The moons had risen high above the artificial sky of Ironforge, casting a pale, mechanical glow over the Royal Plaza.

The riotous cheering had finally died down, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic snoring of ten thousand dwarves passed out on the cobblestones. The "River of Magma Ale" had claimed its victims.

Even Leona, the victor of the drinking contest, was currently dozing against the side of a dismantled tank, her tail twitching in her sleep.

Isabelle had curled up on a stack of flour sacks, murmuring about "more spice" in her dreams.

Only a few souls remained awake at the High Table.

King Durin sat slumped on his barrel-throne, his crown crooked, clutching a tankard that was miraculously still half-full.

"You know, boy..." Durin slurred, pointing a thick finger at Damien.

"You fight like him. You have his eyes. But you drink better than him."

Damien, who was currently circulating his aura to burn off the alcohol before it could knock him out, raised an eyebrow.

"My father?" Damien asked. "The world calls him the King of Darkness. I assumed he could handle his liquor."

"Hah!" Durin barked a laugh, slapping the stone table. "The King of Darkness? Let me tell you a secret, Voss. Theron was a lightweight."

The King leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a loud whisper.

"We were celebrating the slaying of the Hydra in the Southern Swamps, just the five of us. Theron had two mugs of ale. Two! And he turned pale as a sheet."

Durin chuckled, shaking his head.

"But did he admit defeat? No! He was too proud. He stood up, looked us all in the eye with that terrifying, cold stare of his, and said,

" must meditate on the nature of shadows.'"

"Then-VOOM! He Shadow Stepped away."

Damien smirked. "He went to meditate?"

"He went to vomit in the bushes!" Durin roared with laughter, tears squeezing out of his eyes.

"I found him ten minutes later, leaning against a tree, wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He looked at me and said,

"Speak of this, dwarf, and I will trap you in a shadow dimension for a week.'"

Damien laughed. The image of his terrifying, overpowered father using high-tier spatial magic to hide a hangover was hilariously human. It made the "God-like" figure feel like a real person.

It also made him realize it had been almost a year since he last saw either him or his mother

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but feel a bit sad.

"And Aelinor?" Damien asked, pouring the King more ale. "She seems... intense."

"Intense?" Durin snorted. "She's a high-strung leaf-lover! Do you know why she hates my city?"

Durin stood up, swaying slightly, and adopted a ridiculous, posh accent, mimicking the Elf Queen perfectly.

"'Oh, Durin, it smells of soot! Oh, Durin, the metal is so loud! It disturbs the spirits!'"

He waved his hand dismissively.

"Back when we were adventuring, she insisted on wearing those long, flowing elven robes into my workshop. I told her, 'Ellie, tie your hair back. Machines don't care about fashion.' Did she listen? No."

Durin took a swig.

"Five minutes later! She got her hair caught in the gears of a Steam-Golem. We had to cut it off with a pair of shears while she screamed about 'desecrating the sacred fibers of the World Tree.'"

Durin wiped his eyes, wheezing.

"She walked around with a bob cut for three months. She threatened to assassinate anyone who mentioned it. I still have the braid in a box somewhere."

Damien shook his head, smiling. It was hard to reconcile the terrifying 7th-Order Queen who had beaten him up for six months with the image of a young elf girl getting a bad haircut.

"What about Garrick?" Damien asked, his smile fading slightly. "The King of Fists."

Durin's laughter died down. He looked into his mug, his expression turning melancholic.

"Garrick..." Durin sighed. "He was the strongest of us. Not in magic. In spirit. He was the one who dragged us out of bed at dawn. He was the one who stood in front of the dragon while we cast our spells."

The King traced the rim of his tankard.

"But he was always... hungry. He wanted to be the hero. He wanted the glory. When Theron started getting all the fame... when the world started calling your father the 'Strongest Man'... Garrick changed."

Durin looked up at Damien.

"Be careful around him, boy. Aelinor hates him because she thinks he sold her out. I don't know if that's true. But I know that Garrick loves power more than he loves his friends."

Damien nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"And then... There was Elizabeth," Durin smiled softly. "Your mother."

"The Empress of Deceit," Damien said.

"The glue," Durin corrected. "Theron was the leader. Garrick was the muscle. I was the smith. Aelinor was the scout. But Elizabeth? She was the heart."

"She was the only one who could make Theron laugh. She was the only one who could stop Garrick from doing something stupid. Without her... we would have killed each other in a week."

Durin looked at Damien, his eyes misty with alcohol and memories.

"When the party broke up... we promised to meet again. We said we would change the world."

He looked around the empty plaza, at the scars of the battle, at the sleeping soldiers.

"Instead…, well let's just say things happened "

Durin's voice cracked.

The King reached out and grabbed Damien's hand. His grip was weak, trembling with the palsy of the poison, but his skin was hot.

"Your father, Damien. A year ago. He stood right where you are standing. He looked tired and unwilling ."

"Unwilling?" Damien frowned.

"Indeed" Durin whispered. "For you. For Elizabeth. He told me, 'Durin, something is coming. Something older than the Empire. If I don't stop it... There won't be a world left for my son or family .'"

Durin squeezed Damien's hand.

"He went to the Dragon Lands to find a cure, However, I don't know if he ever did find it. But he never came back to say goodbye."

A sigh escaped the King's lips, his old body seeming frail with, soot-stained on his cheek.

"Don't be like him, kid. Don't carry the world on your shoulders and vanish into the dark."

"You have a team," Durin gestured to the sleeping forms of Leona, Isabelle, and Lyra. "You have people who would die for you. Don't leave them behind."

Damien looked at his friends. He looked at the dying King who treated him like family because of a bond forged thirty years ago.

"I won't," Damien promised. "Plus I don't believe in the future I'll be weaker than my father.."

Durin grinned, the sadness momentarily washed away by the boy's arrogance.

"Aye. That you are."

The King tried to stand, but his legs gave out. Hephaestus, who had been watching silently from the shadows, stepped forward and caught his father.

"Easy, Dad," Hephaestus said gently. "The party's over."

"Nonsense!" Durin mumbled, though his eyes were closing. "I'm just... resting my eyes... before the next round..."

Hephaestus looked at Damien. "I'll take him to the stasis pod. He needs to conserve his strength if he's going to last until you get back."

"Go," Damien nodded.

As the Prince carried the King away, Durin raised a sleepy hand.

"Voss..." the King mumbled. "Bring me the Dragon's Blood... and I'll help you build whatever you need"

Then, he was out.

Damien sat alone at the head of the massive table, the silence of the city settling around him.

He looked at the Pantheon Sword resting on the bench next to him.

He thought about Theron, teleporting away to vomit. He thought about the faint sadness hidden in Durin's eyes.

"You were unwilling, old man?" Damien whispered to the empty air.

He picked up his tankard and drained the last of the Magma Ale.

"Good. That means the enemy is worth fighting."

He stood up. The sentimental moment was over.

Now, it was time for business.

He walked toward the shadows where a chubby figure and a cloaked spy were waiting.

"Barnaby. Cipher," Damien said, his voice sobering instantly. "Wake up Grandmaster Brokk. We have blueprints to discuss."

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