Two weeks of silence from Torglin.
Two weeks in which time, for Amanda, turned into thick, viscous resin. Each day,
heavy, leaden clouds
of doubt gathered above her head, and clawed thoughts tore her apart from within:
(What if… what if, having seized such a treasure, he’s already on his way? To the Imperial capital? Or to the mountain strongholds of his kin? His name will thunder across the continent, and I’ll be left with nothing but dreams and two helpless orphans.)
That morning, when her patience finally snapped, Amanda told Leo in a voice that
rang like an over-tightened string
:
“Today you’re coming with me.”
She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the wall, yet she saw only catastrophe.
Elis remained at the warehouse — the
first, agonizing test
of independence in this new, fragile reality.
The road to the smithy felt like an
endless corridor of nightmare
. Amanda walked so fast her cloak billowed behind her like a black banner. Leo half-ran to keep up, his breathing quick and ragged, yet he didn’t fall behind, catching the
scent of panic
rolling off her in waves.
She didn’t knock. She
slammed
into the door with her shoulder. It crashed open with a deafening bang, rebounding off the wall.
The workshop was an
empty tomb
. The workbench — bare, coated in a thin film of dust. The crucible — cold, dead. Shards of failed attempts and crumpled blueprints lay scattered everywhere in furious disarray. Chaos.
But no dwarf. And no precious bundles.
“…No…”
The word escaped Amanda like a moan. Blood drained from her face, leaving the skin
deathly pale,
almost translucent.
“He ran? Damn it! DAMN IT ALL!”
The
panic
she had buried so carefully beneath layers of ice and calculation broke free. She
threw herself
about the room like a caged beast. Tools clattered to the floor with the screech of iron. She peered into dark corners thick with dust and cobwebs. Her breathing came in
sharp, whistling gasps
. In her wide-open eyes splashed
pure, animal terror
— not for herself, but for the entire chimeric edifice she had been building.
(Everything. The plan. The future. Power. All of it collapsing before it even began. I’m a fool for trusting a craftsman. I am nothing.)
“Mistress, calm yourself…” Leo’s voice was quiet but
clear
, like a pebble striking ice.
Amanda
didn’t hear him
. She was digging through a pile of rags, fingers trembling.
“MISTRESS!”
Suddenly he stepped forward —
swift, decisive
. His hand, strong from years of struggle,
closed around her wrist
. Not to hurt. To
stop
her. To
ground
her.
Amanda
froze
. Her ruby eyes, wild with madness,
stared
at him without seeing.
“What? ‘Mistress’? I never asked you to call me that!” Her voice shot up to the edge of hysteria, becoming
shrill, cracked
.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Then what should I call you?” Leo’s own voice trembled, but not with fear. In it rang a
steel wire of will
stretched to its limit. For the first time he wasn’t obeying — he was
standing against
her. “You gave us shelter. Food.
Purpose
. You are our mistress. That’s a fact. But right now… right now you’re flailing like a frightened pup! It changes
nothing
!”
His words hit her like a
punch to the solar plexus
. The air left her lungs in a wheeze. The hysteria
receded
, exposing the bottom. And from that bottom rose a new wave — icy, concentrated fury. She yanked her hand free. Without another word she whirled and
raced
up the steep staircase to the second floor.
***
What met her eyes was
repulsive and beautiful
in its soothing ugliness.
Torglin lay sprawled on the floor amid a
puddle
of dried vomit and despair. Beside him: an overturned clay mug, a small oaken keg of ale, several oddly shaped glass bottles bearing labels in the dwarven tongue. The air was
thick and sour
with the stench of stale booze, sweat, and unwashed flesh. The mess was total.
Yet in the corner,
neatly, almost reverently
covered with clean cloth, lay
two bundles
. She knew their shape by heart.
(The armor. It’s here.)
Amanda stepped over and
kicked
the dwarf in the ribs with all her strength.
“Torglin! What in the hells is this?!”
The dwarf groaned. His bloodshot, clouded eyes cracked open.
“…Ah, it’s you… girl…” His voice was
hoarse, scraping
, yet laced with bitter irony. He
coughed
, and the laugh turned into a rasp. “Overdid it… Of course I overdid it. Forged something so… so
hideously magnificent
… never made anything like it in my life… Had to… celebrate…” With effort he propped himself on an elbow, pointing a trembling, filthy finger at the bundles. “Done… Take your darkness… and let me… die in peace… I touched a taboo, you see? It was… too much… too
grandiose
…”
Amanda stared at him. Her anger
melted
like frost beneath the morning sun, leaving behind a strange,
bitter understanding
. He hadn’t betrayed her. He hadn’t fled.
His own genius had crushed him. The weight of what he’d created was heavier than a mountain. He couldn’t bear the responsibility for what he’d unleashed upon the world
.
She drew a
deep, measured breath
, inhaling the stench of defeat and madness. Turning to Leo, who stood on the top step, she saw in his eyes not fear but
tense, almost painful focus
. He awaited orders, yet his stance spoke of
readiness to act
even without them.
“Help him. Bring him round. Find water. Food. Clean up this pigsty.”
Leo
nodded
. One motion. One wordless affirmation.
No unnecessary questions
. He stepped over the threshold; his nose wrinkled at the stench, but his face remained
impassive
. He crossed to the window, threw it open, letting in a rush of cold, clean air. Then he bent over the dwarf — movements
not rough, but firm and practical
. In his eyes as he lifted Torglin there was something more than obedience.
Responsibility. The right to take charge — a right he had just fought for and won.
Amanda approached the bundles. Knelt. With the tips of her fingers, almost
reverently
, she touched the coarse fabric. Beneath it she felt the hard, cool outline.
(They’re here. My weapon. My power. My shadow.)
But in that moment, watching Leo’s back as he wiped the dwarf’s face with a damp cloth — his expression a mixture of
concentrated disgust and determination
— she realized something else.
Another treasure
. Fragile, newborn, incredibly dangerous in its sincerity.
Loyalty.
Not born of fear of her power, nor of desire for gain. Born in the instant her
own armor cracked
, revealing a desperate, vulnerable human being. And when he — the one she had seen as nothing more than a tool —
dared to stop her
. Dared to become
her pillar
when she herself was ready to collapse.
She rose slowly, clutching the bundle to her chest. In her eyes, fixed on the working Leo, flickered a
complex, unfamiliar emotion
. The strategist in her was already calculating the value of this new variable.
But something else, buried deep,
stirred faintly
.
This was the beginning of something new.
And perhaps far more unpredictable than even the most perfect suit of shadow armor.