The road from Baghorum to Martslocke stretched long and winding, but Solüm’s purpose remained as solid as the stone from which his people were carved. He marched from his dwarven city with the unyielding resolve of one burdened by both honor and duty. The parchment tucked into his breast pocket bore King Noki’s seal, its words capable of forging an alliance between dwarves and men against the growing goblin threat. Solüm had little taste for diplomacy, but duty was duty—and Solüm was nothing if not dutiful.

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At his side hung an unusual weapon for a dwarf: a long, slender sword with a razor-sharp edge, its pommel set with a red gem that gleamed like captured fire. It was unlike the sturdy axes and hammers Solüm had spent his life wielding. Before departing on his journey, King Noki had summoned him to the great hall of Baghorum, where Solüm’s trusted great axe had been unceremoniously set aside in favor of this weapon.

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“This blade has saved my life more times than I care to count,” Noki had said, his voice grave and edged with reverence. He held the sword out, the gem catching the torchlight and casting crimson reflections across the stone walls. “Eldrin Tycho, a human ranger, swore this blade held a spark of magic when he gifted it to me. I cannot say if it’s true, but the steel has never dulled, and it has turned aside blows that should have slain me.”

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Solüm’s brow furrowed. “Majesty, with respect, I’ve never put my faith in such tales. A sharp edge and sturdy steel are enough for any dwarf.”

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Noki’s eyes softened, though his expression remained firm. “Tales or not, this sword is more than just a weapon. It is a symbol—a bridge between our people and the humans. And you, Solüm, are the one to carry it.”

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The dwarven king tilted the blade, catching the point with his other hand. He extended it before him, lowering it deliberately toward Solüm’s chest.

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“This blade has saved me from foes and fate alike,” Noki said, his voice both wistful and somber. “Whether its magic is real or not, it binds us to a promise—a bond of unity we cannot break.”

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Solüm bowed his head, accepting the sword with hands that felt both reverent and reluctant. “As you command, my king.”

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Now, as he traveled through uncertain lands, the sword hung at his side—a constant reminder of his mission and the king’s trust. Its weight was not just steel and gem; it was legacy, honor, and unity forged into a single blade. Whatever lay ahead, Solüm knew he would carry it into the heart of danger—and beyond.

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As the sun dipped lower, its golden rays brushing the treetops, Solüm came upon a stream cutting through the dense forest. The water ran swift and cold, and the only crossing was a narrow, moss-slick log stretching from one bank to the other. He eyed the log with a frown, knowing his heavy boots and stout frame were poor companions for such a crossing. Yet the urgency of his mission left no room for hesitation.

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He stepped carefully onto the log. One step. Then another. The wood groaned under his weight but held firm. Halfway across, he allowed himself a breath. His next step was accompanied by a sudden, sinister hiss.

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Solüm’s gaze snapped to the east, away from the setting sun. There, coiled around a tree lodged in the center of the fast moving stream, was a massive serpent. Its scales were as green as the forest canopy, blending seamlessly into the foliage. Only its eyes—two burning orbs of orange—betrayed its presence. The serpent’s body twitched with hunger, and its gaze locked onto Solüm with predatory intent.

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The tree offered the serpent a fleeting refuge from the stream’s relentless current, but it was also its prison. Its thick coils were wound tightly around the gnarled trunk, a tangle born of desperation. The beast must have been stranded for days, hunger sharpening its instincts to a deadly edge. Though Solüm stood just beyond its reach for now, one wrong step would bring him dangerously close. And the serpent’s burning eyes had already chosen its prey.

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Solüm kept his gaze locked on the serpent as he neared the halfway point of the moss-covered log. But a movement beyond the beast drew his attention—a far more pressing danger. Down the eastern horizon, atop the ancient Belanore Dam, dozens of goblins had gathered. The dam was a marvel of dwarven and human engineering, a towering barrier that had held the river in check for centuries. Yet now, goblins wielding pickaxes were hacking furiously at its stone foundation.

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Solüm squinted, his sharp dwarven eyes catching the telltale glint of steel as the goblins struck blow after blow. He quickened his pace across the log, arms outstretched for balance. The serpent lunged again, its fangs snapping just inches from his fingers. Solüm gasped—loud enough to reach the keen ears of the goblins.

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Several goblins abandoned their work, trading pickaxes for bows. Solüm barely had time to react before a volley of black feathered arrows screeched through the air, thudding into the mossy log just ahead of him. He glanced skyward and saw the next volley arcing straight toward his position. He stepped back, balancing precariously on the narrow bridge as the arrows buried themselves into the wood where he had just stood.

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Solüm’s heart pounded as he measured his slow progress across the log. He cursed under his breath. Then came a sound that froze him mid-step—the deep, thunderous crack of stone giving way. His gaze snapped back to the dam just in time to see the goblins standing atop it, their pickaxes raised in premature celebration as cracks splintered across the stone monument like lightning. They hadn’t noticed the foundation crumbling beneath them.

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With a deafening roar, the dam burst. Chunks of stone and a torrent of water surged forward, sweeping goblins into the river like scattered leaves. The raging flood surged down the stream, carrying with it shattered stone and panicked shrieks. And it was headed straight for Solüm—and the imprisoned serpent.

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The roar of the flood grew deafening. Solüm’s gaze flicked between the serpent and the incoming wall of water. He knew there was no time for a prolonged fight. Gritting his teeth, he gathered every ounce of strength and sprinted toward the far bank.

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The serpent lunged one final time, its jaws wide with hunger—but the flood struck first. The rushing torrent slammed into the beast with the force of a battering ram, uprooting the tree in a thunderous explosion of water and splintered wood. Debris scattered into the raging current as Solüm launched himself from the bridge, arms outstretched.

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His hands hit the muddy shore, fingers clawing at the earth as the log he had just stood on was torn away by the river. For a fleeting moment, he thought he was safe.

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Then searing pain erupted in his leg. Solüm cried out as the serpent’s jaws clamped down on his calf, its teeth sinking deep into muscle and sinew. With a vicious tug, it yanked him into the churning water.

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The world became a chaotic swirl of foam and shadow. The icy water stole his breath, and the serpent’s coils wrapped tightly around his chest, squeezing with merciless strength. Solüm thrashed, trying to free himself, but the beast’s grip only tightened. He reached for the sword that King Noki had bestowed to him—only to feel it slip from his fingers and vanish into the rushing current.

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Panic gripped him. He was weaponless, trapped, and drowning. The serpent’s eyes burned like twin suns with triumph as it dragged him deeper. For a brief, terrible moment, Solüm accepted his fate as his lungs filled with the freezing water.

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But a spark of defiance ignited within him. His mind flashed to the parchment hidden in his pocket—the king’s seal, the hope of an alliance, the duty he had sworn to uphold. Solüm of Baghorum would not die here.

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He roared, a deep, primal sound that cut through the water’s muffled chaos. He flailed his arms, clawing at the serpent’s coils, desperate for any chance at survival. And then—miraculously—his hand brushed against something hard. His fingers closed around it. The sword.

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Solüm tightened his grip on the hilt and drove the blade upward with every ounce of strength he had left. The serpent’s body spasmed as the steel bit deep, dark blood clouding the rushing current. Its coils loosened just enough for Solüm to plant his feet against the writhing beast, using it as leverage to propel himself upward.

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He burst through the surface, gasping for air as the cold bite of the stream flowed around him. But he had no time to recover—the serpent surged behind him, the water parting with its momentum as it coiled for another strike.

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Instinct, training, and a surge of mysterious energy took over. Solüm twisted mid-turn, raising his sword high. With a feral roar, he swung. The blade cleaved through the serpent’s body, sending a spray of blood into the churning water.

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The beast recoiled, but Solüm didn’t relent. Again and again, he slashed with brutal precision, the sword a blur as it struck above and below the surface. Each strike carried the weight of his duty, his honor, and his refusal to fall here.

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The serpent’s broken form stilled at last, its mighty body severed and scattered across the current. Solüm kicked toward the shore, each stroke a battle against the relentless waves. His lungs burned, but he refused to yield. Finally, he clawed his way onto the muddy bank and collapsed, chest heaving with exhaustion. His sword lay beside him, its edge gleaming under the dimming sky, the red gem in its pommel burning as if it, too, had claimed victory.

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After a moment that felt far too short, Solüm forced himself upright. Every muscle protested the movement, his body a symphony of aches and bruises. He ignored the pain. The floodwaters swept past him, carrying the serpent’s remains and the goblins’ lifeless bodies downstream, leaving only the shattered ruins of the Belanore Dam behind.

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His gaze fell to the sword—the weapon his king had entrusted to him. Solüm gripped it tightly, the weight of his duty settling once again on his shoulders. The road to Martslocke still stretched before him—now darker and more uncertain. Yet Solüm’s resolve burned brighter. He had survived both beast and flood, and no force of darkness would prevent him from delivering the message his king had entrusted to him.