Reincarnation of The Magicless Pinoy
From Zero to Hero : " No magic? No Problem!"
Encounter 29: The Price of Loyalty
The mist rolled thick through the eastern foothills that night, turning the narrow trails into pale ribbons of gray. Gorrim Ironspur moved fast, breath fogging in short bursts, boots wrapped in rags so the crunch of scree wouldn't carry. He'd taken the back way—goat paths no one used anymore, the kind that hugged sheer drops and smelled of wet stone and pine rot. His heart hammered the whole climb. Not from the effort. From what he was about to do.
The postern door of Stonevein Hold was small, almost hidden in a cleft of black basalt. Three scratches on the iron—old signal, older than most of the clan remembered. The door cracked open before the third scrape finished. Two guards filled the frame, axes already in hand. They didn't speak. They just looked at him like he was already dead.
Thrain stepped out from the shadows inside. His iron leg clicked once against the floor, deliberate. Lantern light caught the copper rings in his beard and made them flash like fresh blood. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.
"Talk."
Gorrim pulled his hood back just enough. His hands were shaking; he shoved them deep in his pockets.
"Duke Luke Arcadia's offering ten thousand gold for the White Wraith," he said. "Alive if they can manage it. Dead's fine too. Bounty hunters are already sniffing the lower passes. Word's spreading fast—he's here, with the scarred soldier and the silver-haired woman. I figured… the clan should know before someone else collects."
Thrain stared at him. Long enough that Gorrim felt sweat bead under his collar despite the cold.
"And you figured you'd bring the news yourself," Thrain said. "Personal touch."
Gorrim swallowed. "I thought you'd want to be ready. Or… maybe there's a way to turn it to our advantage. He's not dwarven. He's human. Magicless. Trouble follows him. If Arcadia's legions come knocking—"
Thrain took one step forward. The alcove shrank.
"You're standing in my hold," he said, voice low and even. "Built by hands that broke mountains before your grandda learned to swing a hammer. We don't sell guests. We don't sell family. And we sure as hell don't sell Edric Grey's boy for gold."
Gorrim's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "It's not selling out. It's surviving. The kingdom's pressing. Arcadia's got legions moving west. If they find him here—"
Thrain's hand shot out, clamped around the back of Gorrim's neck. Not hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to remind. Gorrim froze.
"You think I'd hand him over?" Thrain's voice dropped quieter, almost soft. "After what Edric did for us? After he pulled my da out of a collapsing tunnel when I was still shitting myself over forge sparks? After he came back year after year, treated our metal like it had a soul? You think I'd trade that for coin?"
Gorrim's eyes darted to the guards. They hadn't moved. Their faces were stone.
"I didn't mean—"
"You did." Thrain released him. "Get out. And if I hear one whisper that you've been talking to outsiders again, I'll drag you to the deepest forge myself and let the bellows decide your fate."
Gorrim backed away, hood slipping. He turned and ran into the mist.
Thrain watched him disappear. Then he turned to the nearest guard. "Double the watch on the eastern approaches. No one in or out without my word. And find out who else he's been talking to. Quietly."
The guard saluted and vanished down the corridor.
Thrain stood there a moment longer, staring at the closed door. His prosthesis clicked as he shifted weight. The hold felt heavier tonight—like the mountain itself was pressing down on his shoulders.
He rubbed the back of his neck where his own hand had just been. Then he sighed—long, tired—and walked deeper into the hold. Toward the lower pools where Lyra was still recovering.
The geothermal chambers glowed soft amber in the dark, steam rising in slow curls from the mineral pools. The air was thick with sulfur and wet stone, warm enough to make sweat bead on the skin. Lyra lay on a low stone bench near the Verdant Deep, wrapped in thick wool blankets, silver hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled moonlight. The wounds from the torture were mostly closed now—pink scars instead of open gashes—but her breathing was still shallow, face pale, body weak from the long infection that had nearly taken her.
Rolien sat on the floor beside her, back against the wall, knees drawn up. His flesh hand rested on her blanket-covered arm, thumb moving slow circles in a habit he didn't even notice anymore. The Jawbreaker lay across his lap, blue glow dimmed to a low pulse, curse veins quiet for once. He hadn't slept much since the ravine fight. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Arden hauling him out, heard the horns blowing from the ridge, felt the impact of Luke's blade against his plating.
Lyra stirred. Her eyes cracked open—clearer now, the fever haze gone.
"You're hovering again," she said, voice thin but sharp.
Rolien managed a small smile under the mask. "Someone has to."
She reached up, fingers brushing his wrist. "You look like death warmed over, boy. When's the last time you ate?"
"Yesterday. Maybe." He shrugged. "Not hungry."
"Liar." She squeezed once—weak, but there. "You need strength too. Can't protect anyone if you fall over first."
Rolien looked away, toward the steaming pool. The water glowed faint green, minerals swirling like slow smoke. "Arden's out there doubling the watch. Thrain's got the forges running hot—prepping weapons, traps. They think Luke's coming."
Lyra's fingers tightened. "He is. You know that."
Rolien nodded. The curse in his arm hummed faintly, like it could smell the fight coming. "I know."
She studied his face—or what she could see of it behind the mask. "You're scared."
He didn't deny it. "Not of him. Of what happens if I'm not fast enough. If I lose you again. Or Arden. Or anyone."
Lyra's eyes softened. "You won't lose me. Not this time. But you can't carry it all alone, child. That's why we're here. That's why Edric raised you to build, not just fight."
Rolien swallowed. "Dad built things that lasted. I'm just… patching holes."
"You're doing more than that." She shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at her scars. "You cured a whole village without a word. Left medicine in the dark like it was nothing. That's your father in you. Not the arm. Not the mask. The part that sees people hurting and does something about it."
Rolien looked down at the Jawbreaker. The plating was still scarred from Luke's blade, curse veins dark and restless. "I don't know if that's enough anymore."
Lyra squeezed his wrist again. "It has to be. Because if you stop believing it, then what was all this for?"
He didn't have an answer. He just sat there, listening to her breathe, feeling the warmth of the pools and the weight of the mountain overhead. Somewhere in the distance, the forges rumbled like thunder trapped underground.
Thrain appeared at the chamber entrance, silhouette filling the doorway. He didn't step inside—just leaned against the frame, arms crossed.
"Runner came back," he said. "Gorrim talked. Luke knows we're here. He's marching himself this time. Full confidence. Thinks he can finish what he started."
Rolien's hand tightened on the blanket. Lyra's fingers found his again, steady despite everything.
Thrain's voice dropped. "We've got maybe two days. Maybe less. Get some rest, kid. She needs you strong. We all do."
Rolien nodded once. Thrain lingered a second longer, then turned and walked away, iron leg clicking down the corridor.
Lyra exhaled slow. "He's right."
Rolien leaned his head back against the wall. "I know."
But he didn't close his eyes. He just sat there, watching the steam rise, listening to her breathe, waiting for the storm he knew was coming.
Meanwhile...
Luke Arcadia stood on the balcony of the manor's highest tower, the night wind cutting through his open shirt like a blade. Below him the camp sprawled across the valley floor—five hundred men in neat rows of tents, cookfires spitting sparks into the dark, horses stamping restless in their picket lines. Torchlight flickered on polished helms and spear points. The Dragon Slayers' banner—black field, red claw—hung limp in the still air beside his own. Even the wind seemed afraid to touch it.
He leaned on the stone railing, forearms braced, void bracer catching the firelight in dull silver flashes. The scar on his cheek from Rolien's last swing had scabbed over, but it still pulled when he smiled. He smiled anyway.
A lieutenant approached from behind—young, armor still bright, voice careful. "My lord. The scouts returned. Stonevein's eastern gate is doubled. Thrain's people are awake. They know we're coming."
Luke didn't turn. "Good. Let them know."
The lieutenant hesitated. "The Dragon Slayers are asking for final orders. They want to hit the lower tunnels first—collapse them, smoke the hold out."
"No." Luke's voice was calm, almost bored. "We go in through the front. I want him to see me coming. I want him to watch his little family die one by one before I take him."
The lieutenant swallowed. "And if the dwarves hold the choke points?"
Luke finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes were bright, feverish. "Then we burn the choke points. And anything standing in them."
He pushed off the railing and walked back inside. The chamber was dim—only the blue witchfire in the wall sconces. A long table held maps, troop markers, a half-empty decanter of dark wine. Luke poured himself a cup, swirled it once, didn't drink. He stared at the map instead.
Stonevein Hold sat marked in black ink, surrounded by red arrows converging like teeth closing. He traced one finger along the eastern approach—the same path Gorrim had used to sell them out. A traitor dwarf. Fitting.
He set the cup down untouched.
"Get the Slayers," he told the lieutenant. "Tell them we move at first light. Full formation. No prisoners except the Wraith. And if the old soldier or the silver-haired woman gets in the way… make it quick. I want him to see the bodies."
The lieutenant saluted and left.
Luke stayed alone with the map. His thumb rubbed slow circles over the spot marked Hollowmere—the village Rolien had quietly saved. He remembered the report: vials left in the dark, a blue glow fading west. Always slipping away. Always one step ahead.
Not this time.
He walked to the far wall, pressed a hidden panel. A narrow door slid open—concealed, soundproofed. The cell beyond was lit only by the hanging crystal. Princess Sophia sat on the cot, knees up, arms wrapped around herself. Her gown was filthy now, once-silver fabric dulled to gray. Her hair hung in strings across her face. She didn't look up when the door opened.
Luke stepped inside. The door sealed behind him.
He crouched in front of her again, close enough that she could feel his breath.
"I'm leaving at dawn," he said. "Going to collect your teacher. He's been hiding in a dwarven hole, thinking he's safe. He isn't."
Sophia's fingers tightened on her knees. No words.
Luke tilted his head. "You know what I'll do when I find him? I'll bring him here. Alive. And you'll watch while I break him. Piece by piece. Just like you watched me read his book. Just like you watched me turn his lessons into weapons."
Her shoulders jerked once—small, involuntary. Still no sound.
Luke reached out, lifted her chin with two fingers. Forced her eyes to meet his.
"Look at me."
She did. Slowly. Her pupils were huge, empty. Hollow as the cell itself.
He smiled—slow, almost tender.
"You should have heard how prettily you begged," he said. "Screaming my name. Crying for him to come save you. Begging me to stop. It was… exquisite."
Sophia's lips parted. A single tear tracked down her cheek, carving a clean line through the grime.
Luke wiped it away with his thumb. "Don't worry. He'll hear it too. Soon."
He stood. Looked down at her one last time.
"Rest, Princess. Tomorrow we end this."
He turned and left. The door sealed again.
In the cell, Sophia stayed exactly where she was—knees up, arms wrapped tight. The tear dried on her cheek. Another followed it. She made no move to wipe them away.
She stared at the wall opposite her, eyes glassy, unfocused.
And whispered—barely audible, more breath than voice.
"Rolien… please don't come."
Outside, in the main chamber, Luke poured the untouched wine back into the decanter. He rolled the map, tucked it under his arm, and walked out onto the balcony again.
Below, the camp was already stirring. Men checking weapons. Horses being saddled. The Dragon Slayers sharpening blades that didn't need sharpening.
Luke leaned on the railing once more. The wind tugged at his shirt.
He smiled into the dark.
"Tomorrow," he said to no one. "Tomorrow I finish what I started on that bus."
He stayed there until the first gray light touched the eastern ridge.
Then he went downstairs to give the order to march.
To be continued…