As the last mound of ground was patted down, marking the final resting place of their fallen, Jhon stood in silence beneath the swaying palms of Warm Oasis. The air was thick with the scent of desert blooms and burning incense, the traditional farewell for warriors. But there was no time to linger. They had work to do. Jhon turned to his weary company. "Come. There's someone we need to see."
At the farthest edge of Warm Oasis, tucked beneath the tallest palm trees, stood a lone cabin. Unlike the sandstone structures of the settlement, this cabin was built of dark wood, its roof thatched with woven reeds from the nearby oasis. A smithy's anvil stood outside, its surface blackened from years of use, and a forge chimney rose into the night sky, smoke curling into the desert air.
Jhon strode forward and rapped his knuckles against the heavy wooden door. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the door creaked open, revealing two identical elves.
Their silver hair shimmered under the lantern light, their sharp features identical—save for one having a thin scar tracing down his right cheek. They wore loose desert robes, suited for the heat, and belts lined with smithing tools. Their keen emerald eyes flicked between Jhon and his battered company.
The twin without the scar spoke first. "You again, lion-hearted one."
The scarred one crossed his arms. "Didn't expect you back so soon, Jhon. And with dwarves, no less."
Before Jhon could respond, Gorim and Varnic stepped forward, their expressions a mix of confusion and suspicion.
The stocky Gorim huffed. "Elves? Living in the desert? I thought your kind stuck to your forests and rivers."
Varnic scratched his thick beard. "Aye. What in the molten halls are you two doing out here?"
The twins exchanged a smirk before turning back to the dwarves.
"And hat are you doing here?" the scarred elf countered. "Last we heard, the dwarven ships sailed in the Second Age. That was a millennium ago. Dwarves weren't supposed to leave their mountain homes."
That struck a nerve. Gorim and Varnic both bristled, their beards practically quivering with indignation.
Gorim grumbled, "So what if we did? The world doesn't belong only to elves and humans."
Varnic scoffed. "Millennium or not, a forge is a forge, no matter where it stands."
The twin elves chuckled, their mirth lightening the tension.
The unscarred one placed a hand on his chest. "I am Sylwen."
The scarred one mimicked the gesture. "And I am Sylrin."
"In case you hadn't noticed, we're twins," Sylwen added dryly.
Jhon shook his head, suppressing a smirk. "Hard to miss."
Sylrin leaned against the doorway. "So, what brings you to our forge this time, Jhon?"
Jhon's gaze turned serious. "Azerite. And a whole damn lot of it."
The elves' expressions shifted from amusement to intrigue. "Then you'd best come inside," Sylwen said, stepping aside. "We have much to discuss."
Inside the elves' cabin, the air smelled of burning coals and oiled steel. Tools of a master smith lined the walls—mithril hammers, enchanted chisels, and even ancient blueprints of weapons long lost to time. The forge at the center glowed a deep orange, its heat comforting in a place surrounded by cold desert nights.
Jhon wasted no time. He turned to Sylwen and Sylrin, his expression as hard as the weapons they crafted. "Can you make a perfect weapon to kill an Elder Dragon?"
The room fell silent. Even the flickering flames of the forge seemed to still, as if the question itself carried weight. The twins exchanged a look.
Jhon continued before they could answer. "We brought Azerite. Eight-point-three tons, taken from the Red Wastes. Some pure, some scrapped from the ruins of Ashblood." He gestured outside to the crates stacked near the surviving carts. "Can you reforge it? Shape it into something... bigger? A ballista, perhaps?"
Sylwen folded his arms, thinking. "You're not asking for a simple weapon, Jhon. You're asking for a dragon-slayer."
Sylrin exhaled sharply. "Azerite is powerful, but it burns hot—too hot. Even dwarven forges struggle to tame it. A weapon made of pure Azerite would be unstable, especially at that size."
Gorim grunted, stepping forward. "Hah! You underestimating dwarves, elf? We've shaped weapons from Mithron! If anyone can tame Azerite, it's us."
Sylrin smirked but didn't argue. Instead, he turned back to Jhon. "We can do it. But it won't be easy. Or cheap."
Jhon's gaze hardened. "I didn't come here for easy. And I sure as hell don't care about cheap."
Sylwen nodded, running a hand over the forge's edge. "Then we'll need time. And the right materials. A core of tempered Mithron, lined with Azerite to contain the blast. The bolts must be tipped with refined Azerite, shaped into spears, not arrows. Otherwise, the sheer force of impact will shatter them before they even reach the target."
Sylrin's eyes gleamed. "If we do this right, we won't just kill an Elder Dragon. We'll turn it into nothing but ash."
Jhon crossed his arms. "Mithron? I've heard of Mithril, but not Mithron. What exactly is it? And where do we find it?"
Sylwen smirked, wiping his soot-covered hands on a cloth. "Mithron is the rarest metal known to elven and dwarven smiths. It's denser than Mithril, but just as light, and far more resistant to heat and impact. Perfect for handling the unstable force of Azerite."
Sylrin added, "It was once mined in the deepest veins of Thral'Zadum, the dwarven capital. But the mines were abandoned centuries ago after the Great Collapse. Now, only remnants of it exist, scattered across the world."
Gorim frowned. "If it came from Thral'Zadum, that means we'd have to go back into the ruins to find more."
Varnic grunted. "Ain't nobody stupid enough to go crawling in there."
Jhon narrowed his eyes. "Do you already have any Mithron?"
Sylwen and Sylrin exchanged glances. The scarred twin finally sighed. "We have a small amount, but nowhere near enough to forge what you're asking. Maybe enough for a sword, not a ballista."
Jhon exhaled sharply. "And what's the price to forge this thing? Every single expense until it's done."
Sylrin tapped his fingers on the forge table, thinking. "First, we'll need to acquire more Mithron. Then, we'll need materials for the weapon's frame—reinforced hardwood, iron reinforcements, gears for the loading mechanism. The forge will run hot for weeks, meaning extra coal and cooling oil."
Sylwen nodded. "Labor costs, enchantments, precision tools... it won't be cheap."
After a moment of calculating, Sylwen turned to Jhon with a number. "For everything—materials, labor, enchantments, and the risk—you're looking at around93,500Darhals."
Jhon raised a brow. "Darhals?"
Sylrin smirked. "Oldest currency in the desert. Dates back to the First Age. Gold coins, thick and heavy. One Darhal is worth about a thousand of silver pieces."
Jhon did a quick conversion in his head. That was the equivalent of 93.5 million silver coins—an obscene amount. But he had expected nothing less for a weapon designed to kill an Elder Dragon.
Sayf let out a low whistle. "That's enough to buy an entire caravan fleet."
Jhon exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I'll get you the Darhals. Just make sure this thing can kill a damn dragon."
Sylwen grinned. "You bring the coin. We'll bring you a weapon that will shake the heavens."
Jhon turned to Sayf. "Last week's report. How much coin do we have left in the vault?"
Sayf folded his arms, his expression tense. "38 millions. Enough to fund an army, but not enough for this weapon."
Jhon exhaled sharply. Still short. He turned back to the twins. "What if I throw in everything the old king left behind? Fine porcelain, ancient relics, gold-trimmed furniture. Worth more than just coin to the right buyer."
Sylwen and Sylrin exchanged glances. A pause. Then a slow grin spread across Sylrin's scarred face.
"Now that's a real offer." Sylwen stepped forward, eyes gleaming with appraisal. "Fine. The relics and your vault's gold—consider the deal struck."
Jhon crossed his arms. "How long will it take?"
Sylwen shrugged. "Depends."
Sylrin leaned against the forge, smirking. "On how fast you can bring us enough Mithron. Without it, we're just making an oversized ballista that'll break after one shot."
Jhon exhaled. "Then there's no time to waste." He turned to Sayf. "Prepare a ship. We set sail for Sol-Minora."
A low chuckle rumbled beside him. Gorim, the burly dwarf, shook his head with a groan. "Of course. Just my luck. First time in a thousand years dwarves are leaving Sol-Minora... and I get dragged back to the cursed place. And worse—BY DAMNED SEA AGAIN!"
Varnic clapped his back with a grin. "Better start learning how to swim, uncle."
Gorim grumbled. "I'd rather wrestle a troll naked."
Jhon smirked. "That can be arranged."
When the ship is ready. Sayf stepped forward, his expression was serious. "Before we set sail, we need to discuss the fastest and safest route to Sol-Minora. The sea is treacherous, and we can't afford unnecessary risks."
Jhon nodded, turning to his trusted warriors. "Let's hear it, then. Which way do we take?"
Gorim's Route (The Northern Way): The old dwarf scratched his beard. "I say we go north along the coast of Iridale, past the Sapphire Isles. Less chance of running into pirates, and the waters are calmer. But it'll take longer—maybe three weeks at best."
Rahotep's Route (The Merchant's Path): The veteran captain shook his head. "Too slow. The Merchant's Path is best. We sail straight through the Golden Strait, where the trade winds are strongest. We'll make it in half the time—ten days—but…" He hesitated. "It's a busy route. Plenty of merchants, yes, but also plenty of raiders looking for fat, slow-moving ships."
Varnic's Route (The Stormborne Path): Varnic finally spoke. "There's one more way. The Stormborne Path. If we sail south first, catching the Tempest Winds, we'll move faster than any ship on the seas. We could reach Sol-Minora in just five days."
Khaltar chuckled. "Five days? Sounds too good to be true."
Varnic shrugged. "It is. The winds are fast, but unpredictable. Storms can come out of nowhere, and if one catches us in the open sea, we're done for."
Jhon folded his arms, thinking. Each route had its risks. The Northern Way was safe but slow. The Merchant's Path was efficient but filled with raiders. And the Stormborne Path was the riskiest of all—five days, if they survived.
He exhaled. "We don't have time to waste. We take the Stormborne Path."
Sayf raised a brow. "Are you sure?"
Jhon smirked. "No. But if we're going to kill an Elder Dragon, we need to start taking risks. Load the ships."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Jhon's finest men moved with precision, loading the ships with everything they would need. The deck bustled with activity as ropes were secured, sails inspected, and the last of the supplies were brought aboard.
Gorim stood by the gangplank, muttering curses under his breath. "Still can't believe I'm getting on a damn boat again."
Jhon clapped him on the shoulder. "Then let's hope you don't have to swim."
With the final preparations complete, Jhon stepped onto the ship's deck, watching as the last crate was secured. "Set sail"