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Elias didn't seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the fire show. “It's amazing! How do they do that? Can we learn to do that? Oh! And guess what I saw earlier! There was this dwarf who had a machine that could predict the weather! He said it’s going to rain tomorrow, but only for an hour in the afternoon. Can you believe that?”

I laughed, ruffling his hair. “That does sound incredible. Hey, how did you know where to find us?”

Elias beamed and held up the small device Grimble had given him earlier, the silver bird on top glinting in the firelight. “I just asked,” he said proudly. “The Finder told me.”

As Fizzlebang's performance reached its crescendo, with a massive phoenix rising from a sea of flames, I found myself thinking that perhaps the most magical thing at this faire wasn't the enchanted metal or the dancing fire.

Perhaps it was this moment, right here, safely tucked against Vorgath's side with my son's sticky hand clasped in mine, the three of us watching in awe as the fiery phoenix spread its wings, showering us with harmless sparks that danced and twinkled before fading away.

The audience erupted in thunderous applause, and I found myself cheering along with them, caught up in the magic of the moment.

Chapter 15

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but Stonevale was far from quiet. Lanterns cast a warm, golden glow over the festivities, their light dancing off the polished metal of dwarven inventions and glinting in the eyes of merry-makers. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and the earthy aroma of dwarven ale.

I sat on a wooden bench, my fingers wrapped around a tankard of said ale. The heavy brew settled warmly in my stomach, softening the edges of the world around me. Vorgath sat beside me, his large form a comforting presence in the bustling night.

We'd found a quiet corner of the festival, away from the most raucous celebrations. Elias was safely tucked away in our wagon on the edge of the fairgrounds, sound asleep after a day of wide-eyed wonder and endless questions. Grimble's oldest daughter, Thora, had volunteered to keep an eye on him.

I'd been surprised when the young dwarf had offered. Thora was a curiosity among her kin—more interested in books than tools, with ink-stained fingers and a faraway look in her eyes. She'd waved off my concerns with a wry smile.

“Trust me,” she'd said, pushing her spectacles up her nose, “I'd much rather spend the evening with a sleeping child and a good book than trying to dodge my father's attempts to marry me off to every eligible bachelor in Stonevale.”

So here we were, Vorgath and me, sharing a moment of relative peace amidst the chaos of the fair. The strong dwarven ale made my head spin pleasantly, warmth spreading through my limbs and loosening my tongue. Vorgath tapped his fingers against the side of his tankard—an absent, rhythmic motion I mimicked with my shoe against the cobblestones.

I took a small sip of the ale, letting the warmth bloom in my chest and rise to my cheeks.

“You know,” I began, “I think this ale is stronger than some of the weapons we've forged.”

Vorgath snorted and took a long drink, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Dwarven craftsmanship is unmatched.”

The embers from the nearest brazier crackled, sending dancing shadows stretching long across the cobblestones and painting a soft light across Vorgath’s face, making his scars glow, turning them into silver threads crisscrossing his skin. They were the marks of a life far different from the one he lived now—a life I knew so little about.

“Do you ever miss it?” I asked.

Vorgath, who had been focused on the sky, turned those intense dark eyes on me. “Miss what?”

“The fighting. The war. The life you had before Everwood?”

His expression darkened for a moment, shadows threading through his features. “No…” He shook his head, his gaze focusing somewhere far off in the distance. “I don't miss that.”

“And your brother?” I asked cautiously, aware I was stepping somewhere painful.

Vorgath’s fingers tightened slightly around the tankard, but his face remained impassive. “The last time I saw him, we stood on opposite sides of a battlefield.”

I watched him closely, the weight of his words hanging between us like the thick clouds overhead.

“It didn't matter that we grew up together,” Vorgath continued, talking more to the night air than to me now. “He wasn't my brother anymore. Not the brother I remembered.”

His jaw tightened, his hand flexing into a fist on his knee. My heart ached in response, the pain in his words sharp and palpable.

“What was his name?” I asked.

After a slight pause, he answered, “Gorkath.”

I placed my hand on top of his. “I'm sorry. About Gorkath.”

Vorgath’s hand twitched beneath mine, but he didn’t pull away. For a long moment, he stared down at our hands, his brow furrowing like he was deciding what to say—if there was anything eventosay. His fingers flexed, thick and calloused, and I could feel the strength there. The hesitation.