The path wound into the mountains like a white wound.
The snow crunched beneath their boots. The north wind blew icy, cutting exposed skin. The landscape was an endless blanket of gray rock and dirty white.
Darian walked behind. He didn't talk. He didn't look up. He just put one foot in front of the other. Vael, on his shoulder, curled against his neck, sharing a faint warmth that seemed to be the only thing keeping him alive.
Varkas and Kára went ahead. At first silent. But the road was long, and the silence weighed too heavily.
"How do you feel?" Kára asked after a while.
Varkas touched his chest.
"Different. There's something here. Like a second heart."
"You'll learn to use it. Like Darian did with his."
Varkas nodded. They looked back. Darian walked with his head down. Vael brushed his cheek with his snout, but he didn't react.
"Do you think he'll recover?" Kára asked.
"Not soon. But he will. He has no other choice."
They kept walking.
Hours later, they stopped beside a frozen stream.
Darian sat on a rock, his gaze lost in the water. Vael climbed down from his shoulder and drank. Then climbed back up.
Varkas and Kára sat nearby.
"I have something too," Kára said suddenly. "A power. Like yours. Like Darian's."
Varkas looked at her.
"A Grimoire?"
"I don't know. I always thought it was a technique from my clan. The Kadrins. It passed from generation to generation. But now... after seeing what happened to Darian, what happened to you... I'm not so sure anymore."
"What does it consist of?"
Kára unhooked her hammer from her back. She held it out before Varkas. The runes on the handle glowed faintly.
"It's called Awakening and Naming. I can give a weapon a soul."
Varkas frowned.
"A soul?"
"A consciousness. A personality. The weapon wakes up and bonds to its bearer. Only they can hear it, in here." She touched her temple. "And the weapon itself reveals its name. The bearer doesn't choose it. The weapon tells them."
Varkas looked at the hammer.
"Can you do it with any weapon?"
"No. Only with exceptional weapons. Forged from magical materials. Weapons that have history. Darian's swords, for example. Or your sword." She paused. "And each weapon develops different abilities. Kazak'Thur, my hammer, controls lightning. And if I allow it, it can possess me."
Varkas raised an eyebrow.
"Possess you?"
"If there's a strong bond between the weapon and the bearer, the weapon can take control. My eyes change, my voice too. And I can use its power to the fullest. But it doesn't happen with all awakened weapons. Only if there's compatibility. If there's... trust."
Varkas nodded slowly.
"And your hammer? Does it have... a personality?"
Kára sketched a half smile.
"It's arrogant. It loves combat. And it protects me even when I don't ask."
"Can I... talk to it?"
Kára hesitated for an instant. Then she closed her eyes.
"Kazak'Thur. Show yourself."
The hammer vibrated in her hands. Kára's eyes turned white. Sparks burst from her pupils. Her voice, when she spoke, was double: her own and another deeper, ancestral, charged with electricity.
"So you wanted to meet me, beastman."
Varkas stepped back. Darian looked up for the first time in days.
"I am Kazak'Thur. The Voice of the Storm. I have protected this stubborn dwarf since she had the decency to wake me." The white eyes settled on Varkas. "You are strong. But rough. You could use a weapon with character."
Varkas said nothing. Kazak'Thur let out a short laugh, like distant thunder.
"Take care of her. That's all I ask."
The white eyes blinked. The blue glow faded. Kára came back to herself, swaying slightly.
"See? Insufferable."
Varkas nodded, still processing what he had seen.
Darian looked back down. But his fingers brushed the hilt of one of his swords.
Several days passed on the road.
The landscape changed slowly. The snow gave way to bare rock. The wind eased. And at the end of the fifth day, the dwarven capital rose before them.
Khazad-Val was a hollowed-out mountain.
The gates were two blocks of iron and bronze, flanked by columns carved with scenes of ancient battles. The smoke of hundreds of forges rose from chimneys carved into the rock. The noise of hammers and voices filled the air.
They went in.
Kára asked about the Exiles' quarter. An elderly dwarf pointed them east, where the houses were humbler, the streets narrower.
"The elves who fled their kingdom live there. Not many. But they know things."
They followed the directions. The Exiles' quarter smelled of spices and old wood. The few passersby looked at them with distrust, but nobody stopped them.
Kára asked again. An elven woman, her face worn by the years, pointed to a house at the end of the street.
"There. The one you're looking for."
They approached. The door was ajar. Varkas pushed it gently.
Inside, several hunched figures around a fire. Elves. Mostly elderly. Faces marked by exile.
And among them, a figure that looked familiar.
A thin man, with graying hair and sunken eyes. He wore scholar's clothes, worn from travel. He had an open book in his lap.
He looked up.
It was Elias.