Flint Glergilder was a dark, almond-complected dwarf with a long, silver streaked, coffee brown beard. Interspersed braids were affixed with ornate glass beads inscribed with various runes. He wore his hair in thick plaits pulled back from his face and secured with a wide golden cuff. His eyes were pale hazel and bright with creative fervor. He spoke in low, gruff tones, but never harshly. His first love was his daughter. His second was his work.

The Glergilder lineage had amassed considerable wealth through its history of glassblowing artistry. When he came into his inheritance, Flint constructed a small manor home in the forested area just beyond the limits of the Suntouched Clan village. The house faced east, so that its stained glass windows glowed in the light of the rising sun every morning. On the main floor was a foyer, a formal dining room, guest quarters, and a spacious parlor. Downstairs was Flint's workshop and upstairs were the main bed chambers and library. The servants' quarters stood apart from the main house and featured equally lovely stained glass windows and comfortable accommodations inside. There was also a lavish bathhouse on the grounds, open to Glergilders and the manor staff, alike.

Flint was a master among masters in glassblowing. About 20 years ago, he made a pact with a Fire Genie. In exchange for her blessing upon his talents, he would give over his masterpiece upon his eventual death. In the course of this arrangement, he and the genie spent the occasional lustful night together. Several months later, well after the contract was sealed, Flint opened his front door to discover an infant on his step.

Her skin was ash black and a small spiral of blue flame flickered atop her head. Her eyes were a pale hazel color like his own, and striking against her dark complexion. She reached up for him and giggled, revealing a pair of pink gummy nubs where fangs would someday sprout. The child was haphazardly, and perhaps lazily, swaddled in a loose burlap cloth. Flint wondered how she hadn't frozen in the night. That was, until he picked her up and felt the peculiar heat of her body against his forearms. As he lifted the baby, a note tumbled from beneath the cloth. In it, the genie explained that this child was the result of their affairs in the months before and that Flint could do with it as he liked.

"It?" Flint scoffed. The little one grasped curiously at the note and he let her have it. Instantly, the paper disintegrated in a flash of blue flame. A few fluttering scraps found purchase in the bramble of Flint’s beard. He gasped in surprise, then chuckled. "I think you've got the right idea, kiddo. Who needs her?"

As Eldur grew, she received an education alongside her dwarven peers despite the objections of their families. Even the Elders had to concede that she couldn't be completely excluded. Flint was the greatest glassblower in centuries. Exports of Glergilder Glass paid dividends which made up much of the community's surplus funds and padded their influence with other clans in the region. 

Even so, Eldur was the near constant target of bullying and cruel pranks. Still, when the other kids lodged errant boomerangs in the trees, she quietly fetched them down. When days of heavy snowfall and bitter ice storms ravaged the hills, Eldur, unbothered by the cold, used her intense body heat to pace pathways through the village. At best, she might receive a begrudging “Thanks” in passing. But the table scraps of gratitude were little consolation for the acceptance she craved.

The Glergilder heiress matured into a striking young woman. Even her former classmates couldn’t help but notice her particular beauty, though they’d never admit it. Eldur’s struggle to fit in only worsened as she reached a very un-dwarvish 5 feet and 10 inches in height. Though hot to the touch, her flaming tresses would not, contrary to popular belief, set anything alight. A pair of impressive, black tipped horns breached her thick, radiant blue locks. Eldur’s hair blazed down to the middle of her back, its light dancing in the glittery umber reflections of her eyes and contrasting vibrantly against her swarthy black complexion. Eldur’s skin was smooth, with no major blemishes. She bore only a single scar through her left eyebrow. She cut a fit, but feminine silhouette of firm, dwarven muscle applied to a long, graceful frame. Her soft, rounded features were balanced by the points of her ears, horns, and fanged canines.

As she stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom comparing outfits for the day, Eldur wondered why she even fussed about her appearance. Was it the subtle amusement she got knowing that reigning archery champion, Omnir Leathershod, stole glances at her every chance he got? Or perhaps the satisfaction she felt when Thinustra Blackbeard, widely regarded as the most beautiful maiden of the Suntouched Hills, huffed and reddened with envy as she passed? No, neither of those things. 

“Well, at least not entirely,” she smirked and chose the jet black summer dress she’d been considering against a few others. Eldur typically had to import her wardrobe from far away cities where tailors were accustomed to customers of her stature. She subscribed to a number of seasonal catalogs and sent off her orders with the special instructions: Please alter the indicated pieces to the following dimensions… Omnir was cute, but no archery record was perfect enough to grant him uninhibited upskirt views. It would be fun, however, to watch him squirm as she wandered through town in this dress. The material was only a few shades darker than Eldur’s own skin. In the right light, the only way to tell she was wearing anything at all was to note the intricate glass beading winding in spirals over the fabric. The beads were cut prismatically, so that when she stood in the sun, Eldur’s body was bedecked with iridescence. 

Deep down, Eldur knew she wasn’t as vain as her fashion sense suggested. She didn’t really care about Omnir’s attention or Thinustra’s petty comments. She was beautiful; she knew. But, here in the Hills, she just wasn’t attractive. Her custom tailored clothes and handmade glass adornments were like armor against snide comments and rude looks. 

With a final toss of her hair, Eldur stepped into the hall and made her way downstairs to meet Tenzak, an elderly Deep Gnome who’d faithfully served the family for the last century or so. Tenzak stood in the foyer admiring the almost psychedelic effect of the sun’s rays filtered through the stained glass. 

“Good morning!” Eldur greeted him cheerily. Her voice flowed softly, yet carried a gritty undertone, like graphite over parchment. 

“Ah, Ms. Ellie!” said Tenzak. His voice was like the creak of a heavy old door hinge in dire need of oiling. He smiled as he turned to face her. “Give us a twirl!” Eldur giggled and spun on her toes. The beading on her dress glittered and winked in the light as the skirt billowed around her knees. Her hair audibly whooshed through the air. “Stunning!” Tenzak remarked. “Simply stunning!”

This was their special routine. Eldur would twirl and Tenzak would compliment her and offer his arm to walk her out the front door. In spite of the laughable height difference, Eldur would nevertheless stoop and hook her fingers around the proffered crook of Tenzak’s elbow, as she did now.

Outside, a dark bay draft horse stood fully tacked and ready to drive into town. Tenzak led Eldur to the carriage. She continued to humor the sweet old fellow and took his hand as if to steady herself as she stepped up and ducked inside.

The village was bustling as the dwarves prepared for the arrival of the Elders Council. Representatives from nearby clans would convene that afternoon to renegotiate trade contracts and spend their gold in the town center. 

Tenzak guided the carriage to the Reinit Inn where he again held out his hand to support Eldur as she disembarked. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to head back,” she said, waving her sending stone in the air before depositing it in her bag. 

“Yes, Ms. Ellie,” said Tenzak, patting the twin stone in his shirt pocket. 

Eldur reached inside the carriage and produced a bound stack of three parcels. It was traditional that each of the High Elders received a Glergilder Original piece at the annual convening of the Elders Council. And for the last several years, it had been Eldur’s duty to deliver them. She sighed.

Tenzak reached up and took Eldur’s hand between his gnarled fingers. “I can’t wait to hear about your day on the ride home,” he said, pressing his lips into a wide, flat line and creasing his brow. “You can tell me everything, Miss.” He gave her palm a gentle squeeze, then turned to the stable hand to sort out the day’s boarding fees. 

Eldur braced herself and wandered into the throng of anxious dwarves. At least they’re all too busy to pay me any mind today, she thought. Mentally, she charted the most efficient route through the village with waypoints for the errands that needed doing. Hillhouse, she concluded, would be the most practical place to start. She turned north and pardoned her way through the crowd toward the great stone manor at the top of Dawnbreak, the highest hill in the Suntouched territory. 

For most Hillhouse visitors, there was a convenient lift at the base of Dawnbreak that would carry them to the peak of the high hill while offering breathtaking panoramic views of the territory’s farthest reaches. For Eldur, however, there was only an inconvenient climb. The dimensions of the lift cars didn’t account for visitors of her size, so she had no choice but to go on foot. 

She began her ascent, muttering curses under her breath as she walked. She imagined the shock and pearl clutching of the Elders if she were to shimmy along the lift cables like a squirrel. Tempting, she thought, but I’m not dressed for the occasion. She trudged along for nearly 30 minutes until she reached the crest of Dawnbreak, easily half the time it would take any other Suntouched resident if they had to walk. 

The manor was architecturally stunning. It was the oldest building in the village and was originally constructed as a lavish residence for Lord Drakesbane, who settled in the Suntouched Hills centuries ago. A heavy brass knocker in the shape of a dragon’s clenched claw hung from the center of the dense oak door. Eldur turned the matching brass knob and ducked inside. 

Thankfully, a dwarven penchant for showing off their masonry skills meant that most ceilings were high enough that Eldur only had to stoop or crouch slightly upon entry. In the foyer there sat several Hillhouse guests, likely friends and relatives of the visiting Elders. Some were undoubtedly from neighboring clans. Eldur could tell from the way they gawked at her. She made her way to the reception desk near the back of the room, left of the oak staircase, glossy with a fresh coat of wood polish. 

“Delivery for Elder Garol,” said Eldur to the young dwarf at the desk. His beard, if you could call it that, was patchy and almost as frazzled as he was. He darted to and fro, shuffling papers and adjusting the geodes arranged on the shelves behind him, then adjusting them again.

“Yes, yes. Just put it there,” he said and pointed to an open space on the desk. 

“Actually, I - ”

“Just put it there!” he snapped, looking up at Eldur for the first time. “Oh!” he started. Eldur flushed a deep purple and stared at the floor. 

“I’m delivering his gift. From Glergilder House,” she muttered meekly. “I’m supposed to bring it directly to his room.”

“Y-yes,” said the jittery teenager. “Uh. Um, room si-no, seven. Seven.” Eldur nodded and proceeded awkwardly up the stairs. She did her best to ignore the titters from the guests by the fireplace.

Nearly an hour later, Eldur arrived back in the village center. Much of the crowd had cleared, but a few harried runners still scurried around with armfuls of fresh pastries, vibrant floral arrangements, and assorted trinkets and tchotchkes. Eldur picked her way carefully between them as she approached The Ironwood.

The Ironwood was the largest guest accommodation in town. Its namesake ironwood pillars stretched three stories high and were punctuated by tall, ovular windows featuring opulent iron filigree accents that cast intricate shadows upon the dark marble flooring inside. Translucent, multicolored swirls of stardust undulated between the double-paned glass - a feature commissioned from Flint, himself. It was Eldur’s favorite building because it was the only one in which she could stand upright. She climbed the white stone stairs to the night black iron door. It swung open easily despite its considerable weight, thanks to the glyph painted in gliding silver calligraphy at the top. 

The lobby was a dramatic juxtaposition of contrasting monochromatic features. Glossy black marble floors with streaks of white underscored a pair of floor-to-ceiling quartz sculptures on either side of the room. Lord Drakesbane’s fierce countenance glared down at Eldur as he upheld the ornate tin ceiling with the business end of his great warhammer. Precious stones decorated the mallet in twisting knot patterns. Across from him stood Lady Drakesbane, not the Lord’s wife, but his equally fearsome sister. Her expression was harsh, but stoic. She seemed to be gazing out to the horizon. Her arms were raised high and bore the prize of her brother’s campaign against the wyrms that once colonized the Suntouched Hills, a replica of the Drekisgral, a gem-encrusted crystal chalice that became something of a trademark item for the Drakesbanes. The original stood at the far end of the lobby, opposite the front door, atop a white quartz pedestal encased in a prism of the same double-paned stardust glass that decorated the windows at the front of the building. 

A few guests were seated in plush, high-backed white leather chairs by the enormous hearth a few feet behind Lord Drakesbane’s sculpture. Beyond Lady Drakesbane was the front desk, also made of quartz. Eldur approached, noting the sudden silence as she emerged from between the sculptures, where she was in full view of the guests. 

“I’m here to deliver my father’s gifts for Elder Bronmir,” said Eldur. The desk attendant looked up. It was Nakrara Leathershod, Omnir’s younger sister. “Oh, Nakrara,” said Eldur, a little surprised. “I-I d-didn’t know you uh, w-worked here n-now.” A few awkward seconds passed as the two women stared at one another. “Uh, huh-how do you like it?” Eldur knew that Nakrara wouldn’t appreciate the small talk, but would at least be cordial, which was more than Eldur usually got from anyone in town.

“It’s fine,” Nakrara said flatly. “Bronmir is in the Icespire Suite.” She looked back down and resumed filing documents.

“Oh, that’s, um, good. Yeah,” Eldur nodded. “I’ll, um, just g-go right up?” She felt her face flush.

“Mmhm,” Nakrara didn’t look up. “The maids are in that wing now. They’ll let you in.”

“Thanks,” Eldur almost whispered. She forced herself to take several deep breaths, praying that Nakrara would humor her presence just a moment longer. With her social anxiety barely contained, Eldur straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and strutted past the guests around the hearth, tossing her hair and flashing her fangs. Again, a hush fell over their group. This time, though, it was by Eldur’s intention and she allowed the moment to empower her. I could buy out all the rooms in this place and stable my horses in them if I wanted to. Thought Eldur, bluffing to herself that she was a bratty mega-bitch heiress. It helped to pretend.

Eldur exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as she approached The Rising Sun, where the last of her deliveries was due. It was a modest establishment of simple timber and stone construction with gold embellishments throughout its design. A maroon banner with a radiant golden sun rising from the bottom hem flapped in the breeze above the pinewood door. Eldur lowered her head and stepped over the threshold. 

The foyer was cozy by dwarven standards, and downright claustrophobic by Eldur’s. A staircase to her left led to guest lodging on the second floor. Directly ahead was a short hall leading to the dining area and the kitchen beyond that. To her right was a doorway opening into a small parlor where guests could sit and talk, have a drink, and, in the colder months, warm themselves by the fire. She turned right.

The fireplace was clearly designed as a conversation piece, though Eldur found it quite tacky. It was carved of turquoise stone with a brass surround and knotted filigree trim. It bothered her that the owners hadn’t at least chosen a gold surround to match the other accents, and there were no other turquoise features anywhere in the building. It was obvious that they just wanted something with a marbled effect without actually using marble. Or perhaps to say that their hearth cost more than the Ironwood’s, so there. Importation costs do not translate to good taste, thought Eldur as she tapped the service bell and waited for someone to appear at the rolltop desk where the room keys were kept. 

“Coming!” Eldur recognized the voice calling from the kitchen and cringed. Of course it would be her.

Thinustra Blackbeard came jingling into the room, adorned as usual with entirely too much jewelry. Everywhere she went, the woman sounded like an overburdened keyring. She wore her hair in loose amber curls that framed her high cheekbones and pouty lips perfectly. Thinustra’s skin was cocoa brown and freckled, as though misted with black ash. Today, she was wearing a floor-length sage green dress with a cream apron embroidered with runic script and winding knot patterns. Her hair rattled with various colored beads. Dangling silver earrings glinted beneath her tresses and several pendants and cords hung around her neck. A bracer of mixed metal bangles covered each forearm and she wore at least one ring on each finger, most of them gaudy and overstated. Eldur braced for the impending commentary.

“Oh, hello, ma’am! How can I help you today?” said Thinustra in a saccharine customer service voice. “Perhaps I could cut you off at the knees to make your experience here a tad less inconvenient?”

“Elder Vargrad’s room, please,” Eldur said flatly. “I have a gift for him from my father.”

“You mean your handler, you great beast,” Thinustra spat. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling by calling Flint your father. Even you can’t be that stupid.” Eldur sighed and stared past Thinustra at the wall behind the desk. It was best just to wait her out. She’d get bored eventually.

“Honestly, I don’t see why you have to deliver these things yourself. I’m just as capable of placing boxes in rooms. Moreso, if you account for time saved being able to walk upright,” she carried on, taking her time locating Elder Vargrad’s room key. “The Elders don’t want you in their quarters anyway. And can you blame them? It’s only a matter of time before something catches fire with that ridiculous hair. If you stand up, your obnoxious ox horns will ruin our ceilings.” There was more, but Eldur let her mind wander until Thinustra’s nasally voice faded to a nasally mumble.

A sudden noise startled Eldur from her daze. A metallic clatter like a chain falling to the ground, or perhaps… a keyring against bone. She realized with a jolt that Thinustra had tossed Elder Vargrad’s room key like a horseshoe and hooked it around one of her horns.

“Maybe they’ll give you a job here as a key hook,” Thinustra taunted. “They’d never have to worry about theft if no one could reach the keys in the first place.”

Eldur didn’t respond. She quietly fished the keys from the tangle of her hair and slid the ring over the tip of her right horn, bowing and twisting her head to create space in which to maneuver without smacking the ceiling. This done, she met Thinustra’s eyes steadily and kept her expression blank. In her mind, Eldur was screaming. She visualized setting the room ablaze and watching Thinustra writhe as she burned while Eldur stood over her, untouched and unbothered by the flames. The image was disturbing, but she couldn’t push away the satisfaction and amusement she felt. Thinustra stared back, the cockiness gradually fading from her face as Eldur glowered at her. It had to be a trick of the light, but she could almost swear Eldur’s whole body was wavering, like a heat mirage by the hearthfire. 

“Room 3,” said Thinustra in a near whisper. She pointed, arm shaking ever so slightly, across the hall at the stairs. Unblinking and silent, Eldur turned around and approached the staircase in a fluid, and shockingly graceful movement, considering her awkward stance.

As soon as Eldur was out of sight, tears swelled in her eyes and fizzled away in steamy spirals as they crested her cheekbones. The rush of raw emotion wasn’t subsiding and she was afraid. In the parlor, Thinustra was still trembling. What was that? she wondered.

Upstairs, Eldur did her best to arch her back and stretch out the ache already settling there. Room 3 was, of course, the farthest room. She practically crawled down the hallway, focusing hard on moving slowly and intentionally. I should burn the whole fucking thing, Eldur thought. Starting with that stupid, gaudy fireplace. If I get it going hot enough, I could melt Thinustra down, with all that fucking metal she wears, and make her into something useful. 

As she reached Elder Vargrad’s room, Eldur took several deep breaths. She’d been angry before. Many times. But she couldn’t name this. She’d never felt anything so intense.

"Buyout the Suntouched contract. Then, Billowforge and Sparkhammer will be finished."

Eldur froze with her hand only inches from the wooden door. She recognized the voice behind it. It was unmistakable. Eldur had a theory that Elder Vargrad saved up all his spite and hate the whole year just to spew it at her when he made his annual pilgrimage to the Suntouched Hills. If an ooze’s slime trail had a sound, it would be Vargrad’s voice.

Billowforge and Sparkhammer were small clans that relied on trade with the larger ones to get the materials they needed. They were some of the most remote clans and the Suntouched dwarves had always been especially proud of the support their trade contract offered their less wealthy brethren. Snuffing them out for profit would go against everything Eldur’s people, such as they were, stood for.

As she contemplated all this, that strange and frightening feeling welled up again, searing in her chest like a hot iron. No, she decided, and knocked.

Delivering Vargrad’s gift had been uncomfortable as all hell, but it gave Eldur a chance to survey his room and make a mental note of places she could search. At high noon, the Elders reported to the Ráðsheimili, a temporary longhouse-style structure erected at the easternmost edge of town especially for the annual Elders’ Council convening.

Eldur watched the doors swing shut behind the last of the council members. Now was her chance. She spun around and retraced her steps back to The Rising Sun. It wasn’t far. She circled to the back of the building and approximated the place where the rack of kitchen pans would be hanging on the other side. She glanced around and, spotting no witnesses, braced herself and charged the outer wall. Upon impact against her shoulder, new cracks blossomed across a couple of the weaker timbers. Eldur smiled at the sound of cast iron clanging clamorously to the ceramic tile floor. That ought to chip a few of ‘em, she smirked. Consider it my contribution to a long overdue renovation. 

Thinustra shrieked and came running to the noise, just as Eldur had hoped. She rushed to the front of the building and duck-walked inside as fast as she could. 

“What the hell just happened?!” Thinustra squealed from the kitchen. Eldur suppressed a spiteful giggle and snuck into the parlor where she pocketed the key to Room 3. Then, while Thinustra busied herself investigating the fallen and now heavily damaged wall rack, she crept upstairs, down the hall, and into Vargrad’s quarters. 

Eldur began her search in the tiger maple armoire. She scoffed as she laid her hands against it. “Faux finish? Seriously?” she hissed. “How cheap could you be?” She checked every pocket and shook out every article. Nothing. “Shit. The bookshelf, then.”

She turned as quickly as she was able in the cramped space and began pulling books and rapidly thumbing through each one. The books thumped softly against the mattress as she tossed them onto the bed, trying to minimize any noise as she searched. “No.” Thump. “Empty.” Thump. “Fuck!” Thump. She paused to listen. The sound of metal clanging and clattering carried up the stairs. Thinustra was still busy. Good. 

Eldur took a moment to parse the room and think. “You son of a bitch,” she muttered. Her eyes settled on Vargrad’s suspiciously high thread count pillowcase. “They won’t shell out for real silk at The Rising Sun.” She rushed over, if shuffling from a squatted position could be called rushing, and examined the pillowcase. Inside was a pillow. Fair enough. “And a plank of wood?” Eldur wondered aloud. She slid the slab of ash out of the case and examined it closely. “There’s no way this is for comfort,” she mused. 

As she turned it over in her hands, something glinted on its sanded surface. Eldur held the plank close to her face, scrutinizing what looked like glittering snail trails as she tilted it from side to side. She caught a faint whiff of something. Sawdust and… “Pine?” Eldur’s breath caught in her throat as a loud bang echoed up the staircase. 

“Damn it!” Thinustra cursed. Eldur only just made out the words. Still in the kitchen, then. She exhaled sharply. A breath of hot smoke puffed from her lips and snaked over the plank in her hands.

“That’s new,” Eldur whispered. As the smoke swirled across the ash wood, the sparkling symbols were transformed. “Heat activated ink?” she marveled as her searing hot breath deciphered the text, revealing Dwarvish runes scrawled across the slab. Again, she caught the smell of pine, stronger now. It seemed to waft from the runes themselves. “Amber dust!” she realized. 

As she skimmed the newly revealed text, Eldur’s anger radiated ever hotter, emanating from her core and tingling in the tips of her fingers and toes. In a flash, she jammed the plank into the bag on her hip and waddled through the door, into the hall, down the stairs, and into the parlor, cursing the tight quarters all the way. She dropped the room key on Thinustra’s desk and made her escape. 

Thinustra straightened briefly and listened. “Could’ve sworn I heard the door,” she muttered and returned to stacking pans.

Eldur sprinted the short distance to the Ráðsheimili. Even through her burgeoning anger, she relished the stretch in her muscles after being hunched over for so long. She barrelled toward the door, bracing for impact.

The tongue-and-groove logs gave way easily to Eldur’s momentum. This structure was only meant to stand for a few days a year. It wasn’t exactly an architectural marvel. The door slammed hard against the wall and rebounded. Eldur put out a hand to stop it. It jarred against her palm with a reverberating boi-oi-oi-oing. The Elders froze in their seats around the horseshoe-shaped conference table, staring in stunned silence at the blazing blue haired giant who’d burst into the middle of their negotiations.

“Stop!” Eldur shouted. “There’s something you all need to see!” With that, she withdrew the plank from her bag and approached the center of the half-circle table at the opposite end of the room, a line of concerned Elders on either side of her. She laid the plank before High Elder Garol, who sat at the apex with High Elders Vargrad and Bronmir to his left and right, respectively. 

“A slab of ash wood?” said Garol, confused. 

“Is this a joke?” Vargrad gurgled, grabbing at the wood. Eldur deftly slid it out of his reach.

“Please, Elder Garol, just watch,” pleaded Eldur. She trembled as she summoned again that smokey indignance that had revealed Vargrad’s plot earlier. It coiled in her throat. Eldur bowed at the waist and huffed  her hot breath over the pale, gray-brown grain. Again, and brighter this time, the runes shimmered into view. “The ink is mixed with amber dust so it’s invisible until it’s exposed to heat,” she explained.

“Yes, yes, we’ve all taken Gem Studies,” grumbled Vargrad. “Where did you find this?”

“In your room at The Rising Sun,” Eldur spat. “You’re conspiring against Billowforge and Sparkhammer! You want to snuff them out and take their trade contracts with Suntouched for yourself!” 

“Well, that’s a finely spun yarn, little lady,” Vargrad spat. “But I’d like to know what you thought you were doing snooping in my private quarters!”

The accusations started to fly around the meeting space. “She’s making it up!” called one of the Elders. “She’s a liar! Always has been one!” shouted another. 

“I’m not a liar!” Eldur yelled over them all. Her voice carried a certain hollowness, as though traveling up through a deep cavern. She turned to Elder Garol again. “I was delivering Vargrad’s gift from my father. When I got near the door to his room, I overheard him speaking to someone. He said he wanted to buy out the Suntouched contracts and cut Billowforge and Sparkhammer out. Their clans wouldn’t survive! It’s all right here!” she stabbed her finger against the board on the table between them.

“Your father really should have abandoned you on the nearest cliffside when he had the chance!” Vargrad growled. “This pathetic attempt to sabotage negotiations is almost as shameful a reflection on your house as the mere fact of your existence!” A chorus of insults rose up all around the room as the others piled onto Vargrad’s vitriol. 

Eldur glanced frantically around the room. She knew she wasn’t liked, but was she really hated like this? How could I have been so naive? she thought, bitterly. 

“To say that this is unacceptable would be a serious understatement,” said Elder Garol, barely audible over the din. “Framing a High Elder for contract manipulation is extreme, even for you, Eldur!” he scolded.

“Framing?!” Eldur began to lose her temper. “Just read the damned thing!” 

“Such disrespect!” Vargrad stood behind Garol with a protective hand on the latter’s shoulder. Only Eldur could see the scheming smirk on his pompous, pudgy face.

“Disrespect?!” Eldur’s voice took on new and guttural layers, as though a thousand others spoke through her at once. 

The dwarves quaked with fear as Eldur’s speech morphed into an unrecognizable language. They shielded their eyes as her hair transitioned from brilliant blue to radiant white flame, burning like a bonfire and making a corona of scorching light around her. Her form wavered as though in a heat mirage and her eyes brightened with fury. Somewhere deep beneath it all, at last she recognized the feeling for what it was. Not anger, she realized. Rage.

Eldur didn’t remember much of what happened in the moments that followed. There was heat. Intense, scorching, choking heat. She felt an epic catharsis as all the pent up rage, frustration, and hurt of the last 18 years was released in a single, liberating instant of elemental fury. It felt good. Really good. Until it didn't.

Her recollection picked up with the sound of horrified screams and pounding feet as the Elders bolted for the exit. She looked around, vision still hazy, and saw the Ráðsheimili ablaze with blue and white fire. It consumed like a starved animal, wild and ravenous. The heat was more than mere flame. Even the most perfect dwarven crafted chalices and trinkets melted and buckled in her inferno. Hunks of oak beams crunched and fell. Globs of molten metal plopped to the floor like hellish rain. Eldur tried to contain it, to somehow pull it back inside herself, to no avail. The hall burned until her fires had reduced everything to char and soot. The injuries were numerous.

Horrified and confused, Eldur fled. She decided it would be faster to commandeer her horse and ride home than to collect Tenzak and their carriage. He could lease one of the stable’s drafts to get himself home. He would have to forgive her. She arrived at the stables with a mob slowly amassing in her wake. Quickly, she identified her father’s bay gelding and released him from his stall. She hoisted herself over his withers, grateful that her skirt was loose and flowy enough to accommodate the position, and laid flat over his neck to avoid scraping the ceiling with her horns as she trotted him out. 

Once clear of the doorway, she gave the horse’s flanks a firm squeeze and made a few kissing sounds. The gelding moved into an uncertain canter. “Come on!” Eldur urged. She cued him again. Reluctantly, he stepped into a gallop. Eldur chanced a look backward. No one else had even reached the stables yet. She directed her mount to the main path and turned toward home.

Flint tugged his reins and turned sharply to ride alongside his daughter as he met her halfway to the village. “I saw the fire!” he called out. “What happened?” 

With tears steaming from her cheeks, Eldur hurriedly told him what she remembered. “Vargrad wants to sabotage Billowforge and Sparkhammer,” she panted. “I found evidence in his room! Brought it to the council!”

“That slimy son of a bitch!” 

“They didn’t believe me! A-and I got so an-ngry,” she stammered as a sob broke free. “Dad, I don’t know what happened! I-I lost m-my mind!” She squeezed her eyes shut and held on. The horses all knew their way back. In minutes, Glergilder House came into view.

The horses skidded to a halt in front of the manor. Flint and Eldur moved and conversed in sync as they dismounted. 

“Tenzak is at the Reinit Inn. He can lease a horse to get the carriage home. Here’s my stone,” Eldur spoke rapidly as she passed her sending stone to Flint. They jogged upstairs to Eldur’s room.

“Bring the travel packs to Eldur’s room! Quickly!” Flint called to a passing servant. She dropped the linens she’d been carrying and hustled to fetch the packs. “And have someone get Hraða tacked up!”

Eldur pulled all her most practical clothes from her armoire and tossed them onto the bed. “Get changed,” said Flint as he put his back to her. In a flurry, she swapped her outfit for something more pragmatic. Riding slacks, paddock boots, and a loosely corseted long-sleeved top. 

“Good,” she announced. Flint turned to face her again and began gathering a selection of furs and thick blankets, rolling them into compact logs. The servant returned with a set of travel packs and laid them out on the floor.

“And the horse?” asked Flint.

“Hekram is with him now,” replied the servant. 

Flint nodded. Without looking up, he asked her to bring a few other items. She hurried to fulfill his commands.

Eldur looked over everything she and her father had prepared: traveling clothes, furs, blankets, an extra pair of boots, a waterskin, basic cookware and utensils, assorted tools and weapons, a few days of rations, and a fat pouch of gold coins. Wordlessly, they grabbed up the travel packs. Between the two of them, they shouldered everything and lumbered down the stairs and out the door, where Hekram was waiting with Hraða’s reins in hand.

"You write to me as often as you can," said Flint as the trio shuffled around Eldur’s beloved dappled gray stallion. "You write to me, understand?" he repeated. Eldur nodded somberly. "I'll let you know when the dust has settled. And then you can visit, but -"

"But I don't live here anymore," Eldur finished. "It's okay, dad. I messed up. Bad." Her eyes welled with fresh tears.

Taking her firmly by the forearms, Flint said, "It's not fair. I hate it as much as you do. But, you go out there and you find things that aren’t fair and you do what you can to even the odds.” He stared into her eyes. It was like gazing into his own. “You go be everything those bastards wouldn’t let you be out here." Lip trembling, Eldur folded onto her father’s shoulder and wept. "This wasn't your fault, Ellie. It wasn't." They embraced tightly.

When they pulled away, Flint reached into his vest and produced a necklace on a fine silver chain. "I was going to give this to you for your birthday, but it looks like we might miss it," he said. 

Gingerly, Eldur took the pendant from him and turned it over in her palm. It was an Evil Eye, to protect her and ward off malice. A sapphire glittered in place of its pupil and runic glass beads dotted the intricate chain. She stooped low to allow Flint to drape it over her head.

Flint cupped his hands together and squatted slightly. Eldur didn't need the assistance, but allowed him to give her a boost anyway. She stepped up and swung her leg over Hraða’s back. Angry shouts sounded from the forest path that led to Glergilder House. Flint squeezed his daughter’s hand and smiled through his tears. 

“You’re my greatest treasure,” said Flint as a rebellious sob slipped out. “My masterpiece.” 

Flint kissed her hand as Eldur gave his fingers a final, loving squeeze. She cued Hraða and disappeared in a cloud of dust and thrumming hoofbeats.