That night, draped in his cloak and armed with a standard short sword he kept in his room for practice, Joran snuck through the torchlit halls of the castle using magic to avoid the guards and staff. He made a quick stop at the kitchen which was abandoned to grab as much food as he could and stuff it into his magic pouch. He was close to the exit when he dispersed a spell keeping him invisible when suddenly he heard a gruff voice. "Going somewhere?" Joran froze and turned to see Eitri, his oldest and closest friend. Anyone taking a glance at him would just see him as a blacksmith, but Eitri was not just a blacksmith—he was a legend, a master of the forge, a dwarf whose very name was whispered with reverence by those who wielded the finest weapons in all of Orano. Even among the great Dwarven smiths who live in the iron halls of Darvon beneath the mountains to the west, few could match his skill in forging steel, weaving magic into metal, and crafting weapons that could shape the course of history.


    Though short in stature, standing at barely four and a half feet, Eitri''s presence was anything but small. His barrel-like chest and thick, sinewy arms, sculpted from centuries of hammering steel, gave him a powerful, immovable aura, as if he himself were carved from the same indestructible metal he shaped daily. His hands, calloused and blackened with soot, bore arcane scars—remnants of years spent channeling raw magical energy into his creations, binding runes and enchantments into the very soul of the weapons he forged.


    His beard, long and wild, was the color of aged steel, streaked with soot and cinders from a lifetime spent in the heat of the forge. It was thickly braided, adorned with small rings of mithril, trinkets he had collected from the battles and wars of a bygone age. His eyes, sharp as the edge of a freshly tempered blade, gleamed like polished amber, forever carrying the firelight of his forge within them.


    Though his attire was often simple—a thick leather apron, reinforced with dwarven chainmail beneath—Eitri never looked unprepared for a fight. A massive smithing hammer always hung from his back, and at his belt, a collection of throwing axes, daggers, and chisels—not just tools of a craftsman, but weapons that had seen battle.


    Eitri was not just a blacksmith of war, but a warrior of it, having fought alongside the Dragon King himself during the Dragon War, standing shoulder to shoulder with the mythics and dragon slayers as they battled against the ancient dragons of the west. He had seen fire rain from the skies, had forged weapons in the heart of burning battlefields, and had watched as his closest friends fell while wielding the very swords he had given them.


    Despite the war having long since ended, Eitri never put down his hammer. He remained in Lothara, the Royal Smith of the Dragon King, crafting weapons, armor, and enchanted relics for the kingdom''s warriors. Though he rarely spoke of his past with the king, it was well known that he was one of the few men alive who could speak to the Dragon King as an equal, their bond forged in blood, fire, and brotherhood.


    Now, in the present, Joran was like a son to him, and though he never said it outright, his protectiveness over the young prince was as fierce as his hammer strokes. Whenever Joran needed guidance, a weapon, or simply a firm hand to knock sense into him, Eitri was there. Despite how close they were, Joran never had the heart to tell Eitri about the situation between him and some of the knights. He was always afraid they would find out and take the dwarf out of the picture as they had threatened to do with anyone he might want to talk to and then bring more harm upon him.


    “I have to do this, Eitri. I love my father, but he will keep me locked up in this castle for the gods know how long. I want to make a difference as soon as possible and if that means sneaking out and going against his wishes then so be it.” Eitri stared at the prince as he stroked his beard with an expression of stone. “Eitri… we’ve known each other for as long as i can remember…. I haven’t seen the city outside the palace walls. The only faces I know are the staff and knights who serve the crown. You also know that a diplomat won’t get the same respect as if I were to go instead.” There was a moment of silence as Joran gave Eitri a determined look. “Also, nothing will stop me from attempting to leave. You can stop me, or you can alert the guards, but I will inevitably find a way out of here….”


    Eitri was silent for what felt like the longest minute before placing his hands on his hips as he sighed. “You are a stubborn boy… one could almost say you’re as stubborn as a dwarf…” he snapped his fingers causing a small portal to open. “I always knew this day would come and you’re right. You would inevitably find a way to leave so I might as well make sure you have the proper equipment. I can’t give you much because of how last minute this is but I still have a couple items ready to be given to you so you will still be given the best." The first item he pulls out is a sword of decent length and holds it out to Joran. “This blade is called vermillion fang. It is made from the same material as your fathers blade rendering it near indestructible." Joran knew just how dangerous this sword was upon learning of the material it was made from. The dragon king’s sword is a powerful blade used during the great dragon war and was capable of cutting through dragon scales. It is said that Eitri worked in a forge for an entire week to make the blade for the dragon king and now Joran was holding a copy of it. “The weapon can only be wielded by you or anyone you give permission to. Anyone else will find it as difficult as lifting a mountain. The blade is sharp but if you channel your magical energy into it then it can cut through the toughest armor, the hardest scales, and even the most powerful protection spells depending on how much you channel into it. Just be careful, eh?" They both knew how powerful joran could make that blade considering his mixed blood enhances his magic and he has studied magic for a great deal of his life since he can''t access the natural abilities of a dragon or a dragon slayer.


    After joran removed the practice sword and placed the blade in his sheathe, Eitiri then reached into the portal and pulled out the next item which happened to be a deep brown cloak, almost indistinguishable from a common traveler’s garb—until Eitri conjured a small flame and shined the light across its surface, revealing faint silver runes woven into the fabric. “I made this cloak with the help of some skilled elves and arachne. It will magically dampen the sound of your footsteps and your own scent so it will be difficult for anyone to track you. The cloak is also capable of camouflage in dimly lit or completely dark areas which will allow you to blend in. I''ve also enchanted it to resist low level tracking magic as well as defend you from arrows or knives in case someone tries to attack you from behind. One final enchantment I added is that it is temperature resistant so no matter how hot or cold things might get, the cloak will protect you.” Joran nodded and removed his current cloak before placing Eitri around his shoulders, finding the cloak comfortable and soft due to the arachne silk.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The master blacksmith then pulled out two items:  A sturdy leather belt reinforced with mithril plating. Various small rune-etched pouches hang from it, seemingly too small to be useful—until opened and a small, black gemstone, polished to a mirror-like sheen, embedded within a silver monocle frame that can be clipped onto Joran’s belt when not in use. “The first item is called the everforge belt. A relic from my personal workshop, the Everforge Belt was originally created for dwarven master smiths who traveled across Orano, allowing them to maintain weapons on the battlefield.  One of the pouches contains a tiny dwarven forge that allows you to repair weapons and armor instantly by placing them inside. The belt can hold up to 10 weapons, potions, or magical trinkets, keeping them weightless and accessible with a simple command.  If you store a blade, it stays sharp and pristine, never dulling or rusting. Whenever you pull the weapon out it will be as if it were freshly made and twice as strong.” he smiled then gestured to the other item. “This is the voidglass eye. Once per day,you can use the eye to briefly see into the soul of another, detecting their true intentions, hidden emotions, or suppressed memories. I want you to have this to make it a bit easier for you to know who to trust out there but only use it when you believe it is necessary.”


    Eitri then pulls out a final item before closing the portal. It was a dagger sheathed in its hilt with leather wrapped around a silver hilt. Eitri seemed uneasy about handing over this particular weapon as Joran attached the belt and eye. Eitri didn’t know about the knights, but he knew the truth behind the amulet and the amulet played a key part. He handed the amulet over to joran and said, “this dagger isn’t for combat nor is it for you. I hope you will find allies on your quest and when you find someone you trust I want you to give them this dagger as a symbol of that trust. Promise me you will not unsheathe this dagger, nor will you use it.” Joran stared at the dagger curiously then looked at eitri. He considered using the eye, but he couldn’t violate his friend''s trust like that, so he nodded his head. “I swear I will not use this blade, nor will I unsheathe it.” he bowed his head and said, “thank you for your gifts eitri. I''m sure they will provide me with great assistance in my endeavors.” Eitri gave a gruff nod and Joran turned to walk out the door only to spin around and hug the dwarf tightly with tears in his eyes. Eitri was startled for a moment before hugging him back. They held the hug for a minute before eitri pushed him away. “N-now get the fuck out of here before i change my mind.” Joran smiled slightly then went out the door as he pulled the hood of his cloak up.


    The capital of Lothara, a grand and ancient city built upon the foundation of mythic and human cooperation, stretched before Joran as he slipped through the castle’s shadowed corridors and into the open night. The city, known as Drakhalis, was a testament to the realm’s unique harmony—a place where craftsmanship, magic, and architecture blended into a breathtaking fusion of human ingenuity and mythic heritage.


    Beneath the twin moons of Orano, Drakhalis shimmered with a quiet, ethereal glow. The city was divided into districts, each illuminated by different sources of light, creating a breathtaking tapestry of color. Unlike other capitals where fire and torches dominated the streets, Drakhalis pulsed with arcane lanterns, glowing crystals, and bioluminescent flora cultivated by the fae and druids of the realm. The streets were bathed in hues of soft gold, deep indigo, and shimmering emerald, giving the city an almost dreamlike quality in the dead of night.


    The castle, perched at the highest point of the city, loomed behind Joran, its ivory spires and onyx towers stretching toward the heavens like the skeletal remains of a long-forgotten dragon. The banners of the royal family, depicting a crimson dragon intertwined with a golden sword, fluttered in the cool night breeze, whispering their silent farewells to the prince who now walked away from their protection. As Joran descended into the city, he made sure to keep his face shadowed with his hood. While he didn’t think anyone would recognize him due to how rare it is he has been seen by the public he would rather play it safe until he left the capital. A part of him wanted to explore the city but he knew he had to cover as much ground as possible before morning came.


    Below the castle, the Grand Market District was still alive despite the late hour. Merchant stalls lined the cobbled streets, manned by mythics and humans alike. Arachne silk weavers spun their shimmering threads under enchanted lamps, while dwarven blacksmiths showcased newly forged blades that still radiated heat from their magical forges. Street performers, illuminated by floating will-o''-the-wisps, played enchanted instruments that filled the air with haunting melodies, their notes carried by the wind like whispers of forgotten stories.


    Beyond the marketplace, the Nymian Canals, named after the nymphs who maintained them, reflected the lights of the city in their still waters. Magical lilies glowed softly on the surface, their petals shifting between shades of blue and violet. Gondolas, piloted by cloaked figures, drifted silently through the water, ferrying passengers to the hidden corners of the city. The canals were one of the most romanticized parts of Drakhalis, a place where secrets were shared in hushed tones, and spies bartered for information as easily as merchants sold their wares.


    The further Joran traveled from the heart of the city, the quieter it became. He passed through the Ivory Ward, the noble district, where tall manors and palatial estates stood in near silence. Here, the only lights came from floating orbs that hovered above the gated entrances, pulsating gently like fireflies in the dark. The homes of the elite were as much fortresses as they were luxurious abodes, their facades adorned with intricate carvings depicting historical battles, celestial myths, and ancient dragon sigils.


    At last, Joran reached the Outer Ring, the district closest to the city’s fortified walls. Here, the architecture was simpler, homes built from sturdy stone and enchanted wood reinforced by the hands of both mythics and humans. The streets were wider, but the air was heavier, filled with the scent of burning firewood and salt from the distant river that fed into the city''s reservoirs.


    Beyond the walls, the Howling Woods stretched into the darkness—a vast expanse of wilderness where nature reigned unchecked. Joran paused at the final gate, the city’s last threshold before the unknown. Two massive statues of dragons, carved from black obsidian, stood as silent sentinels, their eyes burning with embedded rubies that flickered like real fire in the moonlight.


    As he took one final glance at Drakhalis, he knew this would be the last time he saw his home—at least, as a prince. The capital stood before him in all its breathtaking, magical splendor, a beacon of what mythics and humans could achieve together. And yet, for all its beauty, it was also a cage—one he had finally broken free from.


    Pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders, he stepped past the gates and into the unknown.