"You heard the man, Veyna," Rhazan said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.
His burning ember eyes shifted toward her.
"They came here to challenge me to a duel."
Then, with a slight tilt of his head—
"Are you Skarnhaal?"
Veyna straightened. "Of course."
Rhazan nodded.
"Then you should know—we always accept a duel challenge."
His gaze landed back on me, now that he stood directly in front of me.
And up close—I knew.
There was no single, one-on-one fight where I could take this man.
Not as I was now.
Too big. Too strong.
Even with my gifts, my summons, my newfound strength— I wasn't sure it would be enough.
Rhazan cracked his neck slightly, then spoke again.
"So? Do you want to do the duel here?"
For a moment, I said nothing.
Because for a moment—I had no answer.
Thankfully, Astrid recovered first.
"No," she said firmly. "We still need to talk to the King first. We have something to discuss with him."
Rhazan studied her for a moment.
Then, with a slow nod, he turned.
"Very well."
He started walking, his heavy footsteps echoing against the metal and stone.
"Follow me."
As we walked deeper into the palace, the air grew heavier, filled with the constant movement of workers, messengers, and engineers moving between the vast halls.
The Skarnhaal here weren't warriors.
They were builders, strategists, craftsmen.
Some carried blueprints and scrolls, others hauled crates of metal components, their hands and clothes marked with soot and oil.
The further we went, the louder the sound became—a deep, rhythmic pounding, like stone being carved and reshaped by something massive.
The ground faintly vibrated beneath my feet.
I finally spoke up.
"What's going on here?" I asked, my voice barely rising over the noise.
Rhazan didn't even turn his head.
"You may ask the King for that," he said simply. "I am his Champion, not his mouth."
Typical.
Instead, after a moment, he was the one who spoke next.
"How is it on the surface?"
Astrid answered before I could.
"Quite nice, actually." She glanced at the towering metal walls around us. "Though now that we've been here… the underground doesn't seem so bad."
Rhazan chuckled, a deep, heavy sound.
"Of course."
His hand gestured toward the vast structure around us.
"We are an adaptable race. We once ruled the surface, but when we were forced underground, we did not die. We built."
His burning eyes flicked toward us.
"Everything you see here exists because we refused to disappear. We fought to keep living. We fought to thrive."
He looked forward again, his tone steady.
"And one day, we will return to the surface."
His fingers curled into a slow, deliberate fist.
"And take what is ours."
"I assumed, being Skarnhaal meant you hate all humans naturally," I said plainly. "But you seem… accepting of us."
Rhazan let out a low hum of amusement.
"Aye, we do hate all humans."
I barely had time to register that confirmation before he continued.
"But our hatred is focused on one man."
Then, he spoke his name.
"Viktor Voller."
The name hit me like a blade to the ribs.
I kept walking, kept my face still—but my body betrayed me.
A chill spread through my limbs, down my spine.
Rhazan didn't notice.
Or if he did, he didn't care.
"If only I had been alive and strong during that time," he mused, his voice carrying a dangerous certainty. "Surely, our race would still be thriving on the surface."
He exhaled.
"Though I heard he's now dead."
Then, a slight shake of his head.
"Pity."
I said nothing.
Because what could I say?
Before I could think further, we arrived.
A massive wall stood before us, carved with intricate Skarnhaal markings, its edges reinforced with thick, riveted plates of black iron.
Three guards stood at attention before it.
They saw Rhazan—then saw us.
Without hesitation, they pushed open the enormous doors.
And we stepped into the throne room.
It wasn't like any throne room I had ever seen.
No long banners. No gold-lined floors. No excess.
It was a circular chamber, built from the same dark iron as the palace exterior, the walls rising high into arched support beams that stretched like ribs over the ceiling.
The entire room was structured like an arena, with tiers of empty stone seating encircling the space.
And in the very center—the throne.
Not ornate. Not jeweled.
A solid monolith of steel, raised just slightly above the ground, functional and imposing.
And seated upon it—
The King of the Skarnhaal.
His sharp, golden eyes flicked over blueprints spread across a stone table before him, his expression one of deep focus.
He hadn't looked up yet.
Hadn't acknowledged our presence.
Until Rhazan called his name.
"Uzhgar."
The word rumbled through the chamber, heavy, certain.
Astrid and I exchanged a quick glance.
No King? No Your Majesty? Just… Uzhgar?
I could tell she was just as confused as I was.
Uzhgar finally looked up from his blueprints, his golden eyes settling on us.
Then, as if reading our thoughts, he let out a quiet exhale of amusement.
"It's fine," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
"I do not want my people to call me King."
His gaze drifted briefly to Rhazan, then back to us.
"After all, they did not put me here to rule them."
A slight pause.
"They put me here to serve them."
"So, a human."
Uzhgar leaned back slightly in his throne, his golden eyes scanning me with quiet interest.
"The first to step into our halls since we were forced underground."
A pause.
Then, with a tone that was almost casual—
"What can I do for you?"