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TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 6 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 05:11:48 +0000 UTCChapter 6 - Undertown
Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.
- Theodore Roosevelt.
With a change of horses at every major town, Seraphina and her men made excellent time crossing the Kingdom and returning to the Sariens Duchy. Now reunited with her maid, Seraphina no longer had to concern herself with the lesser details of daily life. She issued commands, and they were carried out, for the most part, without question. In a way, having Miriam was like possessing a magic lamp—one that, while limited in scope and power, never actively resisted her wishes. She had to admit, albeit reluctantly, it wasn’t half bad. The young girl also had Miriam write a short missive to the dwarves in her father’s duchy, telling them that would be coming soon to visit to see how they were settling in.
Also, she had her maid draft a letter to Rashana, providing material for a newspaper article and including instructions to embellish the tale with grand statements about the mysterious and gallant figure who had defended Meridian’s skies. With luck, Rashana would lack the imagination to suspect that Seraphina herself had played a part in the city’s defense. And yet, a small part of the young noblewoman secretly hoped her childhood friend would catch on. Eventually, Seraphina intended to leave such editorial choices entirely to her, but for the time being, she considered this something of a training phase.
After all, the role hadn’t existed in this world until now. Seraphina took pride in her ability to avoid micromanagement, trusting her servants and staff to meet her needs without constant oversight. But as she gazed out the carriage window, she recognized the flaw in that thinking. Rashana was not a servant. The levers Seraphina held over her were perhaps not as strong as she had assumed. Yes, the half Al-Lazarian had shown interest, but the young noblewoman lacked anything that could compel her to act, aside from the entanglement involving her family’s bank.
That, she decided, would need some more work.
***
Passing through the bustling castle-town of Sariens, Seraphina saw prosperity everywhere she looked. Stalls overflowed with gleaming trinkets and clever contraptions, each one etched with the unmistakable angular runes of dwarf-craft. Smoke curled from a forest of new chimneys, carrying the metallic tang of fresh-forged iron as immigrant smiths turned raw ore into wonders. Even the town guard boasted polished spears whose heads glimmered with softly glowing characters—living proof that Sariens now beat with a dwarven heart as well as a human one.
Where trade flourished, children followed. Energetic urchins wove between carts like darting minnows, their shrill laughter echoing off rose-pink sandstone. Seraphina watched them with a mix of fondness and unease. In her old world, too much carefree mingling had kindled unrest; nations had shattered themselves pursuing a naïve dream of perfect equality. She resolved to ask her father—or perhaps pragmatic Mayor Bouchard—to draft ordinances that kept each folk to well-defined quarters, equal but distinct. Better to build sound walls now than mend broken trust later.
Beyond the market, the bridge arched over the river like a drawn bow, leading her carriage to Castle Sariens proper. Crimson banners snapped overhead, greeting the heiress in a fanfare of silk. Servants hurried forward to unload her “meagre” luggage—only a dozen new gowns, purchased strictly for cultural research, of course. At the doors waited Desmond, the silver-haired butler whose back was straighter than a parade pike.
“My lady,” he intoned with a respectful cough, “His Grace and Her Ladyship have removed to the Southwood hunting lodge for the week. Her Ladyship bade me deliver… a note.”
The envelope smelled of lavender. Bracing herself, Seraphina cracked the crimson wax seal.
To my darling daughter,
I will be busy with your father, do not under any circumstance disturb us as I will be most vexed. We plan to return in a few days. In that time, you are to make sure that the Duchy does not fall into ruin and to see to the little stunties that you invited into our Duchy. I understand why you did it, but think carefully of the enemy you intend to make. Even I can not help against their tricks.
You loving mother,
Anaselena.
Seraphina exhaled through her nose. Racist to the marrow, as ever. The older generation wore their prejudice like embroidered finery, mistaking ignorance for elegance. Very well, she thought, folding the letter with care. I’ll drag them kicking and screaming if need be into a kinder, wiser, more modern age if I have to.
But such enlightenment could wait until later. For now, she longed for a steaming bath to scrub away road dust and the familiar comfort of Catalina’s hearth-baked bread. No banquet on the trade road, no matter how lavish, ever matched the matronly cook’s rosemary-roasted chicken or the way the kitchen smelled—nutmeg, yeast, and something that felt like coming home.
***
Sleeping alone—even with Cornelia, her docile white-scaled serpent, looped warmly around her neck and chest—Seraphina still felt a hollow hush in the bed-chamber. The crackling hearth could not imitate the gentle counter-rhythm of Eloise’s soft snores. Honestly, when did I grow so maudlin? she scolded herself. Sentimentality is for old people, not for me. Yet the quiet persisted, pressing against her ribs like winter air.
With an impatient sigh she flung aside the brocade coverlet, its crimson damask sliding to the tiled floor in a sigh of silk. Dawn light peeked through mullioned windows, gilding Cornelia’s scales in molten gold as all three heads of the serpent yawned and resettled languidly.
She rang a bell and a valet soon arrived bearing a modest breakfast: four slices of hearth-baked toast still shimmering with butter, a ramekin of tangy forest-berry jam, and a pot of chicory steeped to near-black. Spartan by ducal standards—but more than enough to fuel the day's activities.
After a brisk splash of rose-scented water, she considered her wardrobe. She chose an austere gown of sable wool with coffee-brown panels, high-collared and unembellished save for discreet piping the color of wet granite. Over it she draped a fox-silver stole, the subtle luxury meant to whisper disciplined refinement rather than trumpet opulence. Fashion, Seraphina believed, was a kind of armor: each thread a parry, each hue a carefully angled shield.
“Eloise—the gold-and-ruby hair clip, if you will?” she called, then winced: her lady-in-waiting was miles away at her family’s estate. A flicker of irritation flared, but she quelled it—self-reliance builds resilience. She smoothed her short blonde hair, swept the fringe neatly aside, and fastened it with the slender gold clip crowned by a teardrop ruby. The gem caught the dawn light and smouldered like a captive ember.
Outside, hoofbeats and men’s voices filtered up from the courtyard; she was doubtless keeping her escort waiting. Still, first impressions mattered, even if the dwarves she sought to impress would not notice every wrinkle and wayward strand. Once satisfied, she stroked Cornelia’s smooth heads and left the room. She beckoned to Miriam who hovered at the threshold clutching a ledger.
“Come, Miriam. Time to greet our vertically challenged guests.”
Together they descended the spiral stair, the maid’s shoes tapping like a quickening heartbeat. At the arched doorway Seraphina paused, straightened her spine, and stepped into the morning glare. The courtyard sprang to ordered attention: knights adjusting baldric straps, grooms steadying restless mounts. Sunlight flashed on spearpoints and on the ruby in her hair alike, and for a breath the castle seemed to inhale, as though recognizing the authority in her measured stride.
Radiating the serene confidence of a goddess, Seraphina crossed the paved stones toward her waiting escort—ready to see just exactly how the dwarves had chosen to live in her father’s lands.
***
Sir Frest rode at the head of Seraphina’s delegation, his steel-clad war-horse tossing its mane while the knight’s freshly burnished armor flashed in the morning sun. Behind him came Seraphina on her palfrey, Nina, the mare blowing skittish breaths at every trumpet blast and shouted welcome. Though only a handful of stout stone halls dotted the hillside, the young noblewoman knew most of the settlement lay beneath the earth like the roots of an ancient oak.
What astonished her was the sheer multitude of dwarves who had turned out to greet them. The rumor of untapped Mithril in the woods nearby had spread farther and faster than she had dreamed. Hundreds lined the approach: craftsmen in leather aprons still dusted with forge-ash, matrons in intricately woven shawls, wide-eyed children clutching moss-bright garlands.
From this sea of bearded faces stepped a dwarf, flanked by half a dozen aides.
“Welcome, Lady Seraphina de Sariens, to our Surface Conclave,” he intoned, voice deep as an anvil strike. “I am Tam Goldsmith, Tunnel-Leader, and I greet you on behalf of all of New Undertown.” He dipped into a bow so profound his beard brushed his boots, and every dwarf behind him mirrored the gesture like ripples in a pond.
Seraphina dismounted with practiced grace, letting their reverence wash over her. “I am honored by such warmth of this welcome,” she replied, projecting her words to the entire gathering rather than to Tam alone.
The Tunnel-Leader was broad-shouldered, his dark-brown beard plaited with copper rings, and pride twinkled in his eyes. Behind him clustered half a dozen near-lookalikes, they all looked the same to her—save one striking young dwarven woman. Taller by half a foot than the males and wearing her auburn hair in jaunty pigtails, she might have passed for a petite human if not for the unmistakable solidity of her stance, as if bedrock stood beneath her skin.
“Lady Seraphina, we have prepared a grand feast in your honor,” Tam declared. A roar of approval rose from the crowd. Children scampered forward, tossing handfuls of iridescent moss that drifted like confetti over the guests. Miriam bit her lip in worry, but Seraphina and Frest simply breathed in the jubilant air.
Two massive oak doors swung open, revealing a gently sloping tunnel. The ceiling shimmered with raw zajasite crystal, its azure radiance bathing the passage in cool light. Along the walls, smooth as mirror-polished granite, nestled alcoves holding statues of hearth-gods, forge-deities—and, to Seraphina’s secret delight, a few newly carved likenesses of herself in alabaster and bronze. She permitted a small, self-satisfied smile as they descended deeper and deeper, until they halted before another set of doors: iron-banded, rune-carved, and towering twice Seraphina’s height.
At a signal from the dwarven leader, the doors groaned open.
The chamber beyond could have swallowed a modest cathedral. Vaulted arches soared overhead, their ribs carved into intertwining axes, hammers, and vines. Chandeliers of crystal and wrought iron dangled like constellations, each candleflame captured in a thousand facets. Down the center stretched three great stone tables heavy with food, while at the far end a broad stone dais held a single high-backed chair inlaid with gold filigree: the seat of honor.
Dwarves, it seemed, when given purpose could be most industrious.
Tam guided Seraphina to that throne-like chair, and her entourage—Sir Frest, Miriam, the guards, and even the grooms—were ushered to cushioned benches nearby. No one was left standing; protocol, it appeared, mattered deeply to their hosts.
Stewards in slate-gray tabards glided between the tables like synchronized oarsmen, setting down dish after aromatic dish. First came a whole roast boar, its rosemary-honey glaze still sizzling, the crackling scored into perfect diamond panels that snapped under the carving knife. Close behind, iron cauldrons of mushroom-and-barley stew were ladled into shallow stone bowls; pearl onions bobbed amid creamy broth, and truffle shavings melted on the surface in fragrant ribbons. Trays of stone-baked flatbreads followed, their edges blistered and dusted with coarse salt and crushed juniper, inviting diners to tear off steaming pieces. Next, river-lobster tails poached in herb butter arrived gleaming, their shells the deep sheen of molten copper. Jars of gem-bright pickles—ruby beets, golden carrots, emerald cucumbers—were uncorked, each jewel-toned vegetable catching the blue crystal-light. All the while, flagons of dark, foaming Krag-mead circulated, the heady brew perfumed with smoke and high-mountain blossoms, filling cups before their owners could wonder where the next pour would come from.
When the first course had barely touched the tables, Tam raised a hand. “Masters of pipe and string,” he called, “let our honored guests dine to proper music!”
At once, a troop of dwarven musicians emerged—flutes carved from geode crystal, six-string lutes of black birch, and a deep war-drum fitted with hammered bronze. The melody they struck up was lively yet grounded, the very sound of pickaxes keeping rhythm with song.
Laughter and clinking goblets filled the hall. Even reserved Miriam relaxed when a dwarf maid pressed a honey-cake into her hand. Sir Frest traded stories of his “deeds” with a grizzled tunneler who claimed to have slain a cave-troll in single combat.
Many of the dwarves in attendance were impressed by Seraphina’s raw capacity to drink their extremely potent beverage. Indeed, quite a few of her entourage had already fallen prey to the strong brew, but the young noblewoman with her monstrous Constitution barely felt its effects as she drank it down as if it were mere juice.
Yet as the fourth course dwindled and the musicians shifted to a softer refrain, Tam rose from his seat beside the dais. He cleared his throat, the hall dimming to a curious hush.
“Lady Seraphina,” he began, voice still rich but edged with uncertainty, “before this joyous dayt concludes, there is… a small problem that we hope your wisdom might help resolve.”
His words hung over the candlelit feast like a newly drawn curtain—promising that the true business had only just begun.
Comments
Mesa
hope you enjoy the rest. you should feel that something is not quite right.
darkmuch
I’m finding it really hard to get invested in the current events. I’m really confused on how much time elapsed with her amnesia. Her POV chapters made it feel like months, but the rest of the world seems like it was 1 or 2 weeks at most. Then her just leaving the dragon corpse and ancient tech for anyone else to find seems strange. An extremely unnecessary risk. Plus I assume Cornelia could just point the way to the corpse as she has been an amazing tracker previously, and was inside the dragon when it landed. Everything right now just feels very disconnected from the previous tension. Oh well. I’m still catching up.
