The dawn of the wedding day broke golden and loud. Even before the sun had fully risen above the peaks of the Blue Mountains, the city of Belegost was alive with celebration. Dwarves sang in the streets, tankards clashed, and music echoed from the great stone halls that lined the mountain-city's heart.
Vlad rose to the sound of horns and laughter, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He dressed quickly, tying his long black hair into a rough tail, and stepped out into the streets. Everywhere he turned, dwarves celebrated: garlands of forged silver hung from balconies, food vendors handed out fresh loaves and grilled meat, and children played between the ankles of their elders.
He made his way to the Great Hall where the main feast would be held. Inside, he spotted Thorin, dressed in fine blue and silver robes, wringing his hands nervously and pacing in front of the high table.
"There you are," Vlad said, smiling. "The mighty groom himself."
Thorin gave him a tight-lipped look. "I feel sick."
"You better not drink or party too hard. Save some dignity for the ceremony tonight, cousin."
Thorin sighed. "Fine, fine. I won't get too drunk."
Just then, Lord Thror arrived. The old dwarf looked grave and calm, the weight of ceremony heavy on his shoulders. He placed a hand on Vlad's shoulder.
"Leave us a moment, lad," he said.
Vlad nodded and gave Thorin a mock salute. "Don't faint."
He wandered out into the city, letting the festive air lift his spirits. Soon, he found himself near the forges, and there was Telchar speaking with another dwarf—an elder with a long grey beard, eyes sharp with the light of old secrets.
Telchar looked up. "Vlad. Come here."
The elder dwarf turned his gaze on Vlad. "So this is the boy?"
"He's not a boy anymore, Gamil Zirak," Telchar said. "He's my disciple."
Vlad bowed deeply. "Master Gamil. I've heard many praises of your work."
The old dwarf nodded. "Telchar teaches you, hmm? Then you are lucky. He was my most stubborn student."
Telchar snorted. "You taught me much. But tell me—what have you been doing in the north?"
Gamil Zirak's eyes gleamed. "Exploring. The unmined deeps, the silent shafts beyond the old quarters."
Telchar stiffened. "The abandoned mines? You fool. If the lords hear you've been delving there—"
"They'll do nothing. I am too old and too respected."
"What is even in there?" Vlad asked, curious.
Gamil looked at him long. "Something great. Something the lords fear."
"Enough," Telchar snapped. "Vlad, go. You've heard too much."
Vlad frowned but obeyed. He wandered the city restlessly, thoughts stirring about the mines in the north.
A loud horn shattered his thoughts. It was the signal. The ceremony would begin soon.
He hurried to the hall, slipping to Telchar's side as Thorin and Lord Thror entered. The lord of Belegost followed, regal and proud, beside him his daughter, beard finely braided, eyes like polished jet. Vlad nudged Telchar.
"What's her name again?"
Telchar rolled his eyes. "Frigg."
Vlad grinned. "He's smitten already."
Thorin and Frigg exchanged solemn vows in the dwarven tongue, bound by oaths of stone and fire. The hall roared with cheers as they kissed. The feast began, and food and ale flowed like a river.
Vlad found himself pulled into a drinking contest. He drank. And drank. And drank. Cup after cup vanished down his throat, but nothing—no dizziness, no haze. The others dropped out one by one, groaning or passed out. But Vlad sat clear-eyed, confused.
He stood, uneasy. Something was wrong.
He began to leave, but then—
Screams.
Behind him, the Great Hall erupted into chaos. Belegost guards turned on the guests from Nogrod, blades flashing red in firelight. Vlad spun around in horror, just in time to see Lord Thror cut down, his body falling in a spray of blood. Thorin was struck from behind, crumpling unconscious.
Vlad surged forward, rage burning—but a hand yanked him back.
"Don't," Telchar growled. His face was bloody, a gash across his brow. "We must go."
"I can fight—"
"You will die. We must live. For Thorin. For vengeance."
Gritting his teeth, Vlad followed. They fled into the streets, only to be blocked by two guards. One lunged—Vlad kicked him in the face, stole his axe, and cleaved the other's head from his shoulders in a single swing. Telchar stared.
"You've grown into something else."
Vlad tossed the second axe to him. "Let's go."
They hacked their way through the chaos. The civilians of Belegost watched in horror from behind shuttered windows, unaware—or unwilling to interfere.
"Where do we go?" Vlad asked as they cleared the gates.
"To the mines," Telchar said grimly. "To Gamil. He's the only one who knows the north well enough. And there's something down there... something the lords feared."
And so they ran—away from fire and betrayal, into the shadowed mountains, into the deep and silent dark.