Carved into the heart of the ancestral mountain, the dwarven capital stood as a testament to stone, steel, and endurance. The black walls, reinforced with glowing runes in an icy blue hue, shimmered like frozen embers beneath the pale light of crystals that lit the eternal tunnels.
That day, the entire people had come to a halt. From the elders in the highest halls to the miners in the deepest levels, all stood in silence, in mourning.
They held small white flowers, one in each hand. With every step marked by the dragging of the white marble coffin, reverence grew stronger. The procession descended slowly down the stone stairways, heading toward the bottom of the mountain—to the Hall of Eternal Rest, where only the great and the honored sleep forever beside the heart of the earth.
Among the silent crowd, one scene cut deeper than blades.
Two dwarven women mother and daughter—both with skin dark as onyx and eyes green as vivid emeralds. Beautiful in their sorrow, their curly hair braided ceremonially, trembling faintly with stifled sobs. The mother held the daughter in a hug that felt more like a plea for comfort than an offering of it.
The older woman's gaze was hollow, the stare of someone ground down by the merciless gears of life. First, the husband—swallowed by a mine collapse while trying to pay off debts that ate through them like rust.
Now, the daughter's betrothed her hope for rebuilding, for relief, for a new beginning—had fallen inside a dungeon, with no chance even for goodbye.
Raggram, son of High Lord Ragg Ironbeard, was dead.
The world around them seemed painted in black and white.
The sound of hammers had ceased. The clamor of taverns had died. Not even the forges roared.
And then, the voice of the High Lord deep as the roots of the world—echoed through the mountain's walls. His silver beard was entwined with black stones in mourning. His eyes were caverns of held-back sorrow.
He spoke not as a ruler, but as a father. And his voice pierced the hearts of all who listened.
"From earth we were shaped, and to earth we return for our eternal rest.
What flows through our veins is not merely blood, but the molten metal of ages, the weight of history, the fire of honor.
Our existence is forged in volcanic heat and tempered in the freezing waters of hardship. Each of us is a living blade—forged, tested, broken.
Today, one such blade has shattered.
Today, my son returns to the womb of the mountain.
And even in my grief, I say this: he left us as a true dwarf.
May the stones whisper his name forever…
…and may his soul find rest beside the ancestral forgemasters."
A drum sounded.
The mountain responded with a low, hollow echo—like a cry.
The coffin was placed into the stone sanctuary.
When the marble coffin finally touched the sanctuary rock, grief turned into beauty.
The mountain's walls began to bloom. As though the heart of the earth, touched by sorrow, returned a breath of hope to the world.
White flowers sprouted from cracks, stones, and ancient alcoves. They rained down like an inverted snowfall from the cavern ceiling, painting the interior of the capital as if the starry sky had become petals. The purest beauty born from the cruelest moment.
But not all grief blooms. Some… rots.
**
The house that once held dreams was now only rubble—wooden debris and shattered memories. The green-eyed woman with braided hair sold everything she could carry: silverware, wedding tapestries, even her late husband's books. But no coin was ever enough.
The debts had become a stone beast—unyielding, insatiable.
She hid her sobs from her daughter at night, silent as a widow among ruins. But there was more than just sorrow. There was a shadow in her mind.
"You said Raggram would marry your daughter. Now tell me what future awaits the heir of Frostpeak, hmm?"
That voice... that face... she couldn't recall clearly. An old colleague of her husband? A guild official? Or something else?
At the time, the conversation had seemed harmless.
But now... it felt wrong.
A twisted spark, buried deep in her memory.
Someone had probed her.
Someone from those shadows that corrupt the world.
But the fog in her mind was impenetrable.
And like any dwarf with pride in her ancestral blood, she tried to pay.
But honor, among dwarves, is a double-edged blade.
The creditors came like vultures. The neighbors stepped back, as if she were contagious. Those who once toasted her husband in celebration now closed their doors in silent disdain.
And so, she did what no mother should ever be forced to do.
She asked two old friends of her husband to take her daughter away. Told them it was for safety. A short trip. Time for the girl to breathe.
It was a lie.
She knew she would never see her again. Sending her daughter far away—for a new beginning.
And so it was. Two trusted dwarves took her.
And the mother's fate? The one place no respectable woman would ever dream of setting foot in.
She entered one of Frostpeak's darkest sectors—the Grey District, where contracts were bought like beer and bodies were priced like metals.
The brothel reeked of cheap incense and despair. She still trembled when she signed the papers.
But what shattered her heart wasn't the contract.
It was the muffled sound of voices celebrating "the night's attraction."
"The Black Sapphire… what a rare find..."
"Never thought a girl like that would show up here..."
She ran upstairs, as if she could stop fate with her bare hands.
And what she saw was worse than any debt, any dungeon, any loss.
Her daughter was there.
Dressed in cheap silks. Painted like merchandise. Surrounded by ravenous eyes.
Not touched. Not yet.
But prepared.
Prepared like an offering. A prize.
The mother tried to scream, but her voice failed.
Tried to run, but her legs wouldn't move.
And in that moment, the world collapsed around her.
'How did it come to this?' she thought.
'How could the fate of an entire family be shaped by a single forgotten whisper—by an innocent question from the past?'
The answer came like an echo from the depths of her soul:
'Because not all dwarves are honorable. And among us, there are those who carry not ancestral blood… but poison in their veins.'
Her suffering was far from over. Chains on her feet, wrists, and neck kept her from protecting her only child.
And her eyes and mind shattered that very night.
There, before her, like a beast from the wild, her daughter was sold.
Deflowered on that very stage.
Used—again and again. Different races. Different men. With different tools.
Their laughter in her ears no different from the demonic voices of the vilest scum.
Tears of blood and a true whisper:
"If there is any god in this world…" her voice cracked, thick with despair, "...I give everything. Everything I have. Just give me one chance to fix this. Let me save her."
The world replied with silence.
But something listened.
From the darkness between the shadows, a hooded figure emerged. As if it had always been there, simply waiting for the right plea to be spoken.
No one around reacted. Not a glance, not a tremble in their voice. As if only she could see it.
The figure's cloak was woven from liquid darkness, and beneath the hood, only two glowing white eyes shone. No irises. No emotion. As if they belonged to a corpse that would never sleep.
The creature bowed slightly. Its voice was ancient, whispered like dust shifting across the floor.
"So you want power, then? Vengeance? Salvation?"
"I want everything," she replied with fevered eyes, without hesitation.
"Then… I want everything too," the shadow answered, extending its hand.
In its palm: a small black crystal, pulsing slowly, like a sleeping heart.
She took it.
She swallowed it.
And the world went dark.
That night, a rumor spread through the forgotten parts of Frostpeak Karak.
They said a creature—born from a dungeon, or perhaps from the very depths of hell—had invaded a hidden brothel in the Grey District.
The place had been sealed off by decree of the High Lord himself, but like every prohibition in times of crisis, it had been ignored in the shadow of profit.
By the time the guards arrived, it was already too late.
The brothel was destroyed.
Walls collapsed, the ground soaked in blood and viscera. Severed limbs. Screams frozen in torn flesh.
And at the center of it all… an abomination.
A towering entity, monstrous, with dozens of black arms like obsidian, long and curved, each ending in claws sharp enough to cut steel.
There were no eyes on its face. Only a gaping slit where a horrible scream echoed, reverberating through the stones of the city like a living curse.
In its arms, gripped with brutal, desperate force, was a small dwarven girl with dark skin, her chest opened by a black void, as if her soul had been ripped out.
The creature howled in agony. In regret. In despair.
Until finally, the commotion ended when the guards put it down.
**
Far away. Far from everything.
Above the veil of reality and beneath layers of concealment spells, a little girl with an ethereal appearance swung her legs atop an invisible tower.
Skin white as polished bone. White hair, white eyebrows, white eyes—eyes that seemed to carry the absence of all color.
She laughed. A childish sound, joyful… and profoundly wrong.
"Look… Look how everything breaks. So pretty. So red… just like Branca's toys," she whispered to herself, watching the tragic events unfold in dwarven territory.
Her bare feet kicked rhythmically at the air, as if the whole world were just a private theater for her sick amusement.
Suddenly, reality twisted beside her.
A massive shadow emerged from nothing.
Tall, faceless, but its mere presence distorted the space around it. The runes of the world trembled, as if recognizing a higher authority.
"Branca," the voice was like thunder whispered, "he sent word. Deliver the package to the anomaly with three affinities in demon territory."
She stopped swinging her legs.
"What? Branca again? Branca likes freedom, you go!" she crossed her arms, pouting. "Branca wants to play! Branca always gets the boring places!"
"I didn't come to argue. Carry out your orders. It's been a while since you had a real mission."
"Real missions are always so boring!" she rolled her eyes like a spoiled child. "And horny demon… horny demon sees Branca. Branca doesn't like when someone sees Branca."
The being's aura expanded. Like a tide of darkness and authority, it swallowed the space around them.
Its golden eyes flared from the void.
Branca screamed. A shrill, spoiled, hysterical scream like a tantrum:
"AAAHHH! Fine, fine! Everything's Branca, everything's Branca! Branca does this, Branca kills that! Branca just wants to do cool experiments!"
"But Branca can't kill sexy demon!" she crossed her arms again. "Horny mage always finds Branca. And Branca doesn't want to die… yet."
The shadow receded, nodding silently. In moments, it vanished as if it had never been there.
Branca huffed, puffing her cheeks. Her white eyes looked toward the horizon with a mix of disgust and mischievous curiosity.
"Hmph… before I see sexy horn-boy, Branca's going to visit another toy in human territory. Branca left an unfinished experiment there. So cute… and so broken. Hehehe..."
She jumped from the invisible tower as if it were nothing but a game. And when her feet touched the ground, reality tore open in a black flower, swallowing her presence.
Once again, chaos had legs and eyes.