Even with half the village bent, cracked, and reeking of smoke, the dwarves did what dwarves always do after almost dying:
they drank as if they had just been born.
Barrels were dragged around, makeshift tables cobbled from broken planks, mugs clanking against each other, music played on out-of-tune instruments, and two dwarves argued whether the Iron Serpent should be turned into a monument or a barbecue pit.
Chaos was absolute.
And joyful.
The kind of joy that only appears when death got a little too close.
As soon as Anaalyn entered, several heads turned.
An older dwarf woman, sporting an eyepatch and a beard braided down to her chest, crossed her arms.
"Anaalyn's back to finally stay… or just to help?"
Anaalyn didn't even get the chance to open her mouth.
"Sentyria, that's none of your business, you old gossip."
The old woman burst into a dry laugh—the kind that sounded like it could crack stone.
"You're still the same brat as always, girl."
And she left, dragging her barrel behind her like it was a pet.
Seralyn blinked a few times, trying to process the scene.
"Do you talk to elders like that all the time?"
She straightened her hair and whispered, judgment dripping from her voice:
"Or only with old busybodies?"
Anaalyn turned her face away with a proud smile.
"Only with the busybodies… and the grumpy ones."
Seralyn folded her arms, narrowing her eyes.
"So half the village."
"Three quarters," Anaalyn corrected.
The noise of the party grew louder, someone threw a barrel on the floor, two dwarves hugged each other crying, and another started singing drunkenly about "the great victory against the toothed tin can."
Anaalyn took a deep breath.
For all her complaining…
she was smiling.
Dwarves weren't warriors.
They never were.
And honestly, most of them didn't even want to be.
They were builders, smiths, inventors, craftsmen—people who knew how to turn stone into homes, metal into weapons, and disasters into… just another story to tell at the tavern.
Yet they celebrated the victory as if they were the fiercest army on the continent.
The village was broken, scorched, reeking of smoke and burnt oil, but it felt more alive than ever. Children running, adults shouting, elders arguing over bets, music playing somewhere—and food, lots of food.
Tila looked around, breathed in deep, and laughed.
"Everything feels happier inside the village than outside."
She grabbed a snack from a makeshift table—a piece of meat so greasy it dripped down her hand.
"That's why dwarves are specialists in party-making."
She took a massive bite.
"Meat is one of their specialties too."
Seralyn stared at it with pure elven horror.
"Is that… meat? Or is it a charred piece of wall?"
Anaalyn slapped the elf lightly on the shoulder.
"If you wanna survive here, you'll have to stop being picky."
Tila shook her head, still chewing.
"That's why I like dwarves. They can be broke, hurt, burned, homeless… but if there's meat and beer, they suddenly become heroes."
And indeed—right at that moment, a dwarf climbed on top of a barrel, raised a barbecue bone like it was a sword, and screamed:
"HELL YEAAHH! WE BEAT THE IRON SERPENT!"
The barrel tipped over, he fell face-first onto the ground, and everyone around applauded like it was part of the music.
Anaalyn sighed.
"At least they're happy."
"At least?" Tila laughed.
"They're celebrating like they defeated a dragon."
Seralyn folded her arms.
"And who exactly was responsible for defeating the iron serpent…?"
Half the dwarves pointed to a massive chunk of the metallic creature displayed in the center of the square and said at the same time:
"the warrior."
The elf breathed in deep.
"Of course. Obviously. He's unconscious and still steals the spotlight."
Tila held her shoulder.
"Don't think too much about that, Seralyn… and Anaalyn, where are we sleeping? Don't tell me it'll be at your family's house."
Tila still had her hand on Seralyn's shoulder when she repeated the question with a little smirk:
"…so, Anaalyn, where are we sleeping? Don't tell me it's at your family's place."
Anaalyn's expression changed instantly.
A micro–fraction of a second.
But Tila and Seralyn saw it.
She crossed her arms, lifted her chin and answered way too fast:
"Of course not. Obviously not. Never."
Tila raised an eyebrow.
"Anaalyn…"
"What?" she shot back defensively. "I just… have alternatives. Lots. Many. Infinite."
She looked away and muttered: "I just… don't want to go there right now."
Seralyn—subtle as an arrow to the eye—commented:
"Then that's exactly where we're going."
"NO!" Anaalyn stepped back as if the word were a magic attack.
But it was too late.
Two dwarves shouted from the other side of the improvised tavern:
"SERLYA'S DAUGHTER IS BAAACK!"
"AND SHE BROUGHT FRIENDS! HELL YEAH!"
Anaalyn clenched her eyes shut.
"Damn it."
Tila laughed.
"They have good memory when they want to, huh?"
"No," Anaalyn replied dryly. "They have fast gossip. It's different."
Seralyn tilted her head.
"Come on, then. What's the problem with your family? They don't seem that bad."
Anaalyn took a long breath.
A very long breath.
So deep it looked like she was preparing to dive underground.
"Serlya… my mother… she's… intense."
Tila smiled.
"Oh, like you."
"NOT LIKE ME!" Anaalyn almost shouted. "She's… more. Way more. You'll see."
At that moment, a stumbling drunk dwarf approached carrying two mugs.
"ANAALYN! YOUR MOM SAID TO BRING YOU HOME! THE OLD LADY'S PISSED!"
Anaalyn put her hand over her face.
"…that's what I wanted to avoid."
Seralyn motioned toward the exit.
"Let's get this over with."
"I hate you both," Anaalyn mumbled as the two pushed her forward, dying of embarrassment.
"We love you too," Tila sang.
The three walked through the village, passing by dwarves singing, running around, fixing broken walls with the same energy they used to set up party tables.
Then Tila noticed something.
"Anaalyn…" she poked the dwarf's arm. "You live… near that smoke?"
Anaalyn closed her eyes, defeated.
"Yes.
My house burned down.
Almost completely."
Seralyn's eyes widened.
"Dear gods…"
"I KNOW!" Anaalyn exploded. "I haven't even gone inside yet! I don't know how it is! I don't know if my stuff survived! I don't know if my mom will scream, cry, hit me with a spoon, or all of it at once!"
Tila placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey. It's okay. We're with you."
Anaalyn inhaled deeply…
…but then a thunderous voice boomed from in front of the ruins:
"ANAALYN IRONFIST! WHERE ARE YOU, GIRL?!
GET OVER HERE BEFORE I DRAG YOU BY THE EARS!"
Tila froze.
Seralyn went pale.
Anaalyn just muttered:
"…great. We're doomed."
And they approached the broken doorway, where a dwarf woman—strong, rough, with long braided hair and eyes hotter than forge fire—stood with her hands on her hips.
Her mother.
Serlya Ironfist.
She stared at the three.
Then stared at Anaalyn.
Then again.
And finally spoke:
"…you brought an elf and a bovine girl to MY HOUSE WITHOUT WARNING?!"
Silence fell.
Anaalyn tried:
"M-Mom, I can explain—"
But Serlya threw her arms open in a wide grin.
"COME IN! GET IN! THE VILLAGE IS A MESS BUT THERE'S STILL FOOD HERE!"
And you—" she pointed at Seralyn "—YOU'RE WAY TOO SKINNY, YOU'RE EATING UNTIL YOU LOOK LIKE A REAL PERSON!"
And you—" she pointed at Tila "—I LOVE HORNS, THEY'RE GOOD LUCK! COME, COME!"
Tila waved happily.
Seralyn only blinked, unable to react.
Anaalyn whispered to herself:
"…I hate my life."
And they went inside.
The three walked through the village like they were stars of some improvised heroic spectacle.
Smoke in the air, crooked houses, dwarves running everywhere… none of it stopped the three from strutting like members of some stylish adventurer trio.
Like… panthers.
"Look at them… walking all synchronized, hair bouncing—an optimistic bovine girl, an irritated elf, and a dwarf with the energy of a walking explosion.
Yep… the Dwarven Apocalypse Angels."
A dramatic sigh drifted through the air.
"I wonder what's going on in their heads…
Tila smiling because 'everyone's okay, yay for the village, yay for roasted meat.'
The elf pretending she doesn't care but dying of jealousy inside…
And the tiny barbarian thinking this is some kind of parade where she's the star."
He laughed quietly—that short, sarcastic laugh he only released when no one else was listening.
"And you know what's funniest?
They don't even realize they're becoming a tourist attraction.
The dwarves are staring at them like they're three legendary spirits descending to save the day…
When in truth, they're just… being themselves."
Another comment floated out, light and wicked:
"If they keep walking like that, all synchronized, pretty soon they'll want to pose—explosion behind them, slow motion…
Heroine stuff."
Pause.
"…All that's missing is some music behind them. Something epic. Something over-the-top.
Something very… panthers."
And the voice laughed again, pleased with its own joke…
but that laugh faded quickly, dissolving like smoke scattered by the wind.
"But… I worry about the girls."
The comment came low, almost reluctant, as if the mouth didn't want to admit it.
"Even if he's not by their side now… even if he drags chaos everywhere he goes… I still worry."
The invisible, unreachable gaze drifted over the three while they argued about where to sleep, who would clean the mess, and who was hungriest.
"All that posing, all that bravery… but in the end, they're just three girls walking without seeing the path ahead."
A short sigh, weighed down with something that wasn't sarcasm.
"My girls…"
Another silence.
"…And they don't even know I exist."
The voice went quiet, the way it always did when too much emotion slipped out.
"Damn… one day you'll let me talk to them for real, right? Without this stupid friendly-ghost gimmick."
Another whisper, rougher:
"One day… when I finally have the courage. When…"
The sentence died there, cut off by something he didn't want to face—or preferred to swallow before it turned into real pain.
A weak laugh tried to cover it.
"Forget it. Until then, I'll stay here… watching, cheering… and complaining. It's what I do best."
Silence again—but not a peaceful one.
The village reconstruction was far from over. The girls had spent the entire day hauling wood, clearing debris, reinforcing improvised walls—not heroic, not glamorous… but absolutely necessary.
Even exhausted, they kept going.
That was who they were.
That was why he worried so much.
Sherya wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said:
"Girls… I have one last request for you."
Tila exhaled heavily, rubbing her eyebrow the same way she did when annoyed.
"Now I feel just like him…"
Sherya raised a brow.
"Him who?"
"Nobody…" Tila waved away the topic. "What do you need?"
Sherya took a deep breath.
"One of the houses near the village… the one that belonged to an old mage. Sadly, he passed away, and now it's overrun with nasty goblins."
Seralyn twirled a dagger between her fingers, humorless.
"And you want us to get rid of them. Fine. But why the rush exactly?"
Sherya pointed to the improvised map on the table.
"The mage's house is beside the storage building where we'll keep the important supplies. If those goblins attack… we lose half the reconstruction."
Anaalyn crossed her arms.
"You said mage. Was it that old forest guy? Old Revan?"
Sherya nodded.
"Yes. Sadly he died. Somehow… I don't know how."
Seralyn froze. Her eyes went distant for a moment before sharpening again.
"Revan…?"
She almost spat the name.
"Revan! He was considered one of the greatest mages of the Ash Generation!"
Anaalyn blinked.
"What do you mean, Seralyn? What's this story? You two keep dropping these names like everyone knows—"
Seralyn sheathed her dagger with a click.
"You really don't know, huh? Okay… then listen. There were five great generations."
Tila and Anaalyn exchanged curious glances.
Seralyn continued, voice low and serious, like she was about to reveal something the world preferred forgotten:
"The Golden Generation… the Ash Generation… Then came the Blade Generation… The Lost Generation… And now… us."
She looked at the other two, as if realizing something they hadn't yet noticed.
"But I'll explain on the way." She cracked her neck, smiling dangerously. "Let's go kill some goblins and catch you up on reality."
Tila took a deep breath and grabbed her staff.
Anaalyn adjusted the shield on her arm.
Sherya watched them—proud and worried at once.
And the invisible voice—stronger when looking at them, weaker when feeling too much—whispered from somewhere distant, hidden in the shadows:
"…be careful."