The old Skarnhaal turned and began walking, his pace steady but unhurried.
We followed, weaving through the stone streets and past towering metal structures, the glow of molten rivers casting long shadows against the cavern walls.
As we walked, he spoke.
"I am Varik," he said, his voice low and steady, like a man who had spent a lifetime speaking with measured words. "Librarian of Uld'Hazrak. The last of my kind."
I frowned. "The last of what?"
"The Archivers." He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "The keepers of our history, our stories, our wars. If there is anything to be known of the Skarnhaal, it is within my records."
Astrid stepped slightly closer as we walked, lowering her voice so only I could hear.
"He might be useful," she whispered.
I glanced at her, raising a brow.
"We might find a way to get what you want without slaughtering an entire race," she continued. "And frankly… it's not like you could kill all of them by yourself anyway."
She wasn't wrong.
I had no illusions about that.
The sheer scale of this place, the numbers, the organization— one man couldn't erase an entire civilization.
Even with all the power Eindva gave me.
So if there was another way?
I am willing to listen.
Varik led us to a stone structure nestled against the cavern wall, a building that looked older than the rest, its entrance carved with Skarnhaal symbols so worn they seemed to fade into the rock itself.
Inside, the air was cool and dry, the scent of aged parchment and ink thick in the space.
And books.
Thousands of them.
Scrolls, manuscripts, entire walls lined with ancient tomes stacked in ways that seemed both chaotic and deliberate. The shelves stretched high, some so packed with scribes and records that loose parchment spilled onto the stone floor.
This wasn't just a home.
It was an archive.
The last one of its kind.
Varik moved with purpose, setting a heavy iron kettle over the small firepit in the center of the room. He worked in silence, pouring two cups of steaming dark tea before handing one to each of us.
I took a sip.
It was good. Strong, earthy, with a slight bitterness that faded into warmth.
Astrid, still standing beside me, drank hers just as quickly.
Varik finally settled into his chair, cradling his own cup before speaking.
"Humans never come here," he said, his voice calm, even. "So what brings you beneath the earth?"
I didn't hesitate. Didn't try to soften the truth.
"I'm here under the command of my King."
I took another sip, then set the cup down.
"To decimate the entire race of Skarnhaal."
A silence settled over the room.
Astrid shifted beside me, stiffening slightly. Even she looked surprised.
But Varik?
Varik just took a slow sip of his tea.
Then he nodded.
"Understandable."
He set his cup down with a soft clink.
"This is not the first time your King has ordered someone to do so."
His tone wasn't bitter. Wasn't angry.
It was factual.
Like he had seen this happen too many times before.
Then, he began.
"The Skarnhaal," he said, leaning back slightly, "are the first beings of Valkthara. We lived on the surface, thrived in the open lands, built our homes under the sun. For centuries, we were the only ones here."
His fingers drifted across the arm of his chair, as if tracing something unseen.
"Then came the humans."
He glanced at me.
"At first, we coexisted. Traded. Shared. But the peace never lasted. It never does."
His voice was steady.
Not resentful.
Just tired.
"It started with whispers."
He tapped his temple.
"Words, spreading like rot. One human claiming we were beasts. Another saying we were dangerous. Another wondering how long before we turned on them."
He gestured toward the room around him.
"You see, we are half-orc. Our blood is hot. Our instincts, fierce. But we are also half-elf. We build, we create, we remember."
His sharp eyes landed on mine.
"That is why this city exists."
A slow breath.
"That is why you are sitting here, drinking tea, instead of being slaughtered the moment you set foot in Uld'Hazrak."
Varik studied me for a long moment, his sharp, weathered eyes holding something unreadable. Then he spoke.
"So tell me—besides the King's command, what else brings you here?" His voice was calm, steady. "What truly motivates you?"
I didn't hold back.
"The King's ring," I said simply.
Varik raised a brow, but he didn't interrupt.
"It grants the wearer complete protection. No blade, no spell, nothing can harm them." I met his gaze. "The King told me that if I wanted it, I needed to get rid of the last threat to Valkthara. That means wiping out the Skarnhaal."
Varik exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly.
"Such immense power," he mused, tapping a finger against his cup. "No wonder you would go to such lengths to claim it."
Before I could say anything, Astrid cut in.
"But we have another option," she said firmly, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "There's always another way."
Varik glanced at her, silent.
"Instead of slaughtering them all, we challenge your strongest. We take his head as proof."
Varik scratched his chin, thinking.
"That could work." He nodded slightly. "No Skarnhaal would refuse a duel offer. Just issue one, and you may get what you seek."
Then he paused, as if considering something deeper.
"But if I may offer a suggestion—" He leaned forward slightly. "You should speak to our King, Uzhgar. He is the wisest among us, the most intelligent of our kind. He would hear your reason."
"Is he also the strongest?" I asked.
Varik shook his head. "No. We do not choose our king by strength, but by intelligence."
"Then who's the strongest?"
Varik set his cup down and folded his hands together.
"That would be the King's champion—Rhazan."
I committed the name to memory as Varik continued.
"Rhazan is unlike any Skarnhaal you have seen."
He exhaled slowly, as if picturing the warrior in his mind.
"Taller than most, broader than any. His skin is black as iron, his arms are thick with the scars of a thousand battles."
He traced a slow circle on the wooden table.
"His eyes burn like embers, always watching, always calculating. And his weapon—"
Varik paused, choosing his words carefully.
"A war glaive, nearly as tall as he is. Forged from Skarnhaal steel, the kind that doesn't break, doesn't dull. He wields it with a speed no man his size should have."
I frowned slightly.
"So he's just big and strong?"
Varik let out a low chuckle.
"Strength alone does not make a champion. Rhazan has fought in more battles than I have recorded. He knows how to break men. How to read them. How to dismantle them before they can even lift a blade."
He met my gaze.
"If you challenge him, do not mistake him for a brute. That will be your last mistake."