Chapter 319: Inquisitor Theron Visits Dwarves

The forges of Ironhelm were alive.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a genuine spark had returned to the heart of the mountain. It wasn’t the roaring, all-consuming fire of the main forge; it was a quiet, determined flame rekindled in the souls of the dwarves.

Hope.

Alaric Steele’s visit, his strange, human proposal of a “research partnership,” had done more than any empty platitude ever could. It made sense. The logic was as clean and solid as a perfectly forged ingot. A problem born of magic required a solution born of magic and knowledge. It was a language they understood.

Borin Stonehand felt it more keenly than anyone. A fragile, precious bud of hope was pushing its way through the permafrost of his despair. He’d spent the morning hunched over the schematics for a new type of blast furnace, his mind, for the first time in months, sharp and focused, finding solace in the familiar comfort of lines and runes.

The magnificent demonic core Alaric had gifted him sat on a nearby pedestal, its contained, inner fire a constant, powerful promise of what could be achieved through power and knowledge.

He was just about to call for his apprentice, a rare smile almost touching his lips, when the rhythm of the forge changed. The constant, musical clang of hammers on steel faltered, dying out one by one, replaced by a tense, heavy silence.

A new sound echoed from the main entrance of the forge-city. A sound that was utterly alien here. The clean, crisp, unified cadence of disciplined, booted feet marching on stone.

Borin’s brow furrowed. ’Surface-dwellers.’

He instinctively grabbed his hammer, its enchanted haft warm and familiar in his calloused grip, and strode towards the grand entrance, his heavy tread echoing the grim beat of his heart.

The sight that greeted him was a jarring, almost offensive, intrusion upon the sanctity of his forge.

A procession of a dozen knights stood in the grand, soot-stained archway. Their polished golden armor was a brilliant, blinding glare against the functional black iron of the city. They were perfect, emotionless statues of faith and steel, their hands resting on the pommels of their massive greatswords.

At their head stood a man who was the very antithesis of everything Ironhelm represented.

He was tall and impossibly handsome, radiating an aura of serene, unshakeable confidence that felt entirely out of place amidst the grit and fire. His robes were the pristine white and gold of the Radiant Theocracy, his hair the color of spun sunlight. His face was a masterpiece of charismatic warmth, his smile beatific, his eyes the brilliant, unwavering blue of a summer sky.

This was Inquisitor Theron.

’This place stinks of soot and pagan pride,’ Theron thought, his beatific smile never wavering, a perfect mask of compassion. ’A perfect, fertile ground to plant the seed of the Radiant God’s true light.’

The dwarven guards, their axes held at a low, ready angle, formed a grim, unmoving wall. Their bearded faces were masks of open, undisguised suspicion. They had no love for the smooth-talking, elegantly dressed humans of the southern kingdoms.

Theron didn’t demand entry. He didn’t puff out his chest or announce his title with a herald’s cry. He simply inclined his head, his expression one of profound, gentle sympathy.

“I seek an audience with the Master Forgemaster, Borin Stonehand,” he said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate with a holy power, cutting through the heavy silence of the forge. “I have come only to offer the Radiant God’s condolences in his time of great sorrow.”

The guards grunted, their expressions unchanging. They were unmoved by his pretty words.

Borin pushed his way through them, his own face a grim mask of weary frustration. He looked at the perfect, golden knights, at the handsome, smiling Inquisitor. His mind replayed Alaric’s subtle warning from the day before. ’One must be wary… of those who offer simple prayers for complex ailments.’

“Another surface-dweller with pretty words,” Borin grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was pure dwarven displeasure. He rested his massive hammer on his shoulder, a clear, unspoken threat.

“State your purpose, Inquisitor. This is a forge, not a temple for idle chatter.”

Theron’s smile didn’t falter. It was a thing of practiced, professional perfection.

“My purpose is one of compassion, Master Dwarf,” he said, his voice a smooth, soothing balm. “May we speak in private? A father’s grief is not a thing to be displayed before the masses.”

The words were a subtle, masterful trap, and Borin knew it. To refuse would be to appear churlish, to admit his grief was a public spectacle for his men to witness. It was a checkmate of etiquette.

’Damn these humans and their twisted tongues,’ Borin thought, his hand tightening on the haft of his hammer.

He growled under his breath, a sound of pure frustration. He hated these games of words. He was a creature of iron and fire, of direct action and honest craft.

“Fine,” he bit out, the word sharp as a shard of steel. “My study. But make it quick. My furnaces wait for no man. Or god.”

He turned on his heel and stalked back into the heart of the forge, leaving Theron to follow, a serene, knowing smile on his handsome face. He had won the first exchange.

Borin’s private study was as spartan and functional as the dwarf himself. The walls were unadorned, rough-hewn stone, the furniture carved from massive, petrified logs that looked older than most human kingdoms. The only decorations were framed, intricate schematics of legendary dwarven artifacts: the Axe of the First King, the Shield of the Unbreakable Mountain.

Theron entered the room, his golden knights remaining outside, a silent, intimidating presence guarding the door. He did not sit. He stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped before him, his expression one of profound, holy sorrow.

He didn’t immediately offer a cure. He didn’t speak of miracles or blessings. He began by offering sympathy, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to fill the small, stone chamber with a heavy, solemn weight.

“Master Borin,” he began, his voice a gentle, sorrowful caress. “I cannot begin to imagine the pain you are enduring. To watch one’s own child, one’s own blood, fade away… it is a torment no soul should have to bear.”

Borin grunted, his massive arms crossed over his chest. ’Get on with it,’ he thought, his patience already wearing thin.

“Save your pity, Inquisitor. It will not re-light a dying fire.”

“Perhaps not,” Theron conceded, his expression unchanging. “But I do not speak of the fire in the body, Master Dwarf. I speak of the fire in the soul.”

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. His brilliant blue eyes fixed Borin with a sudden, intense seriousness.

“This curse that afflicts your daughter, Grymla… it is a vile, profane thing. But its true horror is not what it does to her flesh. It is what it does to her spirit.”

He began to paint a picture, his words a masterful tapestry of theological terror. He spoke of the soul as a divine spark, a fragment of the Radiant God’s own light, a sacred flame entrusted to each living being, a flame that yearned to return to its source upon death.

“This curse,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, chilling whisper, “it does not just turn her body to stone. It is a cage. A cold, dark, eternal prison for that divine spark. Can you imagine it, Master Borin? To be awake, aware, screaming in the silent darkness of your own petrified flesh, for all eternity?”

Borin flinched as if he’d been physically struck. The image was a shard of ice rammed directly into his heart. It was a fear he hadn’t dared to give voice to, a nameless nightmare that haunted his waking hours and stalked his dreams.

“She will be trapped,” Theron murmured, his voice a hypnotic, relentless drumbeat of fear. “Lost. Adrift in a godless abyss, beyond the reach of your ancestors, beyond the light of any salvation. A tormented, lonely ghost in a statue of her own making.”

He had found the crack in Borin’s pragmatic, iron-clad resolve. The father’s deepest, most primal fear.

“What… what are you saying?” Borin stammered, his voice a low, ragged sound, his carefully constructed composure beginning to crumble.

Theron’s expression softened into one of profound, pitying sorrow. “I am saying that the health of the vessel is secondary to the salvation of the soul.”

And now, the attack. Subtle, yet sharp as an assassin’s blade.

“This young Duke of the Jorailian Kingdom,” Theron said, his voice now tinged with a righteous, holy sadness that felt utterly genuine. “He is a man of great power, I am told. A man of… arcane science.”

He spat the word ’science’ as if it were a poison, a foul taste on his tongue.

“He offers you a cure based on his human knowledge. On his arrogant belief that he can tinker with the very fabric of life, with the sacred vessel that houses the soul, as if it were a child’s toy.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper that was impossible to ignore. “And perhaps he can, Master Borin. Perhaps his profane arts can restore your daughter’s flesh. Perhaps he can give you back a perfect, healthy, breathing body.”

He paused, letting the hope of that statement blossom for a single, sweet moment before he crushed it under the heel of his faith.

“But what of the soul within?”

He looked Borin directly in the eye, his gaze a piercing, unwavering instrument of divine conviction.

“His methods, this ’arcane science’, it is a soulless, arrogant human endeavor. It deals only with the physical, the profane. It has no understanding of the sacred, of the divine. In ’curing’ her body, he will be performing a profane act. An act that will permanently, irrevocably, sever your daughter’s soul from the Radiant God’s grace. From any chance of salvation.”

’He’s twisting it,’ Borin thought, his mind reeling in a chaotic storm of confusion and fear. Alaric’s logic had been so clean, so clear. A problem of magic, a solution of magic and knowledge. But this… this was a new, terrifying variable. The soul. What did a human scientist know of a dwarf’s soul?

“Master Dwarf, a man of your integrity understands the body is but a vessel,” Theron pressed, his voice a relentless, hypnotic wave of certainty. “What good is a flawless cup if the spirit within is corrupted and lost to the abyss forever? This Duke Steele… he offers you a cage of healthy flesh for your daughter’s soul. Is that a price you are willing to pay?”

The question hung in the air, a terrible, impossible choice. It felt like being asked to choose between two different kinds of death for his daughter.

He was losing him.

Inquisitor Theron could feel it. The dwarf’s iron resolve was crumbling, his face a mask of tormented doubt. But it was not enough. Doubt was a seed, but it needed to be watered with a demonstration of divine power.

’He’s scared,’ Theron realized with a jolt of genuine, professional alarm. ’He’s actually considering the heretic’s offer. He met with him yesterday. What if… what if Steele can actually do it?’

The thought was a cold knot of panic in his gut. Alaric Steele was a true Archmage, a wielder of strange, terrifying power. What if his “arcane science” could actually succeed where the Radiant God’s blessings had thus far failed?

The Theocracy would look foolish. Powerless. A paper tiger in a world of real, secular monsters.

’I cannot let that happen,’ he thought, his own faith a burning fire in his veins. ’The glory of the Radiant God is at stake.’

He had to act. Now. Before Alaric’s “research partnership” could bear any fruit.

He pressed his advantage, his voice now filled with a righteous, passionate fire that seemed to warm the very stones of the chamber. “I admit, Master Borin, I do not know the specifics of the Duke’s profane arts. But I know their nature. It is the nature of human arrogance. A dangerous gamble with unknown, potentially demonic, side effects. Is your daughter’s eternal soul a thing you are willing to wager on the unproven theories of a heretic?”

He stepped forward, his hand resting on the golden sunburst symbol on his chest, a gesture of absolute faith. His voice dropped, becoming a low, powerful promise that resonated with pure conviction.

“I cannot stand by while a heretic gambles with an innocent’s soul! Doubt is a poison, Master Borin. And I have come to offer you the antidote.”

He looked at the dwarf, his brilliant blue eyes blazing with a fanatical, undeniable certainty that was both terrifying and incredibly compelling.

“Allow me to show you the Radiant God’s grace. Not a promise of future research. Not a cold, clinical ’partnership’. But a tangible blessing. Today. Now.”

He leaned closer, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper that seemed to bypass all logic and speak directly to the raw, screaming heart of the father.

“Let me ease her suffering. Let me show you the true light of a god. Let me protect her soul from the coming darkness. And you will see the truth of our power with your own eyes.”

The offer was a lifeline. A simple, direct, and powerful solution to an impossibly complex problem.

Borin Stonehand, Master Forgemaster of Ironhelm, a creature of iron and fire, of pragmatism and tradition, looked at the handsome, charismatic Inquisitor before him.

He thought of his daughter, his beautiful, strong Grymla, trapped and screaming in a silent, stone prison.

He thought of Alaric’s cold, scientific logic, of his talk of research and analysis.

And he thought of Theron’s promise of divine, immediate salvation for her very soul.

His heart, the heart of a desperate, terrified father who had been stretched on the rack of grief for too long, made the choice his mind could not.

He looked at Inquisitor Theron, his own eyes, the color of tempered steel, now filled with a desperate, pleading, and utterly broken hope.

“Show me,” he whispered, his voice a ragged, defeated sound. “Show me your god’s power.”