Riftborn: The One Who Carries The Void

The feast pressed on, not like a storm, but like a forge-bellows — rhythmic, deliberate, feeding its own flame. Each new song roared higher. Each flagon struck table with deeper echo. And through it all, the mountain pulsed.

Rei sat quieter now. Not withdrawn — not entirely — but watching.

There was something strange in how easily the dwarves laughed, even as the forge beneath their feet sang with a voice it had not raised in centuries. The heat in the stone wasn't just fire. It was breath. Old breath.

Life returning.

Or something waking.

Kaia leaned toward him slightly, catching his mood. "Still not used to it?"

Rei shook his head. "It's not the noise."

"Then what?"

He glanced up at the forge-heart above them — the swirling inferno behind glass-rune and molten latticework. "It's like we're standing inside something. And it's not asleep anymore."

Kaia followed his gaze, lips tightening. "Then let's hope it's still friendly."

From across the table, Durik burped thunderously. "If it's not, I'm too drunk to care right now."

Rei blinked. "You've had six tankards."

"Seven." Durik grinned. "And you're still short."

Rei chuckled. "We're really going back to that?"

"Aye. And I'll take your cloak if you insult my height again."

Kaia sipped her drink. "You'd swim in it."

Durik scowled. "That's not the point."

The three laughed — not long, not loud — but enough.

Enough to forget, for one heartbeat, that the world was changing around them.

A pair of dwarven minstrels passed through the hall, their lyres glinting with ember-gold strings. They sang in old tongue — a tale of Skarnveil's binding and the last breath of Mongrim, the god who shattered himself into chains.

Rei listened quietly.

He had seen that breath.

Seen the sacrifice.

The song spoke of fire gifted to mortals. Of kings forged from sacrifice, and monsters bound not by death, but by memory. The Wyrm, it claimed, would sleep as long as the stone remembered its name.

Rei knew, now, how shallow that hope truly was.

He caught King Rurik's eyes then — sharp, thoughtful across the length of the feast hall. The old king was not drinking now. Nor laughing. He watched Rei with the stillness of stone that knew what fire could do when left untamed.

Rei looked away.

Later, they were summoned again — not to the throne, but to a quieter table on the upper tier of the Emberhalls. Here, the noise was lessened, the fire dimmer.

Just Rurik. His closest captains. And a single crystal decanter between them, glowing faintly with distilled forgeflame.

Durik sat first, more sober now.

Kaia followed, ever guarded.

Rei took his seat last.

Rurik poured them each a small glass. "This is called Stonevein Red. Means 'first flame'. Made from roots grown near the Dragon Core. Rare. Dangerous. Some say it makes men dream of the past."

Rei held the glass, peering into the amber liquid. "Why give it to us?"

"Because you've already seen the future," Rurik said quietly. "Might as well see what came before."

They drank.

It burned — not like fire, but like a memory pressed against the inside of their ribs. Rei coughed once, then exhaled hard. Kaia's eyes watered. Durik wiped his beard.

Rurik drank without flinching.

Then silence.

Until Rei spoke.

"You want the Gem."

The King did not deny it.

"I want the Forge. And the Gem is the Forge."

"But you already have fire."

Rurik's eyes glinted. "Not that fire. Not the one that listens. The one that judges."

Kaia leaned forward slightly. "You think you can bind the Wyrm."

Rurik met her gaze. "I know we can. It answers to the Skarnveil Flame. And you," he turned to Rei, "carry the heart of it."

Rei said nothing.

Rurik gestured toward the forge above. "The world forgets that dwarves were gods once. Not with power — but with purpose. We forged the arms that felled titans. The chains that bound the Rift. But we've grown… cold. Our sons die in mines. Our daughters weave dust."

He set his cup down.

"This mountain isn't waking. It's remembering. And we must remember with it."

Durik finally spoke, voice calm. "And if the Wyrm remembers something you don't like?"

Rurik didn't blink. "Then we remind it who forged its bed."

A long pause followed.

Then Rei looked up, quietly.

"Why me?"

Rurik tilted his head.

"Why does it always come back to me?" Rei asked, voice a little softer than steel. "The Gem. The Rift. Baphomette. Even the Wyrm. Everyone wants something through me."

The King studied him.

Then said, almost kindly, "Because fire needs a vessel. And the Void… needs a wound."

Rei clenched his jaw. "I'm not a key. I'm not a lock. I'm just someone who's tired of being chased."

"Then turn and face it," Rurik said.

Kaia's hand rested on Rei's shoulder, grounding.

But before Rei could answer—

Durik set down his cup.

Eyes shadowed.

"Father."

The King looked at him.

Durik's voice was quiet, but firm.

"What is the Wyrm?"

Rurik leaned back slightly.

And for the first time all night…

He didn't smile.