The gates of Nogrod loomed ahead, carved deep into the side of the Blue Mountains like the maw of some ancient beast. Though the hour was late and the sky beyond black as pitch, the city within never truly slept. Fires burned in the heart of the mountain, and the ring of hammers echoed through the stone like a steady heartbeat.
The six Dwarves approached on foot, weary and blood-streaked, but not empty-handed. One of them cradled the child—Vlad—wrapped in a torn cloak and swaddled against the cold.
Guards at the gate raised their brows at the sight.
"You bring back... a baby?" one asked, blinking.
"Aye," said the eldest dwarf gruffly. "And not just any babe. You'll want to wake the lord."
They passed through tunnels lit by glowing braziers and enchanted stones. Past merchant halls, silent workshops, stone libraries, and vaulted chambers carved with ancient runes. At the mountain's heart stood the Hall of the Lords, with its great stone throne and pillars taller than trees.
There, seated beneath the ancient anvil of kings, was Lord Thror—aged, sharp-eyed, his silver beard bound in rings of black iron. His armor was ceremonial, etched with dragons and hammers, but his bearing was still that of a warrior.
He looked up as the patrol entered.
"What trouble follows you back?"
The elder dwarf stepped forward, lowering his voice. "No trouble, my lord. Only... this." He gently unwrapped the cloak, revealing the child—quiet, eyes alert, not crying, only watching.
Thror rose from his throne and stepped down with surprising ease for a dwarf of his years. He stared at the child for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out and took the boy into his arms. Vlad did not resist. He looked up at Thror with wide, curious eyes.
"A human," Thror muttered. "Newborn, yet calm. His hands are strong."
"He was cut from his mother," the elder added. "She died moments after naming him."
Thror's brow creased. "What name?"
"Vlad," the dwarf said, as if the word itself tasted strange.
The lord's lip curled, just slightly. "Ugly sound, that. Harsh. Doesn't suit the child's face."
He looked at the baby again. "But... it is the name his mother gave him. And so it shall remain."
A long silence followed. Thror stroked the boy's cheek thoughtfully, then turned to the gathered dwarves.
"I have no son. Only my nephew remains. My house is fading, and the mountains grow quieter every year. Perhaps it is the will of Mahal that this boy was brought to me."
He smiled, a rare, faint thing. "I will raise him. Let it be known that Vlad is now of my house, blood or no. We shall see what the mountain makes of him."
---
Five Years Later – Year 345 of the Sun
Time moved differently beneath stone. Five years passed in the blink of a forge's fire.
Vlad, now five years old, walked the halls of Nogrod not as an outsider but as a child of the mountain. Though human, he had been clothed in Dwarven linen, taught the tongue of Khuzdul, and fed on mountain goat, bitter roots, and stonebread. His laugh rang off the walls, loud and alive.
But he was not like the others.
He was already taller than most Dwarves, standing four and a half feet tall by his fifth year. His limbs were long, his movements graceful but sometimes clumsy in the narrow halls. His skin was pale, his eyes sharp. Where Dwarves grew slow and stocky, Vlad grew fast and lean.
Today, he trailed behind Thorin, the heir of Nogrod, and the only blood kin Lord Thror had left.
Thorin was twenty years old, though among Dwarves that was barely older than Vlad. He had already earned a thick, curled beard, proudly braided and adorned with iron beads. He stood barely four feet tall, but carried himself with the pride of princes.
"Keep up, long-legs," Thorin called back, smirking.
"I'm not slow," Vlad said. "Your legs are just stubby."
"Mind your tongue," Thorin snapped, though his eyes glinted with amusement.
They descended into the Great Forges, the deepest part of Nogrod. The air here was always warm. Glowing channels of molten metal lined the walls. Sparks flew from anvils like fireflies. The smell of soot, sweat, and burning oil clung to everything.
They approached a broad-shouldered Dwarf hammering out a sheet of red-hot steel.
Telchar.
His reputation reached even beyond the Blue Mountains. It was said he had forged blades for kings, helms for the greatest of warriors, and once crafted a sword that could cut through stone.
He looked up as Thorin approached.
"Come for your sword, lad?"
Thorin nodded. Telchar disappeared into a back chamber and returned holding a short sword, dark of hilt and gleaming like starlight.
Thorin took it with reverence, testing its weight, balance, edge. "It's perfect."
Vlad stared wide-eyed. The blade shimmered like a dream.
"I want to make swords too," Vlad said.
Telchar raised an eyebrow. "Then grow up. Learn from the forge-masters like everyone else."
"No," Vlad said. "I want to learn from you."
Telchar snorted. "You and a hundred others. Go play in the slag heaps, boy."
"I'm not like the others," Vlad insisted. "Please. I'll work harder than any Dwarf. I'll come before sunrise. I'll leave after everyone else. Just give me a chance."
Telchar studied him for a long time. There was something in the boy's eyes—something unrelenting.
"…You come before the first bell," Telchar growled. "You sweep the floors, carry coal, clean the blades. You speak only when spoken to. You stay until the last hammer falls."
"I will," Vlad said without hesitation.
Thorin raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
---
That night, back in the Hall of the Lords, Vlad stormed into the chamber with muddy boots and ash on his cheeks.
"Father Thror!" he shouted.
The old lord looked up from his chair, startled.
"I'm Telchar's apprentice!" Vlad beamed. "He said yes!"
Thror blinked. "He… did?"
The other dwarves in the hall turned to stare.
"That stubborn old rock never takes anyone," Thror murmured, eyes narrowing in wonder. "Not even kin."
He leaned forward, resting a heavy hand on Vlad's shoulder. "Then I am proud of you, lad. But remember—Telchar is the fire that forges steel. He is not gentle. Do not expect kindness. Only strength."
Vlad nodded. "I don't want kindness. I want to forge the mightiest weapon in the world. One that'll protect Nogrod forever."
Thror laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Then you'd best start with your morning chores, apprentice. Thorin—take him to bed. He'll need rest before the forge eats him alive."
"Yes, uncle," Thorin said with a smirk.
Vlad grinned as he followed his cousin out of the hall, his footsteps light despite the weight of destiny already beginning to press on his shoulders.