That One Time I Married A Crazy Goddess

The throne room was a crumbling battlefield on the verge of collapse. Haldrek stood in its center, his draconic body radiating a primal, suffocating power. His breath came out in slow, controlled puffs of white mist, his hulking figure framed by the debris and wreckage of his earlier skirmishes with the Prophet. The Prophet still loomed in the distance, calm and untouchable, evading every strike Haldrek threw with an eerie, otherworldly precision. Not a word had passed between them, no exchange of blows had landed—Haldrek's attacks tore apart the palace itself, but the Prophet danced through them unscathed.

But this was not the only battle brewing.

Syrus Velmire, the Iron Warden, stood at the forefront of his family's gathering, his expression grim. His iron gauntlet creaked as he flexed his hand, a symbol of his unyielding resolve. Around him stood the pride of the Velmire family: warriors, assassins, mages, clerics, and alchemists—generations of power and skill that had kept the family at the top of the noble hierarchy. They have had enough, and had endured Haldrek's guise, watching as destruction came and razed towns and villages in pursuit of twisted abominations born of Ezrael's dark power. They had fought to clear the aftermath, out of fear, the fear of death, the fear of loss of leadership.

But they had stayed their hand, unwilling to challenge him directly. Until now. This could be the perfect moment, or the very end. Either way, Syrus, the founder, has declared years ago that the Velmire noble family doesn't serve the masses, but it's own self conscious. "Selfish need be, as could be for the reign of the world." Was their saying.

The Velmire family endured due to their own strength, which is why the Tournament of Chaos was born. These family members aren't tied to one draconic deity. But many others. They have the freedom to decide which dragon god would give them power from their worship. Adding to their complexity of usefulness and power to the masses of the Velmire.

"This is our chance," Syrus growled, his voice like grinding stone. "The Prophet has him distracted. He's never been vulnerable before. If we strike together, we will restore the honor of our family. We weren't built to serve. Never was. Even if we go out in death, we will uphold our honor. We just needed the right time to strike. We dishonor and tarnish our own name out of fear, like every human does. We used it to dictate our goals, and our very being and mindset. I built this family to avoid it all, and I somehow let it get the best of me. We may win or lose, we still win in the end."

Lady Verena, her crimson eyes gleaming, crossed her arms. The Blood Queen's voice was sharp and bitter. "And who do we thank for dragging us into this mess? Gorvhan." Her eyes flicked to the portly man standing at the back of the room, his face flushed with guilt and sweat.

"I'm sorry!" Gorvhan stammered, his voice trembling. "Look, I know I'm not the brightest one out of us all, but I have some uses. I should've fought against him when he recruited me. For the sake of the family, I should have. Risking my life…I wasn't ready to die. Not when there's money to be made in the tournaments! But let me prove myself here." He balled his fists, his gluttonous magic causing his aura to swell, a faint shimmer of dark energy rippling around him. "But I'll fight. I'll fix this. I'll stand with the family."

"Will you, Gorvhan?" Tyros Velmire, the Silent Blade, hissed from the shadows. His voice was cold, his dagger-like eyes glinting as he stepped forward. "I wanted to slit your throat myself. But my blade belongs to someone else's death it seems."

"Enough!" Valen Velmire's voice cut through the tension like a blade. The Silver Lion's hand rested on the hilt of Ashfang, the ancestral sword glowing faintly with its dragonfire edge. "We're all in this together. If we hesitate, we die. If we fight, we might still die—but we'll do it as Velmires. I hated this prick Haldrek anyway, there's no honor in being stomped on! That's not what we're about. We are accomplished veterans, we're not gonna let a 400 year old man child with anger issues tell us anything. There is strength in our numbers, the reason we had worshipped different dragon gods. We won't be taken advantage of due to the fear of death no longer. This is the perfect opportunity."

Syrus raised his gauntlet, his voice carrying the weight of leadership. "For the family. For honor. For strength. For chaos."

The Velmires roared their agreement, their voices echoing through the collapsing palace. And then they charged.

The Velmires attacked in unison, a coordinated assault that would have overwhelmed any mortal opponent. Warriors thundered forward, their weapons raised high, while assassins and rogues darted along the outskirts, their daggers flashing in the dim light. Above them, mages unleashed a flurry of spells, and alchemists hurled volatile concoctions that erupted into flames and smoke. Clerics chanted behind the lines, their magic fortifying their kin and filling the air with a golden glow.

Haldrek didn't move until the first warrior reached him. The man swung a massive glowing run etched warhammer with spikes on it, aiming to crush Haldrek's skull in a single blow. But Haldrek's movements were impossibly fast. He caught the hammer mid-swing with one hand, the metal groaning as his grip crushed it like paper. Without hesitation, he yanked the warrior forward and drove his knee into the man's chest, shattering his ribs and spine. Blood sprayed from the man's mouth as his lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

Haldrek went back to trying to fight The Prophet, and Syrus exclaimed, "Don't let him breathe! Don't attack one at a time!"

Two assassins lunged at Haldrek from behind, their daggers aimed at his neck. Haldrek twisted his body, his movements fluid and precise. He grabbed one by the wrist, snapping it with a sickening crack, and used the broken arm to impale the second assassin through the throat. The rogue gurgled, blood pouring down his chest as Haldrek discarded both bodies like trash.

Each time Haldrek killed one, there he was attacking the Prophet again.

Above, the mages unleashed their spells—fireballs, electric lances, and chains of lightning converging on Haldrek. But he moved through them with uncanny ease, his body weaving through the chaos like a predator through tall grass. One mage, a young woman with trembling hands, tried to conjure a barrier as Haldrek closed the distance. He reached her before the spell was complete, his hand closing around her head. With a single, brutal motion, he crushed her skull, the blood and brain matter splattering across the floor.

The alchemists tried to fall back, hurling more explosives in desperation. Haldrek caught one mid-air—a glowing vial of acid—and flicked it back into their ranks with only his finger. It detonated with a hiss, melting flesh and bone. The screams of the dying filled the room.

Lady Verena and Tyros struck next, their movements perfectly synchronized. Verena's blood magic lashed out in crimson tendrils, coiling around Haldrek's limbs like serpents. At the same time, Tyros moved through the shadows, his dagger aimed for Haldrek's heart.

'We have him!'

For a moment, it seemed they had him. Verena's tendrils tightened, her voice rising in a triumphant chant. "You're strong, but even gods bleed."

Tyros appeared behind Haldrek, his blade gleaming as he thrust it forward. 

"It's over."

But Haldrek moved faster. His hand shot out, grabbing Tyros by the throat before the blade could connect. He turned, using Tyros' body as a shield against Verena's blood magic. The crimson tendrils tore into Tyros instead, ripping him apart in a gruesome display of gore.

"No!" Verena screamed, her magic faltering. Haldrek dropped Tyros' mutilated corpse and advanced on her. She tried to summon her magic again, but Haldrek was already upon her. He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground, his grip tightening as the frost on his skin began to seep into her flesh. Her screams turned to choking gasps, and her body froze solid. With a casual flick of his wrist, Haldrek shattered her into a thousand crimson shards.

Valen roared in fury, his dragonfire sword blazing as he charged Haldrek. "You will not dishonor this family!" he bellowed, his strikes coming fast and heavy. Each swing of Ashfang left trails of searing light, the heat melting the frost that clung to Haldrek's body.

But Haldrek was unrelenting. He dodged each strike with ease, his movements almost mocking in their precision. Valen's fury grew with each miss, his attacks becoming more desperate.

"Even going out like this is better than being walked over and manipulated or another."

Finally, Haldrek caught Ashfang mid-swing, the blade's flame sputtering as his grip extinguished its magic. Valen's eyes widened in shock as Haldrek twisted the blade out of his hands and drove it through his chest. The Silver Lion gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as Haldrek ripped the blade free and let him fall.

Gorvhan, trembling but determined, stepped forward. "You won't kill me so easily!" he roared, his gluttony magic surging. His body swelled, his muscles bulging grotesquely as he consumed the energy of the fallen around him. His hands became claws, his teeth sharpened into fangs.

'Ahh. Wasn't I a coward a few days ago? Are we dumb? What are we doing..? Dying..? Doom? There's no killing this vessel, an elder dragon god vessel…what were we thinking? Syrus knew..he knew. Valen noticed even…the look in their eyes showed me that we can't be manipulated for long. The Velmire family name is noticed throughout Kyrrin, imagine if they heard about us being Haldrek's lapdogs? No one would take us seriously. We live for the family, and for the family..'

He lunged at Haldrek, his massive frame crashing into the god-king. For a moment, it seemed he had the upper hand, his strength pushing Haldrek back. But Haldrek's expression didn't change. He grabbed Gorvhan by the arm and twisted, the bone snapping like a twig. Gorvhan howled in pain, but Haldrek didn't stop. He tore Gorvhan's arm clean off and used it to bludgeon him to death.

The remaining clerics gathered, their prayers rising in desperate harmony. A golden light surrounded them, their magic forming a barrier that shielded the survivors. They chanted louder, their voices trembling as Haldrek approached.

He didn't slow. He walked through the barrier, his draconic power shattering it like glass. The clerics screamed as he descended upon them, his hands tearing through flesh and bone. Blood soaked the floor as the last of the Velmires fell.

By the end, Haldrek stood alone, his body drenched in blood. Around him lay the broken bodies of the Velmire family, their legacy reduced to nothing. The palace groaned, its walls crumbling under the weight of the destruction.

Through the haze of dust and blood, the Prophet stepped forward. Untouched, unbothered. He stood before Haldrek, silent and calm, as the world fell apart around them.

The castle groaned like a dying beast, its ancient stones splintering and tumbling under the strain of Haldrek's wrath. The throne room had become a graveyard; the lifeless bodies of the Velmire family lay scattered across the blood-slicked floor. The air was thick with the acrid stench of death and burning wood, the sunlight from the crumbling roof casting jagged rays into the carnage below.  

Gridd held the hybrid baby tightly against his chest as he sprinted through the shuddering corridors, his boots slamming against the cracked marble floor. He could feel the child's small hands gripping his tunic, its dragon-like eyes wide with confusion and fear. Behind him, his trustees, Durvold and Thaldrin, followed as fast as their legs could carry them, their faces marred with panic and streaked with soot from the falling debris.  

"Keep yer feet movin', lads!" Gridd barked in his deep dwarven voice, his words sharp but steady. A massive chunk of stone crashed down behind them, narrowly missing Thaldrin, who stumbled but kept pace. "This whole bloody castle's comin' down faster than a drunkard on a greased slope!"  

The baby whimpered softly, its clawed fingers clutching at Gridd's beard. He glanced down, his heart clenching. "Don't worry, wee one," he muttered, his voice softening for the first time. "Uncle Gridd'll get ye outta this mess. Just hold on tight."  

Ahead of them, the corridor began to collapse, massive blocks of stone tumbling to seal their only way out. Dust and rubble filled the air, choking the last rays of daylight from the passage. Gridd skidded to a halt, his trustees stopping behind him.  

"Blast it!" Durvold cursed, slamming her fist against the wall. "We're boxed in! What now?"  

"We move this rubble!" Thaldrin growled, already throwing his weight against a boulder. "We've no time to waste!"  

Gridd turned toward the baby, his eyes narrowing with determination. "Ye hear that, lad? We'll make it through. Just gotta clear this path."  

Amid the chaos, Gridd's ears caught a wet, rasping sound behind him. He turned to see a Velmire family member, an assassin, barely alive, dragging himself across the blood-soaked floor. His legs were mangled beyond recognition, one arm snapped at an unnatural angle, but his eyes still burned with fierce determination. Blood smeared the ground behind him as he clawed his way forward.  

"…You…dwarf.." the man croaked, his voice weak but urgent. "Listen to me… You have to warn… the final leader…"  

Gridd knelt beside him, still clutching the baby. "Warn who? Speak plain, lad!"  

"The other leader. The abandoned son of Syrus. One who..rejected his role to the family," the Velmire gasped. "He must know. Haldrek… If he's desperate… he'll come for him next. He's been waiting… too long… His dreams—his ambitions—they've festered. Corrupted him."  

The man coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. "If Xyenn and Yuuna don't return soon, they won't stand a chance. But maybe… the son..he might be strong enough… to kill him."  

Gridd's brow furrowed. "Breathe, lad. Where do I find 'em?"  

The Velmire's bloodied hand reached for Gridd, trembling as he clutched at his arm. "He… can only be summoned… with the Mythic Ram's Horn. It must be blown… three times… at the first stronghold… of the Velmire family…" His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. "In the city of Svarthelm, in the continent of Jörvaldr… The crypt beneath Vardyrs Keep. That's where you'll find it."  

Gridd's expression hardened. He looked down at the baby, who stared up at him with innocent, unblinking eyes, and then back at the dying man. "Aye… I'll do it. If this is what it takes to stop that beast, I'll see it done. Rest easy, lad."

The Velmire's bloodied lips curled into a faint smile. "Thank you…" he whispered. His head fell back, his eyes staring into nothing as the life left his body.  

'A dying man's wish..I didn't even hesitate to help the poor lad. The old me would've rejected him. Maybe i'm letting myself influence the kid I'm holding…don't want him turning out like my own flesh and blood…'

Behind them, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the collapsing hall. Gridd turned to see the Prophet descending the crumbling staircase with slow, deliberate steps, his tattered robes flowing like shadows behind him. The air around him seemed to warp, as if reality itself bent to accommodate his presence.  

Haldrek's voice boomed from the ruins of the throne room, his rage uncontained. "You! You've always known!" His draconic voice reverberated, shaking the crumbling walls further. "You've seen everything! You can change everything! And still, you say nothing to me! Death told me about you…you…telling everyone what's going on, maybe even telling the enemy my plans. You Prophets…I know you bastards have caused wars."

The Prophet stopped, his shadowed face unreadable. "It is not my place to change what must be. We only carry the future out. But when fate is tethered…there must be sacrifice."

Haldrek's fists clenched, his body trembling with barely restrained power. The snow around his feet began to melt, his sheer heat radiating outward. "You go to the others! You tell them of their fates, their futures! But never me. I am left out. Forgotten. Unworthy! You have no idea what It felt like..going through what I went through as a child. I deserve everything!"

The Prophet tilted his head slightly, his voice calm. "Perhaps it is because you believe you deserve everything… that nothing has been given to you. Fate works in mysterious ways, our prophecies carry it out."

Haldrek's roar of fury shook the entire castle, but before he could move, another door creaked open. A small figure stumbled into the room, her steps unsteady.  

"Father…?"  

Haldrek's rage evaporated instantly. He turned, his eyes softening as he saw his daughter, Espen, standing in the doorway. Blood trickled down her forehead, but she seemed otherwise unhurt.  

"Espen…" Haldrek's voice was no longer a roar but a whisper. He knelt before her, his massive form shrinking as he reached for her. "What are you doing here?"  

Espen rubbed her head, looking up at him with innocent confusion. "There was noise… I was scared…"  

Haldrek gently pulled her into his arms, cradling her small frame as if she were a fragile bird. His wings, massive and draconic, unfurled from his back, snowflakes forming along their edges. The air around him changed, becoming serene and calm. A sunflower, its petals made of pure snow, bloomed from the aura surrounding him. Espen reached for it, her little fingers brushing against its icy surface.  

"It's okay now," Haldrek murmured, holding her close. "I'm here."  

Haldrek then looked at Gridd, saying, "I should end you now, but I bowed to never take a life in front of my little girl. I will be seeing you again."

Without another word, he spread his wings and took off, soaring through the collapsing roof. The castle trembled one last time as the god-king disappeared into the afternoon sky, leaving behind silence and death.  

Gridd watched Haldrek vanish, his eyes narrowing. He turned to the Prophet, who remained motionless in the debris. "I've seen ye before," Gridd said, his voice gruff. "On the streets. Always mumblin' 'bout the dragon gods an' their business. What're ye doin' here?"  

The Prophet's glowing eyes shifted toward Gridd. "The Prophets have always been on every side… and on no side. We speak of what is, what was, and what will be. To all but Haldrek."  

"Why not him?" Gridd asked, his voice heavy with suspicion.  

"Haldrek's soul is fractured," the Prophet said. "He believes himself deserving of everything good, but his past has made him bitter. He feels abandoned, unworthy. And so, he takes… and takes… in hopes of filling the void. But no matter how much he gains, it will never be enough. Fate has written has background, this is how it must be."

Gridd grunted. "An' what's this 'fate' ye keep yammerin' about?"  

"The fate of all things," the Prophet said, his voice growing louder, his glowing eyes burning brighter. "The dragons. The Lysfødt. Death. Hell. The gods themselves. All of Kyrrin is bound by fate, and yet…" His voice faltered. "Because of Xyenn and Yuuna, the planned timeline is broken."  

"Broken?" Gridd asked, his voice rising.  

"Xyenn was never meant to live," the Prophet said. "He was to die to the Light Born in Gabriel's Tower. But he didn't. He and Yuuna changed the prophecy. The  Lysfødt they engaged in battle with, was way stronger than them. Yet, they won. Maybe it's that human mother of hers…no matter. I tried to save it, we don't do it by violence but by words. We've never had any close calls of anomalies. But now…we do."

"That's how Xyenn and Yuuna are, lad. Them and those Tyrants are unpredictable, they're not easy to beat. Ye understand Haldrek couldn't fight all of em', eh? If ye want Xyenn and Yuuna dead so bad, wouldn't ye just inform the Elder dragon gods of where she is?"

"Now that fate has been broken and must be repaired, unpredictable events will occur. There is no need to tell them anything."

Before Gridd could respond, the Prophet's body began to convulse. His glowing eyes flared impossibly bright, and his voice became a strained whisper. "The prophecy must be fixed…"  

Suddenly, the Prophet's body exploded in a brutal display of gore. Blood and viscera sprayed across the room, spattering Gridd and his trustees. The baby in Gridd's arms whimpered, burying its face in his chest.  

From the shredded remains of the Prophet, another figure emerged—identical to the first but wilder, his eyes burning with madness.  

"Oooh!" the new Prophet cackled, stretching his arms wide. "Time to pick up where he left off! Do not fret! I will save fate!"  

Gridd stared in stunned silence as the new Prophet began laughing, his voice echoing through the ruins.  

Gridd thought, 'Prophets…seemingly unknown beings who shape destiny, not by violence but by their voices itself. They know the future…and yet, Xyenn and Yuuna defied it? Could it really be Yuuna's mother? That human woman? Either way…I'm proud of them for surviving. Just keep on doing it. Too many forces are against Xyenn and Yuuna and those Tyrants..'

The grand doors of the palace groaned as they swung open, spilling the group into the cold morning air. The sun hung low, its light cutting through the heavy mist that clung stubbornly to the valley. Gridd adjusted the baby hybrid in his arms, his heavy boots crunching against the frost-kissed stone steps. Behind him, Durvold and Thaldrin followed, their cloaks pulled tightly against the chill. The silence that had filled the palace was broken the moment they stepped outside.  

Durvold was the first to speak, her tone practical as always. "So. A ram's horn, and the abandoned son of Velmire. Two tasks. Two problems. How long d'ye reckon this'll take us, Gridd? Weeks? Months? We're not exactly flush with time."  

Thaldrin grunted in agreement. "Aye, and we're not talkin' about somethin' simple here. Rams are rare enough these days, and the Velmire family doesn't exactly send out invitations for visitors. Even if we find 'em, what's to say they'll help?"  

Gridd glanced back at them, his expression calm but focused. "It's the time that'll weigh on us the most, aye. But as for the rest, it's not as bad as ye think. Trust me, we've got the tools to handle this."  

Durvold raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how d'ye figure that?"  

Gridd adjusted the baby's blanket before settling into his explanation. "Because we're dwarves, Durvold. Ye forget what that means?"  

She frowned. "I've not forgotten. But that doesn't change the fact that we're after somethin' rare and headin' into lands we've no allies in."  

Gridd stopped at the bottom of the palace steps, turning to face his trustees. His voice was steady but carried the weight of authority. "Listen, and listen well. There's not a thing in this world we dwarves can't craft or shape. That's not just pride talkin'—it's fact. Ye ever wonder why no one can match the work o' a dwarf? Not men, not elves, not even dragons?"  

Thaldrin folded his arms, leaning slightly on the haft of his axe. "Aye, I've heard the stories. Kaldor, the draconic god of fire and forge. But ye've got a point to make, so make it."  

Gridd smirked faintly, then continued. "It's not just stories, lad. Kaldor didn't just teach us how to shape metal or carve stone. He gave us somethin' far greater—he gave us the gift to breathe life into our work. Every rune we carve, every hammer blow on the anvil—it's more than just makin' a tool or a weapon. It's creation. That's why dwarven-forged items are the finest in the world. They're not just objects—they've got souls, born from the fire, just like us."  

Durvold's expression softened slightly as she considered this. "Ye' we can enchant this ram's horn ourselves, if we can find one?"  

"Aye," Gridd said with certainty. "It's not the horn that matters—it's the hands that shape it. We can work with anythin'. Metal, stone, bone—Kaldor's flame runs through us, and that's why we'll succeed. That's why we've always succeeded."  

Durvold nodded slowly, but her brow furrowed as she thought further. "But that still leaves the question—where in the name o' stone are we supposed to find a ram? And as to how long this is gonna take, we need to at least get info on Gabriel's Ladder."

Gridd exhaled deeply, his breath curling in the cold air. He adjusted the baby again, then spoke with a hint of weariness in his tone. "There's one place I know where we might find what we're lookin' for: Svarthelm. In the continent of Jörvaldr. They have them on the outskirts, we got lucky."  

Thaldrin asked, "How do ye know? Y'eve been there before or what?"

Gridd began walking again, his voice steady as he explained. "Years ago, I took a job there. Was hired by one o' the noble families to forge a set o' ceremonial weapons—blades made from gold-veined obsidian, inlaid with runes to ward off curses. Spent months there, workin' in a forge that was colder than the peaks of Highmir here in Vördrheim. The pay was good, but the place… well, it stays with ye."  

Thaldrin tilted his head. "What's it like?"  

Gridd's expression darkened slightly, his voice lowering. "Svarthelm's the crown jewel o' Jörvaldr, but it's no place for the faint-hearted. The nobles there are obsessed with wealth and power—gold flows through that city like water, but the streets are colder than the winters outside. It's a place where every smile hides a dagger, and every deal comes with strings attached. The nobles live like kings, aye, but it's built on greed and ambition. That's how the dragon god of wealth and gold receives worship: trade, business, gold flowin' in an' out. That's all made to worship him. Any and all ways that produce gold and coin, the people producing this and carrying these out, is worship to him. Other than them just praying to him, but that's for every other continent, which people will review less of a blessing that way than actually carryin' out the actions like trading and making gold."

Durvold frowned. "And the dragon god, who is it?"

Gridd nodded. "Aye. Vuben. the dragon god o' gold and wealth, reigns over that land. His influence is everywhere—in the gilded halls, the palaces, even the damned air. His power grows with every coin hoarded, every deal struck. And his Tyrants—**Sethrak** and Zyphira—used to live there I believe. They were born o' his vessels blood, raised in his shadow. But they saw the truth and escaped. Now they're allies o' Yuuna, and by extension, us."  

Thaldrin frowned deeply. "So we're walkin' into a land ruled by greed, where a dragon god's power runs deep, lookin' for a rare horn we've no guarantee we'll find. Sounds like a fool's errand."  

Gridd smirked faintly. "Aye, it does. But if there's anywhere we'll find a ram's horn, it's there. The nobles prize 'em for their rarity. They carve 'em into trophies or decorations—or hoard 'em, like everythin' else in that blasted place."  

Durvold glanced at the baby in Gridd's arms. "And what about the wee one? We can't take him to Svarthelm—it's too dangerous."  

Thaldrin nodded. "And it's not safe for him with the clan right now, either. Not with Haldrek breathin' down our necks."  

Gridd's voice was quiet but firm. "I know a place. But I worry for my clan, with Haldrek running rampant. We had a hold on em because of Xyenn and Yuuna. But now I don't know. After we get this baby safe, I'll need you two back with the clan. And remember to use the flute to contact me if anything happens, eh?"

Durvold and Thaldrin exchanged a glance and nodded.

"Then let's move," Durvold said, stepping ahead. "We've a long road ahead, and it won't walk itself."  

The snow-dusted streets of Brimholt were alive with activity, the active of merchants and the rhythmic clamor of blacksmiths echoing through the crisp air. The town, nestled in the heart of Vördrheim, was a place where adventurers gathered between quests, a waypoint for those seeking respite or glory. Gridd and his trustees—Durvold and Thaldrin—stood outside a modest stone building with a weathered wooden sign swaying gently in the cold breeze. The sign read: Mertha's Hammer, the letters carved deep, as if to reflect the strength of its patrons.  

Some of the people nearby talked:

"I heard loud booming…did anyone else hear it?"

"Yeah I did too. A buddy of mine said he was near it, it was the kings palace!"

"Oh dear…what could've happened..? Has the war finally started? I hope not."

"I hope not too. If a war breaks out here like the rumors suggest all over Vördrheim, we might as well be digging our own graves!"

Gridd shifted the baby in his arms, the hybrid cooing softly as the faint smell of mead and roasted boar wafted from within. Durvold tucked her cloak tighter around her shoulders, muttering, "We're wastin' time standin' here. Let's get this lad inside before the cold bites him."  

"Aye," Gridd rumbled, pushing open the heavy oak door.  

The moment the door swung open, the warmth and noise of the tavern enveloped them. A roaring hearth crackled in the center of the room, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. Long wooden tables stretched across the space, crowded with adventurers sharing stories over tankards of ale. The scent of spiced cider and charred meat mingled with the faint tang of sweat and iron.  

It didn't take long for the workers—most of them women—to notice Gridd's arrival.  

"Gridd!" one of them called, her voice carrying over the din.  

"Look who's back!" another chimed, rushing toward him.  

But it wasn't just Gridd they noticed. The baby, bundled in soft furs against the cold, was nestled securely in his arms, and the moment the women saw him, a collective gasp rippled through the room.  

"Oh! Is that—?"  

"Ohh! It's THEIR baby, isn't it?"  

"I heard the rumors—Yuuna and Xyenn had a little one!"  

"Look at him, he's adorable!" 

"He looks more like Xyenn!"

"He looks more like Yuuna to me."

In an instant, Gridd and the trustees were swarmed. The women crowded around, their faces alight with curiosity and affection.  

"What's his name?"  

"Does he have Yuuna's powers?"  

"Or Xyenn's temper?"  

"Let me hold him!"  

"He's so big already!"

Gridd, clearly overwhelmed, grunted as he tried to navigate the sea of questions. "Enough! Enough, ye lot! Give me some damned room—"  

But his protests fell on deaf ears. The women hovered over the baby, their faces softening as he laughed and reached out with tiny hands.  

One of the servers leaned in, her voice soft as she wiggled her fingers toward the baby. "Oh, look at him! He's smilin'! Such a happy little lad, aren't ye?"  

The baby giggled, his laughter high and sweet, and the women melted further.  

"Gridd, how're we supposed to work when ye bring somethin' this precious in here?" one teased, nudging him playfully.  

"Ye've got everyone distracted now," another added with a laugh.  

Durvold crossed her arms, smirking. "Ye lot are actin' like ye've never seen a bairn before."  

"It's not just a bairn, love," one of the women replied, hands on her hips. "It's Yuuna and Xyenn's bairn! That makes him special."  

Gridd finally managed to raise his voice above the chatter. "Aye, he's special, but we've got business to take care of. I need someone to watch him while we're gone—and I don't mean just standin' around gawkin' at him all day."  

The women practically tripped over themselves to agree.  

"Oh, leave him with us!"  

"We'll take care of him, Gridd!"  

"He'll be safe here, I promise!"  

Gridd glanced at Durvold and Thaldrin, who exchanged amused looks. With a heavy sigh, Gridd carefully handed the baby to the nearest woman.  

The moment the child left his arms, chaos erupted.  

"Let me hold him first!"  

"No, me! I've got more experience with babies!"  

"Ye're always hoggin' the cute ones—let me!"  

The women began to playfully jostle one another, each trying to take the baby for herself. The hybrid, oblivious to the commotion, squealed with delight as he was passed from one set of arms to another.  

Gridd pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just don't drop him, for forge's sake."  

The tavern door creaked open again, letting in a burst of cold air. The noise of the room quieted slightly as five figures entered. They moved with purpose, their presence commanding immediate attention.  

Illyana was the first to speak, a warm smile on her face as she spotted Gridd. "There you are, Gridd."  

Gridd turned, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "By the forge… What're ye lot doin' here?"  

Before anyone could answer, Zyphira strode to a nearby table, plucking a tankard of mead from a customer's hand. She raised it to her lips, but before she could take a sip, the man—red-faced and furious—stood up and shouted, "Hey That's mine!"  

Before the situation could escalate, Sethrak, Zyphira's twin brother, stepped forward. His golden eyes locked onto the man, and without a word, the man sat back down, his face pale. He grinned, taking the tankard from Zyphira and handing it back to the man. He turned to his sister, his tone sharp. "No stealing."  

Zyphira pouted, crossing her arms and muttering, "It was just one drink…"  

Gridd, still stunned by their sudden entrance, gestured toward them. "So, Yuuna's Tyrants show up out o' nowhere, and ye don't even give me the courtesy o' tellin' me why? What're ye lookin' for me for?"  

Draeven, who had been lingering near the back of the group, stepped forward hesitantly. His usual confidence seemed dulled, his expression tight with unease.  

"It's… It's Xyenn and Yuuna…" Draeven began, his voice faltering slightly.  

Kivorn added, "Things…have gotten serious..really serious…"

The room seemed to quiet, the weight of his words cutting through the lively atmosphere. Gridd's face darkened, his gaze sharp as he stared at Draeven.  

"What about 'em?" Gridd asked, his tone low and serious. "And things have gotten serious too here, let's trade info."