as he passed, his eyes distant and cold, looking right past us as if we were ghosts. He joined the sidelines, shoulders squared but heavy, the weight of his fall still clinging to him like damp earth. He flexed his fingers once, like he missed a part of himself—and wasn't sure if it was coming back.
Torglel cracked his knuckles, the pop sharp in the quiet, and glanced at me, his grin as cheeky as ever, a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. "Oi. Don't go punching me in the face again, eh?"
I smirked halfheartedly, the jab already wearing thin. "No promises," I shot back, though my heart wasn't in it—the sting of it lingered like a bruise.
Torglel chuckled—lighter than his usual boisterous laugh, softer around the edges. "Just keep it calm. We've been training harder than an ogre's backside is tough."
Looking back, I see it now—he was looking out for me. His way of pulling me back from an edge I didn't even know I was on.
Seluvia's voice sliced through the moment, crisp and no-nonsense. "Whenever you two are done, let's get started."
We stepped forward onto the field—just movement and routine. Grass crunched underfoot. The air buzzed faintly with old magic—mossy and metallic, like storm-soaked stone.
Seluvia wasted no time. Fireballs screamed toward us, streaks of orange ripping through the dusk.
Torglel smashed his fists together with a heavy thud, and a shield of flame burst to life, a wall of molten heat that shimmered like glass. The fireballs hit, hammering the barrier, ripples spreading across its surface.
I glanced at him, grinning despite the chaos. "Dwarf baseball?"
Torglel's grin widened. "Aye. That little mouse won't know what hit her."
From in front of the barrier, Seluvia's voice cut in, flat and confused. "What's baseball?"
I blinked. "It's a sport. In a different... continent. You know what, never mind."
This was our style. A plan born of sweat, sparks, and sheer madness—one we'd cooked up here during training.
Without missing a beat, I scooped Torglel under my arm, his weight solid. I held my breath, lungs burning as he let the shield fall, flames winking out in a rush of hot air. The instant it dropped, I bolted.
The air around me crackled and popped, sparks trailing in the dust. I pushed my speed to the limit, the world a blur, pulse a war drum in my skull.
Seluvia was fast—already switching to lightning. Jagged bolts crashed down, trying to pin me mid-sprint. But I was faster. I pulled just ahead of each strike, the ground sizzling behind me.
The gap between us vanished in a heartbeat.
Seluvia threw up a wall of wind, a howling gust meant to shove me back. I didn't hesitate.
Muscles strained as I launched him like a javelin. Lightning arced down my arms—snapping, burning—amplifying the throw with a crackling jolt. He ignited mid-air, a dwarf-shaped projectile of fire and fury. He tore through the wind wall like a blade through cloth.
Torglel's battle cry exploded from his lungs, a roar that echoed through the forest, triumphant. "I got ye now, little one!"
Seluvia's eyes widened, panic flashing as she raised an earthen wall—dirt and rock surging to block him.
Too slow. Torglel smashed through the wall like it was made of wet parchment. Stone exploded outward in a cloud of dust and gravel. Seluvia went flying, a blur of fur and robes.
Before she hit the ground, Petrus appeared in a blink—one moment gone, the next catching her midair with casual precision. His staff braced in one hand, her tiny frame cradled like a feather in the other.
Torglel, however, kept going. And promptly slammed into a tree.
The tree shuddered. Somewhere above, an offended owl hooted. A of Dwarven curses rang through the clearing—loud, creative, and wildly inappropriate. The only bit I'm allowed to translate? "May your beard turn into snakes."
I winced. I couldn't help reliving my own personal saga of tree-related humiliation. Maybe I juiced that throw a little too hard. I was positive it was perfect.
Torglel groaned and peeled himself off the bark, brushing leaves from his beard like someone scraping moss off a shield. "Who puts a damn tree in the middle of a battlefield..." he muttered, eyes unfocused.
He stood, wincing harder than he let on. For just a breath, the grin slipped. Then it was back. Dwarves don't break. Not where anyone can see.
Seluvia wriggled out of Petrus's arms, brushing herself off with sharp little huffs. She looked dazed, but not hurt—just deeply, profoundly annoyed. A tiny spark crackled at her fingertips before she muttered something sharp in an ancient tongue and stormed off.
The three of them made their way back to the center of the field. Torglel was rubbing his shoulder, face somewhere between smug and pained.
"I'll be feelin' that in the mornin'," he grumbled, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Petrus crossed his arms, tail twitching slightly. "You two are as unpredictable as a drunk wyvern in a windstorm," he said, not unkindly. "That kind of chaos is a strength. But chaos without control? That's just an accident waiting to happen."
Alythiel cheered loudly from the sidelines, her face beaming with pride. "That was incredible!"
Petrus gave her a slow, thoughtful nod. "It worked," he admitted. "So you pass. Barely."
He turned to all of us, voice firm. "Rest while you can. Tomorrow, the training only intensifies from here."
Alythiel touched my arm, eyes on a nearby food stall. "Hungry?" she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Roasted meat scented the air. I nodded, while Torglel dragged Laboritus toward the next round of punishment.
"Let me tell you how dwarves fight," he said, grinning as he led the way.
Laboritus shot Torglel a look of gratitude, a flicker of warmth breaking through his earlier frost. He'd been quietly beating himself up after failing Petrus's test, his pride dented deep, but Torglel's infectious spirit was dragging him out of that pit.
I shook my head, smiling to myself as we walked. I'd gotten that same lecture the first time Torglel and I trained together—his eager ramble about Dwarven brawls, all fists and fire. He was just as keen to tell me then as he was with Laboritus now, a constant I could lean on.
This was the start of us feeling like a real family—comrades in arms.
We walked side by side. Firelight behind us. At the market stall, Alythiel picked through bread and meat, wrapping them deftly in cloth. We walked in silence for a while, the air humming with distant laughter and the crackle of campfires. But something had changed—something in the quiet between us.
"Solari..." she said softly, her voice a thread pulled tight. "Are you truly alright?"
I looked over—her moonstone eyes met mine, steady and patient. "After everything with your father... your people..." She hesitated. "You don't have to keep building walls with me."
I tried to shrug it off, like it weighed less than it did. "Family isn't about blood," I said. "It's about who shows up. Tolgarn raised me. He's my father. Not Zolphan."
She didn't react. Didn't nod. Just watched me in silence like she was waiting for the truth to surface on its own.
Then, quietly: "That may be true. But it doesn't mean you're okay."
And in the silence, he came slithering back.
"Your demon blood runs deeper than theirs," my shadow whispered, voice like hot wax and rusted chains. "You were made for more than they can stomach. You don't belong among them. You were born to rise alone."
I shut my eyes. Ground my teeth. Not now. Not here. I felt the whisper smile.
"You can bury me, Solari. But you built your spine from my bones."
When I looked at Alythiel again, she opened her mouth like she wanted to press further—but something in my face stopped her. She gave a small, tired smile. Not forced, but not full.
She placed a hand on my shoulder—steady, warm.
And in that moment, I realized something brutal: I wasn't trying to convince her I was fine. I was trying to convince myself. And I was failing.
I should've listened to her. That whisper in my head wasn't noise—it was prophecy. And I was too proud, or too scared, to hear it.