Vlad woke before the mountain's first breath of heat stirred the air. His heart thudded with excitement as he washed his face and dressed, eager to reach the forge. Today was not just another day of sweat and steel—it was the beginning of a masterpiece.
He made his way through the halls of Nogrod, the stone corridors still dim with sleep, until he arrived at the forge.
Telchar was already there, waiting.
"About time," the master smith grunted, though there was a glint of approval in his eye. "Get dressed. We have work to do."
Vlad pulled on his leather apron, tied his bracers, and took his place beside the forge. The fire roared, already stoked to a glowing white. On the anvil lay the beginnings of the gauntlets—thick plates of blackened steel, etched with runes of strength and protection.
They began the day's work in silence, save for the ringing of hammers and the hiss of quenched metal. Telchar gave few instructions now. Vlad had learned to read his movements, his pauses, the way he examined each strike. Together, they moved as one—teacher and student, master and heir.
By the time the sun had faded from the mountain sky and the forges began to cool, the gauntlets and greaves lay complete: gleaming silver with fine gold filigree and stones embedded at each knuckle and knee.
"Good work," Telchar said, wiping his brow. "We finish the rest by the end of the month."
---
Three Weeks Later
The forge was still blazing hot when Vlad stood before the finished armor.
It stood tall on a frame of oaken wood: a suit of dwarven war-plate, black steel with silver trimming, adorned with carvings of mountains and rivers, crowned with a broad-shouldered chestpiece bearing the crest of Belegost in blue sapphire. It was the work of a master, and a prodigy.
Vlad stood silent for a moment before Telchar nudged him.
"Go tell your father," he said. "Time they saw what their gifts truly look like."
Vlad nodded, pride swelling in his chest. He wiped his hands, removed his apron, and made his way through the halls of Nogrod.
---
In the throne room of the palace, Lord Thror sat beside Thorin, speaking quietly. Vlad approached with a grin.
"The armor is finished."
They both stood immediately. "Then let us see it."
Together, they walked the stone corridors, flanked by guards and trailed by servants. The door to the forge opened, and the warm light spilled out around them.
Thror stepped inside and stopped before the armor. He let out a low breath.
"It is... magnificent."
Thorin walked slowly around it, admiring the detail. "You two did this together?"
Vlad nodded. "Every plate, every rune."
Telchar crossed his arms. "The boy held his own."
"Well," Thror said, clapping Vlad's shoulder, "the Lord of Belegost will have nothing finer in all the Blue Mountains."
---
That evening, back in the palace, Thror told Vlad to check his room—his wedding garments had been delivered.
Vlad found a folded bundle of deep blue and silver silk laid out on his bed. He put them on, one layer at a time: tunic, sash, leggings, leather boots, a silver-threaded belt. It fit perfectly. The fabric was light, but regal. He turned in the mirror and smiled.
Then he took it off, laid it aside for the morning, and collapsed onto his bed.
Sleep came quickly.
---
The caravan departed at dawn. Leading the front were Vlad, Thorin, and Telchar, riding sturdy dwarven ponies bred for mountain paths. Behind them rode Lord Thror and his entourage, with carts of gold and stone trailing at the rear.
They rode for hours beneath the looming crags, through high passes and under starlit tunnels carved into the roots of the mountains. By midday, they passed over the ridge and saw Belegost in the distance—carved into the cliffside like a crown of stone, its walls adorned with statues of ancient dwarven kings.
At the gates, they were met by the Lord of Belegost, a broad-shouldered dwarf with a beard as white as snow and eyes like black coal. At his side stood his heir, and beside him…
Vlad watched Thorin's eyes widen.
She was tall—for a dwarf—with a beard braided in silver rings, dark eyes set into a strong, proud face. Her armor glinted beneath a ceremonial cloak.
Thorin leaned close to Vlad and whispered, "She's... radiant."
"She has a mighty beard," Vlad said, barely suppressing a laugh.
"I'm serious," Thorin muttered, blushing. "It's... regal."
They dismounted and bowed as the host of Belegost welcomed them. The Lord of Belegost greeted Thror warmly, and they exchanged pleasantries in the old tongue before leading the guests inside.
---
The Great Hall of Belegost was carved from the living mountain—walls lined with obsidian and gems, pillars shaped like axe-blades. Fires blazed in the hearths. The scent of roast boar and honeybread filled the air.
Long tables stretched across the hall, and music filled the chamber—deep drums and resonant horns.
Vlad sat near Telchar, watching as the feast unfolded. Thorin sat beside his betrothed, blushing every time she looked his way.
Halfway through the evening, Lord Thror rose to speak.
He offered gifts one by one: golden goblets, ruby necklaces, rings of sapphire and emerald. And then came the final gift—the armor.
It was carried in by four guards and placed before the Lord of Belegost.
He stood and approached it slowly. His eyes roamed over the steel, the runes, the craftsmanship. Then he turned to Telchar and Vlad.
"This," he said, his voice booming, "is the work of kings."
He bowed—bowed—to Telchar and then to Vlad.
"You honor Belegost with this gift."
Vlad felt the weight of many eyes on him, but he stood tall.
The feast continued long into the night, with drinking, singing, and storytelling. Vlad stayed for a while, smiling at Thorin's red-faced laughter, at Telchar's proud scowl, but soon exhaustion pulled at his limbs.
A servant approached and offered to guide him to his room.
---
The chamber he was led to was carved with elegant simplicity—smooth stone walls, a heavy bed with furs, and a window that looked out over the mountain sky. Vlad barely managed to remove his boots before throwing himself onto the bed.
His eyes closed the moment his head hit the pillow.
Tomorrow would bring the wedding.
But for now, sleep.