Translator: CinderTL
In the grand hall of the Stonemason Clan's dwarven stronghold, a pool of molten lava bathed the banquet hall in a crimson glow. The sizzling fat of roasting Rock Sheep dripped onto the fiery embers, filling the air with its savory aroma.
Imar personally filled Abal's jeweled drinking horn with fine ale. The amber liquid shimmered with stardust-like mineral powder, lending it an otherworldly allure.
"To the health of the Great Chieftain!" the dwarf Clan Chief declared, raising his horn. The copper rings on his belt jingled as he bowed deeply.
"To the friendship between Orcs and dwarves!" Abal ripped off his human-style cloak, revealing a brand-new Star Iron breastplate—a masterpiece recently gifted by the Stonemason Clan as tribute.
He snatched the horn from the dwarf Clan Chief, threw his head back, and drained it in one gulp.
"Good drink! Though truth be told, your dwarven brew is a bit mild compared to what we have on the Grassland!" The Orc Chieftain's booming laughter shook the nearby stone walls.
He casually tore off a leg of the roasted Rock Sheep and took a massive bite, grease dripping through his fingers onto the silk tablecloth.
Imar rubbed his hands together, his brass ring glinting in the lava firelight, mirroring his nervous demeanor.
"I've heard this year's Frostwolf pelt harvest on the Grassland has been exceptionally bountiful," he lowered his voice just enough to be heard. "To support our Orc friends in their campaigns, our miners are working in freezing conditions and desperately need winter supplies."
Abal's lone eye narrowed abruptly. He paused mid-bite on his half-eaten lamb leg, and the entire banquet hall fell silent, save for the crackling torches.
"You wish to trade?" The Great Chieftain of the Royal Tent slowly set down the bone, wiping his greasy hand on the skinning knife at his hip. "Very well. Surrender fifty percent more weaponry than your usual tribute, and we'll exchange it for an equal value in Frostwolf pelts."
"Great Chieftain, that's not fair!" Imar felt as if he'd been struck by a hammer. "Over the past few years, the armaments our Stonemason Clan has forged for the Chieftain's Tent could equip a formidable army. And nearly all of it was freely gifted! Considering our clan's immense contributions, can't the Chieftain's Tent offer its friends a small token of appreciation?"
"A small token of gratitude?" Abal's eyes flashed, his voice suddenly hardening. "You're clearly trying to get a free lunch!"
Startled by the outburst, the dwarf waiter beside them knocked over a wine pitcher, spilling deep crimson liquid across the stone floor.
Cold sweat beaded on Imar's forehead. He hadn't anticipated Abal would so openly disregard their friendship.
"Of course not!" The dwarf Clan Chief chuckled nervously, clapping his hands. "How could this be a free lunch? The weaponry we forged for the Chieftain's Tent could arm an entire army! To meet your demands, several mines have been depleted! By our ancestors, we even melted down altar candlesticks to cast arrows..."
Abal surged to his feet, his massive hand slamming down on the stone table. "If I recall correctly, that was your sworn duty! Don't forget what you promised us before the Grassland warriors helped you reclaim your position as Clan Chief!"
The Orc Chieftain glared fiercely, his imposing presence filling the air. "In our Grassland tradition, those who break their word face severe punishment!"
Imar ducked his head. "Ah! Of course I haven't forgotten my promise, Great Chieftain Abal!"
At that moment, the Orc Chieftain erupted in thunderous laughter. "However, I am a merciful chieftain and an understanding friend. The Stonemason Clan has indeed provided us with invaluable assistance. Since you desire Frostwolf pelts, I can allocate a portion of this year's harvest to your clan."
He plopped back into his seat, grumbling, "But the price for this year's armaments will still be increased by twenty percent!"
Although the chieftain's offer was twenty percent lower than his earlier demand, Imar remained noncommittal. The banquet hall buzzed anew as neither party seemed eager to prolong the discussion.
As the feast concluded, Abal staggered out, drunk, while Imar was intercepted by two White Wolf Clan guards as he tried to leave.
"The Great Chieftain wishes to speak with you privately!"
Imar's heart tightened. "I have urgent business to attend to. I'll see the Great Chieftain later."
The guards nodded. "Very well, but make it quick!"
Two hours later, the stone chamber door slammed shut behind Imar, the beast-hide curtain blocking out the glow of the lava pool. Abal's battle armor hung on the stone wall, its cold gleam reflecting the eerie blue light of the fluorite lamps.
"Sit," the Orc Chieftain gestured toward a low stool, its height forcing the dwarf to look up at him.
Imar's fingers fidgeted nervously on his knee. "What did you wish to speak with me about?"
"Imar!" Abal smirked, then leaned forward suddenly, the bloodshot veins in his single eye spreading like a spiderweb. "Have you heard any rumors?"
His rough fingers tapped against the stone table, each tap causing the bronze cup to tremble slightly.
The dwarf Clan Chief hesitated, then swallowed hard under the chieftain's stern gaze. "There have been... some whispers..."
"About my defeat?" Abal slammed his fist on the table, sending Imar's cup crashing to the floor, the spilled wine snaking across the stone surface like a serpent.
"N-n-no..." the dwarf Clan Chief stammered, unable to find the words.
"Very well! I admit I suffered a setback! But so what?" Abal roared with laughter, grabbing a jug of wine and taking a long swig.
"I faced countless failures in my campaign to unify the Grassland! Seven humiliating defeats alone against the Grayhoof Tribe!"
The Orc Chieftain tore open his chestplate, revealing a crisscrossing network of scars beneath. "But now," he declared, "warriors from the Grayhoof Tribe are among my most loyal and ferocious soldiers!"
With unwavering confidence, he continued, "The Aldor Kingdom is merely another Grayhoof Tribe! Sooner or later, they will all bow before the Chieftain's Tent, just like the tribes of the Grassland!"
The dwarf Clan Chief forced a weak smile. "Chieftain, you jest. I'm merely concerned about our clan's dwindling supplies..."
"Supplies?" The Orc Chieftain suddenly lowered his voice, a thick cloud of alcohol-laced breath spraying Imar's face. "Once I reclaim Aldor, all its iron mines will be yours!"
His fingernails scraped deep grooves into the stone table. "But until then—you must continue supporting me without reservation, so I can focus entirely on conquest!"
Sweat slicked Imar's palms as he nervously considered the fine steel dagger concealed in his boot, praying the keen-eyed Orc wouldn't notice it.
The dwarf Clan Chief's courage wavered. Before meeting Abal, emboldened by drink, he had imagined himself striking a bold bargain. But now, face-to-face with the Orc Chieftain, his drunken bravado evaporated.
"Remember this!" The Orc Chieftain finally released his grip on the table and clamped a hand on Imar's shoulder. "No blizzard, no matter how fierce, can freeze the White Wolf Clan."
(End of the Chapter)
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