Below, the city sprawled in a mosaic of color and sound. Wide avenues teemed with traders and smiths. Stone bridges arced gracefully over shimmering channels. Banners embroidered with mountain clan runes whipped in the wind—meanings lost to all but the oldest dwarves.
Even from here, Timmy caught the rhythm of the forges—the clang of hammers like the steady beat of a great heart. Fires crackled in giant braziers, flickering light over murals carved into the mountain’s face—dwarven history etched deep, proud, unyielding.
He felt it beneath his ribs. The mountain’s heartbeat. Solid. Timeless.
As they drew closer, Morjanon revealed itself not just in grandeur, but in character.
Buildings rose from the mountain’s bones, shaped rather than built—as if the stone had offered itself willingly. Warm light spilled from arched windows. Balconies curled like ivy. Statues of ancient warrior-kings stood sentinel at doorways, their worn faces watchful.
Timmy’s eyes drank it all in—the darting of dwarven children weaving through market stalls, the mingled scents of smoked meat, fire oil, and fresh bread. The city thrummed with life and legend; every corner alive with whispers of old songs.
Passing a cluster of weathered stone cottages near the smithy, Timmy caught a low voice rising above the clamor—soft but steady as the mountain itself.
He slowed, listening.
An old dwarf, leather apron heavy with soot, recited a poem in a gravelly voice. His companions nodded along, eyes bright despite worn faces.
“Stone stands silent,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFoBi1Tc8wK
Endless and cold,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7KIEdN533J
Yet strikes like the falcon,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtUBOnkSdme
From two sides bold.
One wing shadows,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhrpw7xgSik
Silent and near,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLDlPrTl6dI
The other a flash,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOTjl7E8gw3
Sharp and clear.
So foes beware,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjwAlfwVuDV
The mountain’s breath,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMTAOgVAZdI
For stone and falcon,28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh4FsL25MWh
Deal swift death.”
Timmy’s heart quickened as the old dwarf’s words sank deep—part warning, part promise—resonating with the pulse of the mountain city.
Morjanon thrummed with unity and resilience. Towering walls rose like weathered arms of stone, embracing the city in a protective hold. At its center stood the castle—not a towering keep like those of men, but one carved into the mountain’s very heart. It seemed to grow from the rock itself, its ancient walls etched with stories of battles fought, bargains struck, betrayals endured, and triumphs won.
Timmy—watching, listening, remembering—felt that weight settle heavy in his chest.
The journey had been long. The road uncertain. But here, beneath the shadow of Torin’s Domain, something stirred in him: anticipation, maybe even hope.
As they neared the gates, scents mingled in the cool evening air—exotic spices blending with wood smoke and the yeasty warmth of fresh bread. Banners fluttered on high, catching the breeze. Merchants shouted their wares, and children’s laughter echoed down winding streets. The city breathed.
Elron moved through the crowd with practiced ease—eyes sharp, posture relaxed but ready. The rhythm of the city energized him, yet a subtle discord whispered at the edge of his senses. He pushed it aside.
“I’m headed for the Shrouded Hammer if you need me!” Timmy called, his voice bright with a spark of excitement. The Shrouded Hammer was his usual refuge—a familiar tavern where good food, strong ale, and a warm bed awaited. Though he sometimes stayed at the castle with Elron during long visits, this was his true haven in Morjanon.
Elron nodded. “Aye, lad. Ye know where to find me if ye need aught.”
With a gentle tug of the reins, Elron turned toward the castle, Darwin, the alien prisoner, and Dwalin close behind.
Timmy glanced at Grimnir and Borin. “You’re welcome to come with me. Good meals, good ale, and usually enough beds.”
They exchanged nods, and the three of them rode off toward the tavern.
The Shrouded Hammer buzzed louder than usual tonight—alive with the hum of voices and the clatter of mugs.
Heat and the scent of roasting meat wrapped around Timmy like a welcome embrace. Mugs clinked, laughter rolled through the air, and the tension of the road began to slip from his shoulders.
At the bar, Gilana greeted him with a radiant smile. Her fiery red hair spilled down her shoulders, eyes crinkling with mischief.
“Only three rooms left, hun,” she said, nodding toward a rowdy group in the corner. “A large crowd just came in.”
Timmy glanced over.
The group wore mismatched, worn armor. Their voices were low, their presence sharp and unsettling.
“Who are they?” Timmy asked.
Gilana’s smile faded as her gaze flicked to the corner. “Strangers,” she muttered. “Came fast. Eyes sharp. Folks say there’s trouble brewing—beyond the mountains.”
She turned back, curiosity lighting her face. “Three ales?” she offered, already reaching for mugs. “And none of that bitter Opal sludge you tried last time.”
Timmy smiled, a rare warmth touching his eyes. “You know me too well.”
He placed coins on the counter, then glanced at Grimnir. “Your round next.”
They found a table, the promise of food and rest settling over them like a cloak. Yet Timmy’s gaze lingered on the armored strangers.
They took a spot near the hearth, but the fire’s warmth barely touched the unease twisting in Timmy’s gut. The Shrouded Hammer had always been a refuge—but even refuges held their shadows.
Around them, the tavern buzzed softly, the hum of voices and clinking mugs wrapping like a familiar cloak. Still, Timmy’s gaze kept drifting—pulled back to that corner. The low murmurs there stirred something deep inside: a primal instinct, sharpened and tested over the past year.
Borin caught sight of familiar faces across the room and rose with a nod. “I’ll be back,” he said, slipping away into the shifting crowd.
Timmy took slower, more deliberate sips of ale. His eyes flicked between faces, searching. One hand cradled his mug; the other hovered near his belt—ready.
He caught details others might miss: worn crests of Convota—sea blue and royal purple—stitched onto cloaks and sashes, faded but clear. Soldiers, mercenaries maybe. Some drank easy, others watched as sharply as he did.
Then everything snapped taut.
It began with a voice—not the words, but the rhythm, a cadence burned deep into memory. Then—a glimpse of a jawline, the tilt of a hood, the familiar arch of a brow.
The scrape of Timmy’s chair echoed sharply against the cold stone floor. A nearby soldier muttered a quick apology, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of Timmy’s pounding heart.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhTOrUung89
“No way,” Timmy whispered, disbelief tight in his voice.
Grimnir looked up, brows furrowed. “Timmy?”
But Timmy was already on his feet, moving with purpose.
Across the tavern, at a shadowed table, three figures looked up. Arkan, Fronan, and Arlep. Their laughter died the moment their eyes met his, shifting from surprise to something harder to read.
Timmy halted just a few steps away, chest pounding, time seeming to hold its breath.
Fronan was the first to rise, weathered face breaking into a mixture of disbelief and joy. “Timmy… is that you, boy?”
Timmy chuckled, warmth spreading beneath his armor. “Yes, dare I say, master?”
Arkan followed, eyes bright with quiet curiosity. “Hard to believe it’s only been months. You’ve grown—taller, steadier.”
“Closer to a year now, old man,” Timmy replied, his voice a blend of affection and the weight of everything he’d seen since.
Fronan and Arkan exchanged a quick glance. Fronan caught the subtle shift in Timmy’s stance—the way his hand lingered near his hilt, the quiet weight in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. Not just taller—tempered.
“You been here the whole time?” Arkan asked.
Timmy nodded. “Just returned from one of Elron’s eastern encampments.”
Arlep’s expression tightened. “Encampment?”
“Yeah,” Timmy said, voice low but resolute. “We’ve been pushing east. Hunting down those things. Trying to end it.”
“So you’ve become a warrior,” Fronan said, pride flickering in his eyes.
“Something like that,” Timmy replied, modest but firm. His armor caught the flicker of candlelight—not boasting, but a quiet testament.
Arkan and Arlep chuckled, eyes lingering on the polished plates.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoJhaK0ANOB
“Ah, that explains the armor,” Arkan said, warm but watchful.
Then the fourth man arrived.
He moved like a shadow—fluid, quiet, and impossible to miss. His cloak hung in tatters, hair untamed, eyes sharp and unreadable. Despite his youth, he carried the weight of someone who’d walked the edges of the world—where maps ended and memory faded.
His gaze locked on Timmy’s armor, widening with genuine interest.
“Where did you come by something so fine?” he asked, voice smooth, colored with an accent that felt both foreign and familiar.
Fronan leaned forward and placed a steady hand on the man's shoulder.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUWdbCCTabU
“This is Simo,” he said, his voice low, edged with respect. “Reckon the two of you’ll have more in common than you think.”
Timmy grinned. “Well, it’s quite the tale. Pull up a seat.”
But even as the smile touched his lips, a flicker of unease stirred—soft as a breath, cold as steel. Something about Simo rang false. A warning whispered from deep within.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiVb9aNuJCk
Still, he waved it off. Tonight, he didn’t want shadows.
Simo slid onto the bench, his angular face lit by the flicker of the hearth. Arkan and Fronan exchanged a glance—a brief, silent recognition of what Timmy had become.
No longer a boy.
Fronan’s smile faltered, just for a breath, as he saw it—the stillness in Timmy’s posture, the calm coiled tight as a drawn bow.
Arkan tilted his head—not with pride, but a quiet worry, as though trying to read the battle lines etched beneath Timmy’s skin.
“Indeed,” Arkan murmured, voice low and thoughtful. “Much to discuss.”
As the ale flowed and the night deepened, their table became a crucible—where memory, myth, and the weight of what lay ahead began to meld into something new, something unspoken yet inevitable.
With Timmy’s invitation, the tension cracked. Tankards clinked, laughter spilled, and for a moment, the past felt close enough to touch.
“So,” Timmy asked, voice casual but edged, “why are you in Morjanon?”
“Like yourself, boy,” Fronan said with a booming laugh. “We’ve got quite the tale. But I want to hear yours first.”
Timmy’s expression shifted—anger and concern flickering beneath the surface. “I kind of knew you’d be here,” he said, the words heavy with significance.
Arkan’s brow furrowed. “You did? How so?”
“Do you remember that time in the woods? When Spud and I were attacked by that magician?”
The warmth at the table vanished. Arkan and Fronan exchanged a glance, their faces tightening. The mention of Spud cast a shadow over the reunion.
“Certainly, we do,” Fronan said, his voice low.
“And you remember the other magician—the one who saved us?”
Arlep’s eyes widened. “You mean Myrddin?”
Timmy nodded. “He told me his name is Emrys. The one who saved us that day.”
Arkan’s expression darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Aye… we remember him. You’ve seen him again?”
“Yesterday. At the encampment,” Timmy said, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “He told me Spud had been captured. And that if I wanted answers, I’d find them here. So I guess he meant you.”
Fronan’s mouth opened, but Arkan raised a hand to stop him.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m the one who should speak. And I’m the one who owes you an apology. It was my charge to protect him. And I failed.”
The table fell still. The tavern noise blurred to background hum.
Sensing the shift, Grimnir stood from his seat. “I’ll fetch us another round,” he murmured, his boots heavy on the stone as he slipped away.
Timmy leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Arkan. “Tell me what happened,” he said, voice low, clipped. “I need to know.”
The air thickened—like the pause before a storm.
Arkan didn’t meet his gaze. He stared into his tankard, the liquid inside reflecting the hearth’s glow. When he spoke, his voice was flat, shaped by guilt.
“We rode on to Pridos. Sought an audience with the King. But he dismissed the warning. Said no one had seen these ‘invaders’ firsthand. Thought it all rumor and shadow.”
Timmy’s jaw tightened.
“While he debated,” Arkan went on, “scouts brought word—a strange force gathering in Blackshield Woods. The King sent us to investigate. We obeyed.”
Grimnir returned then, setting fresh tankards down, silent witness to the weight blanketing the table.
“We tracked them. Found a hidden encampment. Same markings. Same unnatural quiet. You remember the portal in Alderon Forest?”
Timmy nodded, the memory striking hard and fast. “I do.”
“You told us what you saw inside it—another portal, an army beyond. Well… this was the same. A matching sigil. Same stink of wrongness. We barely had time to process before they came for us.”
Arkan paused, his hand tightening around the mug.
“They’d set the ambush well. Silent runners. Traps in the brush. A dozen of our men were down in seconds. In the chaos… Spud’s horse reared. Something struck it—maybe magic, maybe worse. He fell.”
Arkan’s voice faltered, raw at the edges.
Timmy’s breath caught, sharp and sudden. A cold pressure lanced through his chest. He didn’t speak—he couldn’t. The name sat between them like an open wound.
“He vanished in the confusion,” Arkan said finally. “One moment he was there… and then he was gone. We searched, gods know we did. But no trail, no sign. Just—gone.”
Timmy’s hands curled into fists beneath the table, knuckles white. A quiet tremor ran through him, but his eyes never left Arkan’s.
And for a moment, no one spoke. Just the crackle of the hearth, the slow drip of spilled ale on stone, and the silence of all that was lost.
“So… is he alive?” Timmy asked, voice trembling with grief and rising fury.
Fronan’s reply was steady but somber.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnlOxxNzsDE
“I saw them dragging him toward the portal. If they meant to kill him, they would’ve done it.”
Arkan’s gaze met Timmy’s, a silent vow passing between them.
Timmy’s voice steadied, but beneath it, a storm brewed.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk0Ou33M6pm
“We have to find him. No matter what it takes. I’ll cut down every one of them. We bring him home.”
His words hung in the air—grief forged into steel.
Fronan, once the voice of caution, tried again.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMrIFn9M6Pe
“Timmy… vengeance won’t bring Spud back.”
Timmy’s gaze hardened, each word sharp as a blade.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ08h8qIhMN0
“My vengeance will.”
In that moment, the boy they once knew was gone. In his place stood something fiercer—sharpened by loss, steadied by love.
The others exchanged incredulous glances, taken aback by the intensity radiating from Timmy.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCWslI0TACw
His shoulders squared, jaw tight as if carved from iron. Not a trace of the boy remained. Only fire—and purpose.
Arlep leaned forward, his voice calm but resolute.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDYyWyrQgFb
“We’re not the only ones moving,” he said. “To the northeast, something’s rising. We came to see if King Elron will stand with us—if he still can.”
The shift in tone grounded the conversation, steering it away from the edge of Timmy’s rage. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, softening the steel in his eyes. He was still burning—but he wasn’t blind. He understood the weight of unity, the necessity of strategy.
He nodded. “I’ll arrange for you to meet with the King in the morning.”
Timmy took a slow sip of ale, the warmth grounding him. He leaned in, curiosity stirring beneath the surface.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwAM3XEjvVs
“What’s your plan after meeting with Elron?”
Fronan met his gaze, unwavering.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAthKjArrg4
“We’re heading to Convota. Rallying support from each city along the way. We aim to amass the largest force possible.”
Timmy’s smile widened, a flicker of fire lighting his features.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmpK9WwLwvy
“I like it. One last push to finish this war once and for all.”
His voice carried the weight of a warrior—one who had seen too much, lost too much, and was ready to see it through to the end.
“You know you’re welcome to come with us,” Arkin said gently.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVGF3kXMAhI
“A trip home might do you good.”
“Convota?” Timmy echoed, the word tasting strange on his tongue. He could almost see it: the winding canals glinting beneath tiered bridges, barges gliding under lantern-lit arches. The spice markets, still hazy in the morning, alive with scent and sound. A city of dreams and old laughter.
Home.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRELSr9Ad7l
And yet… not.
His smile lingered, but something in his gaze went far away.
“I just might,” he said softly, the words suspended in the low light like a promise half-meant.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY6dMuf2gdj
“I’ll give it some thought.”
The thought of returning stirred something deep—an ache not entirely sorrow. Familiar faces, crooked streets, the plaza where he and Spud used to dare each other to climb the fishmonger’s statue. A world that had once fit him perfectly.
But that boy was gone.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi5NYvUC07r
And Spud was still out there—somewhere between stars and scars.
Timmy took a long sip of ale, the bitter taste grounding him. Whichever road lay ahead—whether carved through dwarven stone or sketched in the shadowed alleys of enemy lands—it would be marked by blood and memory.
And he was ready.
That night, Timmy lay alone beneath the inn’s thick quilts. The familiar scent of home clung to the room—cooked oats lingering from the hearth downstairs, lavender soap from the washbasin, the old leather musk of someone’s boots drying near the fire.
He closed his eyes.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA99ga8nWOC
And drifted.
Back.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡby0tCdFwEu
To that golden morning.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQeDHKbo1Bj
Path Day.
The streets had been filled with song. Ribbons trailed from balconies, laughter spilled from windowpanes. That singular hush, right before the city woke, when the air was still heavy with dew and possibility.
And it was then, on that one morning, everything had changed.
*
Dawn crept gently through the curtains, its golden rays pooling across the floor like spilled honey. Light shimmered over the folds of their ceremony clothes, laid out with care at the foot of each bed. Each tunic and belt—a patchwork of old favorites and new embellishments—seemed to hum with memory and possibility.
Their mother had risen early, as she always did, but there was something different in her movements that day—quieter, slower, precise. When the boys padded into the kitchen, the air greeted them with the rich scent of bacon, scrambled eggs, and oranges freshly crushed into juice. Sunlight flickered over the feast. Pancakes browned to perfection. Toast crusted golden at the edges.
She stood at the stove, her back straight, her face radiant with a pride she tried to tuck behind gentle scolding.
“Don’t you go getting anything on those clothes,” she said, smoothing a phantom wrinkle from Spud’s tunic. Her hand lingered there—a subtle tremble in her fingers. Her eyes, deep and dark and ancient in their knowing, held more than motherly pride. They held memory. And maybe, just maybe, a touch of fear.
It was the same look she wore late at night, darning holes by candlelight. The same look when she hung their shirts in the yard like tiny flags—each a soft declaration of survival, of care.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvTNGPFWyN6
and then Add to home screen.