Somewhere In Dwargonia
Down below the snowy valley, the survivor group from Moth Pole marched onward.
Even though they had already put great distance between themselves and the ruined outpost, the snow still fell relentlessly. It was no longer the savage blizzard of the mountain slopes, but the cold lingered all the same—seeping into bones, into lungs, into thoughts. Hunger and exhaustion pressed down on everyone equally, until the survivors of Moth Pole no longer felt like separate people, but a single mass moving forward through white and gray.
There were no more prisoners. No more guards.
No more dwarves. No more demons.
Out here, titles meant little. Cold did not care for rank, and hunger made no distinction. Everyone suffered the same ache in their stomachs, the same numbness in their fingers, the same frostbitten silence. No presence was treated differently, because everyone was equal now.
Well… almost everyone.
"KEEEEE!! KEEEEEEEE!!"
The piercing cry cut through the snowfall.
Several heads turned at once.
The source was the diabolical pickaxe, Shawshank, thrashing and shrieking like a wounded beast. Three dwarves struggled to restrain it, their boots digging into the snow as they tried—and failed—to calm the living weapon.
"Easy, easy—!"
"Hold it still!"
"By the forge, it's angry again!"
Their efforts only made the pickaxe cry louder.
"Goodness," a familiar voice said calmly, "I only went for a pee."
Dwordoug Axebreaker emerged from behind a patch of frost-covered bushes, adjusting his belt as if nothing unusual were happening. Seeing the commotion, he hurried forward with short, hurried steps.
He waved the other dwarves aside. "Move. You're doing it wrong."
They backed away at once.
Dwordoug took Shawshank into his hands, steady and confident. "You're rubbing him wrong," he said matter-of-factly. "He doesn't like being rubbed on the hilt."
He shifted his grip and gently rubbed the lower part of the pick instead.
"Under the pick," Dwordoug added. "That's where he likes it."
Almost immediately, Shawshank's shrill cries softened, then faded entirely.
"There, there," Dwordoug murmured. "Stop crying now. Be a big boy."
"keeee…"
The pickaxe emitted a low, satisfied purr.
Levi and Mara approached from behind, watching the scene with equal parts disbelief and amusement. Levi leaned heavily on his cane now, his limp more pronounced with every step, though he still wore a faint smile.
"I'm terribly sorry you have to take care of Shawshank like this now, Council Member," Mara said apologetically. "I still don't understand why our affinities suddenly dropped. He keeps refusing me."
"But his affinity with you is undoubtedly high right now," Levi added with a grin.
"No worries," Dwordoug replied, hoisting Shawshank onto his shoulder as if it were an ordinary tool. "I've raised plenty of nephews. This kind of thing doesn't bother me."
"Well," Mara said thoughtfully, "he certainly seems more… docile after being with you."
They resumed walking, following the main group that had already moved ahead through the valley.
"Anyway," Dwordoug said casually, "where were we before?"
"The Goldenclaws are selling your family," Mara replied.
"Ah, yes. That."
Dwordoug's tone remained steady, but his eyes darkened slightly. "Even though my ancestor died fighting the Demon King, they still feared the Axebreaker name growing more influential than the Goldenclaws. They saw it as a threat to their position as dwarven royalty."
"They're pretty sly," Levi remarked. "Almost demon-like."
"Indeed," Dwordoug said. "They ordered an Axebreaker to join the hero party, protecting their own bloodline. Then they rewarded that loyalty with betrayal."
He continued walking as he spoke, each word measured. "They tricked my grandfather and his brothers—direct descendants—and sold them into slavery to humans."
Levi frowned. "But aren't dwarves supposed to value loyalty above all else?"
"Oh, the Goldenclaws are loyal," Dwordoug replied. "Just not to Dwargonia. Their loyalty lies with their own clan… and gold. Other dwarves are merely commodities to them."
He gestured ahead. "Even our warden's clan, the Cinderclaws, were once a sub-clan of the Goldenclaws."
Cinderclaws nodded grimly.
"Like many clans," Dwordoug went on, "they eventually grew sick of how selfishly the Goldenclaws ruled. That dissatisfaction led to the civil war two hundred and fifty years ago."
"Long story short," he said with a sigh, "the Goldenclaws were defeated and driven out of Dwargonia. We hunted them, but they blended into other kingdoms, hiding among foreign dwarves."
He paused. "Only fifty years ago did we learn the truth—that they had become formidable mercenaries, armed with dwarven technology."
"And now," Levi said lightly, "they're back."
"Exactly," Dwordoug replied. "And we underestimated them. They must have an extensive network here—one capable of smuggling armies and airships deep into Dwargonian territory."
His expression hardened. "And someone in a high position must have helped them."
The air around him grew heavy. "Someone who will feel my wrath."
A sudden shout echoed from ahead.
"I SEE IT! I SEE THE BASE!"
The group hurried forward and gathered at the edge of a hill.
Below them, beside a cliff overlooking the fjord, stood a lone Dwargonian military structure—walls of stone and steel standing defiant against the snow.
"HOHOHO, We're finally here," Cinderclaws said with a wide grin. "Boulderhelm Base."
"Oh, finally…"
"No more walking…"
"After weeks in the wild, my old bones could use a mattress," Mara said.
"I'd like some hot tea," Levi added.
"Unfortunately," Dwordoug muttered, "I can't promise all that."
"Huh?"
---
Boulderhelm Base, Entrance
The survivors reached the gates at last.
Stone walls rose above them, dwarven guards standing watch atop the battlements.
"WHO'S THERE?" one of them shouted. "IDENTIFY YOURSELF!"
"WE ARE FROM MOTH POLE!" Cinderclaws bellowed back. "I AM THE WARDEN—NIKOLAJ CINDERCLAWS!"
"Moth Pole?" one guard muttered to another. "Wasn't Moth Pole destroyed weeks ago?"
Then they noticed a dwarf stepping forward, a terrifying pickaxe resting on his shoulder.
"I AM DWORDOUG AXEBREAKER!" he roared. "GRAND MARSHAL OF THE DWARGONIAN ARMY!"
The guards froze.
"G–GRAND MARSHAL, SIR!" one of them stammered, snapping into a salute. "GLAD TO SEE YOU ALIVE, SIR!"
"GET ME THE BASE COMMANDER," Dwordoug ordered.
"Y–YES, SIR!"
One guard ran off immediately.
"Can't they open the gate while we wait?" Cinderclaws muttered.
"The base here is strict," Dwordoug replied. "Nothing happens without the commander's permission."
Moments later, the same guard returned— visibly more terrified.
"I–I–I'M terribly sorry, sir!" he shouted. "T–T–T–The commander says it's past working hours and will see you tomorrow—during business hours!"
Silence fell.
"What?"
Cinderclaws exploded. "WHAT IS YOUR COMMANDER THINKING?! THIS IS THE GRAND MARSHAL! WE WALKED FOR WEEKS TO GET HERE!"
"I–I can't disobey my order!" the guard whimpered. "I'm sorry!"
Dwordoug stepped forward.
"…VERY WELL," he said loudly. "WE WILL WAIT HERE TONIGHT."
"What?" Cinderclaws turned to him. "Sir, this is an emergency!"
"And a war may break out," Mara added.
"I know the base commander," Dwordoug said calmly. "Even if the world were ending, nothing would change that person's mind."
Cinderclaws frowned. "But didn't you say he's an Axebreaker?"
"It's a she," Dwordoug replied. "And her name is Hilda Axebreaker."
He paused.
"She's my wife."
Silence.
"…Wow," Levi said. "Didn't see that coming."
And so they spent another bitter night outside the gate—somehow colder than all the previous night, knowing hot drinks and warm bed lay just beyond the wall.
---
In the next day, exactly at nine in the morning, footsteps echoed along the battlements. The base commander appeared atop the wall.
She was a mature female dwarf, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, with iron-gray hair tied neatly behind her head. Even standing still, she radiated authority—the kind earned through years of command, not inherited by name.
"Well, well," she said coolly. "Hello there, Dwordoug."
The gate remained firmly shut.
"Ehem… hello, Hilda," Dwordoug replied, standing straighter. "It has been five years."
"Indeed," she said flatly. "So what business brings you here? Aren't you supposed to be dead in Moth Pole?"
"I very nearly was," Dwordoug answered. "I need to use your base for shelter. And I require access to your mana-comm to contact Hearthguard Cairn… and the Murican's."
Hilda's gaze shifted past him, settling on the two demons standing quietly among the group.
"Is that the Murican?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," Levi said politely, stepping forward with his cane. "I am Leviathan, Murica's Foreign Minister."
"And I am Mara," he added with a bow. "Murica's ambassador to Dwargonia."
Both offered courteous gestures.
"Hm," Hilda said after a pause. "Very well."
A visible wave of relief passed through the dwarves—everyone except Dwordoug.
"I will need time to think about it," Hilda continued calmly. "I have many matters to attend to today. I'll give you my answer tomorrow."
With that, she turned and disappeared behind the wall.
"What do you mean tomor—!" Cinderclaws began.
"VERY WELL!" Dwordoug shouted over him. "WE WILL WAIT FOR TOMORROW!"
And so, the group spent another night outside the gates.
That second night was worse than the first. Morale dipped even lower, and the realization settled in that no matter how powerful or important a dwarf might be, a dwarven wife remained the final authority.
---
CREEAAAK
The gate finally opened.
A collective sigh of relief escaped the group as they passed through the entrance and into the base. Warm air wrapped around them almost immediately, drawing tired groans and quiet murmurs of gratitude.
Inside the base's meeting room, Dwordoug, Levi, Mara, Cinderclaws—and Shawshank—waited in silence.
"Council Member," Levi said after a moment, "if you don't mind me asking… why haven't you seen your wife for five years?"
"Oh, it's not a big deal," Dwordoug replied casually. "We just had a little fight."
He paused. "Ah, I suppose I should explain. For other races, this might seem strange. But dwarves are a stubborn race. And a dwarven wife…"
He trailed off.
"…even more stubborn," Cinderclaws finished, nodding solemnly.
Levi raised an eyebrow. "I wonder what would happen if you had a 'big' fight."
Dwordoug shuddered.
The door opened.
Hilda entered and took her seat across from them, her presence instantly dominating the room. She looked more like a principal about to question unruly students.
"So," she said, folding her arms. "Explain to me what happened at Moth Pole."
Dwordoug stood up. "When I—"
"Wait until I say it's your turn to speak, Dwordoug," she interrupted coldly.
"…Understood," he said quietly, sitting back down.
Her gaze shifted.
"Warden."
"Huh? Ah—yes!" Cinderclaws straightened. "We were attacked by a group of dwarves using dozens of armored units, mechanical spiders, airships, and Kirof-class bombers."
"And their objective?"
"Most likely the Grand Marshal and the Muricans, ma'am."
"Hm," Hilda said, glancing at Dwordoug. "Seems they did a poor job."
Dwordoug shrank slightly under her stare.
"Do you know who they were? Rogue units, perhaps?"
"We are confident they were Goldenclaws."
"Deep inside Dwargonia? …troubling indeed."
Her eyes shifted to Levi and Mara. "So. Are they the reason Dwargonia is now at war with Murica?"
"Permission to speak, ma'am," Mara said.
"Granted."
"Oooh," Dwordoug murmured under his breath, impressed. Cinderclaws nodded as well—the demon had adapted quickly.
"May i inquire," Mara asked carefully, "whether our nations are currently at war?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Hilda replied. "Dwargonia declared war. Our navy was defeated a week ago at the tri-border ocean."
Dwordoug shot up from his seat. "What?! By the Murican?!"
Hilda glared at him.
He sat back down—very slowly—avoiding eye contact.
"No," she sighed. "By the Ravendawn."
"Oh my," Levi said. "That is unexpected."
"And…" Dwordoug ventured cautiously, "was my death the reason for the declaration?"
"Yes," Hilda replied without hesitation. "An insignificant reason, if you ask me."
Dwordoug instantly regretted asking.
"In that case," Levi said with a polite smile, "it would be best if we contacted both our capitals and stopped this war as soon as possible."
"Indeed," Hilda sighed. "Although we do have… a situation."
"Don't we always?" Levi replied lightly.