Time soon passed, and with capture of the cultists the empire's mood soon turned festive.

The Royal Plaza of Ironforge, which only hours ago had been a cratered battlefield reeking of ozone and death, was unrecognizable.

The debris of the Iron Legion had been shoved to the sides, forming makeshift walls of scrap metal.

The glassified crater in the center, the scar left by the Giga Full Counter, had been covered with massive slabs of slate.

And on top of those slabs sat the longest stone table Damien had ever seen.

"DRINK!"

A roar shook the cavern walls, louder than any cannon.

Thousands of Dwarves, soldiers, smiths, and liberated citizens, raised heavy iron tankards to the artificial sky.

"TO THE PRINCE! TO THE HUMAN! TO THE IRONCLAN!"

CLANG!

Thousands of mugs slammed together, spilling a frothy, dark liquid that sizzled when it hit the stone floor.

Damien sat near the head of the High Table, watching the chaos with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. He had cleaned up, but he still wore his black combat coat.

Next to him, King Durin sat on a makeshift throne of reinforced barrels.

The King looked terrible. His skin was the color of ash, the black veins of the Abyss Poison visible even under his beard. He leaned heavily against the table, his hands trembling.

But his voice? His voice was a thunderclap.

"More!" Durin bellowed, slamming his empty tankard down.

"This is water! Bring out the Vintage Wine! Bring out the Magma Ale from the Deep Cellars!"

"Father," Hephaestus whispered, looking worried. "The physician said alcohol will accelerate the poison..."

"The physician is a sober fool!" Durin snapped, snatching a fresh pitcher from a passing server.

"If I am to die, boy, I will not die thirsty! I will die pickling the parasite in 200-proof spirit!"

He poured a mug for Damien. The liquid inside was thick, red, and literally smoking.

"Drink, Voss!" Durin challenged, his eyes glassy but fierce.

"Your father could teleport across a battlefield in the blink of an eye, but he couldn't handle his liquor. Let's see if the son is made of stronger stuff!"

Damien looked at the bubbling red liquid.

'Magma Ale,' he recalled from the novel. 'Made from fire-peppers and fermented in geothermal vents. It causes minor burn damage to the throat.'

"Alright, Your Majesty," Damien smiled, picking up the mug. "I'll take the burn."

He downed it in one go.

It felt like swallowing a fireball. His throat seared, his stomach roiled, and steam actually vented from his nose.

"Hah!" Durin clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle Damien's teeth. "Good lad! Better than Theron already!"

Down the table, a different kind of battle was raging.

"Is that... a rock?" Lyra asked, staring at the plate in front of Isabelle.

"It is a Deep-Fried Granite Mushroom," Isabelle corrected, her mouth full. She crunched down loud enough to be heard over the singing.

"It has a crunchy exterior and a molten, spicy center. It is quite divine."

Isabelle was currently surrounded by five Dwarven chefs. They were watching her eat with tears of joy in their eyes.

"She... she ate the Spiced Sulfur Stew," one chef sobbed happily. "And she asked for seconds."

"A true connoisseur!" another chef declared, piling a mountain of glazed lizard-legs onto her plate.

"Eat, little demon! Eat until you burst! The Ironclan feeds its heroes!"

Isabelle's eyes were glowing ruby red, not from combat, but from pure gluttony.

Her demon blood, usually demanding mana, seemed perfectly content to consume mass quantities of high-calorie dwarven food instead.

"I love this country," Isabelle mumbled, shoving a lizard leg into her mouth.

Further down, a crowd had gathered around a massive reinforced barrel.

"Ten!"

"Eleven!"

"Twelve!"

The crowd roared with every number.

In the center, General Thorgar and Leona were locked in a duel.

They weren't fighting with weapons. They were arm-wrestling with one hand and chugging ale with the other.

Thorgar, shirtless and covered in bandages, was sweating profusely. His muscles were hard as granite.

"You... hic... you hold your drink well... for a cat," Thorgar slurred, slamming his twelfth empty mug down.

"And you..." Leona grinned, her golden eyes hazy but fierce. Her Berserk Aura was flaring faintly, burning the alcohol out of her system as fast as she drank it.

"You talk too much... for a rock."

She slammed her mug down. Thirteen.

"RAAAH!" Leona roared, slamming Thorgar's hand onto the table.

CRACK.

The stone table split down the middle. Thorgar fell backward off his bench, laughing hysterically as he hit the floor.

"I yield!" Thorgar shouted from the ground. "She wins! The Lioness is indeed the one who hunts for the pack!"

The soldiers cheered, lifting Leona onto their shoulders. She roared in triumph, grabbing another pitcher.

Damien watched them, a genuine warmth spreading in his chest.

For the last six months, they had been running, hiding, and fighting. They had lived in fear of the Empire, the Cult, and the unknown.

But tonight, amidst the smoke and the shouting, they weren't fugitives. They were legends.

"Look at them," King Durin murmured, leaning in close to Damien. The boisterous mask slipped for a second, revealing a tired, dying old man.

"They are a bunch of loud and drunk fools."

Durin looked at his people, however his eyes did not contain any disdain but rather satisfaction.

"But they are alive. You gave them that, boy."

Damien swirled the dregs of his Magma Ale.

"I didn't do it for free, King Durin. I expect a return on my investment."

"Aye," Durin nodded, his eyes twinkling. "They told me about it already, you need some builders?"

"I hear you have some pretty ideas in that human head of yours"

Recalling what he had heard from the other dwarves, Durin leaned back, crossing his arms over his poisoned chest.

This human boy was indeed interesting

"Don't worry about it, you have the full support of the dwarves"

"You see, I don't have much time left, I'd rather leave knowing thing the dwarves have an ally such as you, especially when it seems those cultists are about to move"

He raised his mug again.

"But tonight, we do not talk about business. Tonight, we will drink for the ones who aren't here."

Durin looked at the empty seat beside him, reserved for the memory of Theron Voss.

"To the shadows," Durin whispered.

Damien raised his glass, looking at the same empty chair.

"To the shadows."

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