A light. A white light began my nightmares. Whenever I saw it before sleeping, I knew it awaited me. That was why I did not sleep. But every so often, I had to. Night overcame me, and my eyelids closed. Then the light came—a comforting tingling surrounded me. This time, I was on the outskirts of my city. Beside me, I felt my son. It was comforting to feel him—that simple schoolboy laugh, his dwarven scent of handling machine oil and grease. But I feared turning. I always ended up doing it. I wanted to see him.
As I turned, the image of the city changed. From pearly white, it became black and withered. This time, I decided to look without fear. I turned quickly and glimpsed an ash statue identical to him, which crumbled before my eyes. The pain compressed my chest—a real pain, product of a loss that held meaning only for me. Then I saw the god of the just. He was pulling the light that came out of my son's statue. When he had a bright sphere, he turned. Where do you think you are taking my son? I straightened up and pursued him. I would not let you be taken from my side again. As I advanced, the forest became decrepit. With each step, my clothes were damaged and fell away. My legs lost strength. Yet I continued. Not even when the flesh began to fall, nor the pain, nor anything, prevented me from following that figure carrying the image of the one I loved.
I was already a fleshless image. Only my beard remained in place. My eyes had lost their pupils and color, but they still saw. The light projected from him hurt me.
"Where are you taking him?" I shouted at that figure until my lips and tongue were so putrid I could not speak. At that moment, the figure turned and told me to betray him.
No one had spoken to me in my dreams before, so I was surprised.
"Do not take my son," I begged him. He replied:
"He lived a life of good and sacrifice. He deserves to go to the beyond, where he will be praising me all day."
Doubt assailed me. Was that paradise? Or did it only satisfy the ego of a god? At that moment, he pointed at me, and looking at myself, I realized I was clad in my bronze armor.
"You rebelled. You conspire against justice. Only desolation and the desperation of abandonment await you—death in life. When my knights finish with you, you will suffer eternally in that cursed armor you created."
My body lost strength, and I fell to my knees. An incredible heat rose from the armor and prevented me from crashing to the ground. This seemed to bother that figure that called itself god. His features changed from serene and accusatory to terrifying, full of rage.
"Even now you deny your punishment! Impious! Loneliness awaits you! My accusations will come every night, preventing your sleep and rest! I will send my paladins of justice to tear apart your being. You will find no rest—for serving the Dark Lord, you have your punishment. But it will be nothing compared to what I will do to you. I, the god of the just, have spoken!"
The armor continued burning me, but now it was more a comforting warmth that helped me stand. I was still a skeleton. I knew that if I concentrated, I could regenerate muscle and flesh, but I did not need it—not now, not in a torturous dream.
"Look at me well," I said. "I am like this not because of my decisions. It is because you do not want me to make them. The torture is inflicted by no one but you. You hate me for choosing vengeance, but you do not help anyone. The comfort of resignation does not serve me—not when the most noble person was murdered and you did nothing to bring them to justice. They hide behind your emblem, and you allow it. I will not let that stop me. I, Chapatrueno, tell you this!" Black flames emerged from my armor. "I will seek justice as I can! I will raise my hammer to heaven or hell! If I feel someone commits an injustice... you are not a god of justice. You are vain and cruel. Is there any reason to respect you? To fear you? As long as there is a shred of life in my body, I will fight until there is no more."
The figure of the god turned pale. I glimpsed it howling horribly.
"Idiot! Simple dwarf like an arrow! I will attack your dreams! I will harm you so much that my sacred warriors will only need to collect the waste of a madman who attacked his god!"
I could not stop watching my surroundings deform. My city was gone. Only a ravine of molten rock remained, trying to burn me, to make my armor my tomb. But I refused to give in to panic. I channeled more energy into my body and armor. I would not succumb to fear. The expression of the supposed justiciar showed me he was not pleased.
At that moment, a voice interrupted what could have been another outburst from the figure floating above.
"Beautiful construction for someone who claims to be a justiciar, don't you think?"
The voice came from the ruins of the city. From among the rubble emerged a man. He was clad in full armor—I had never seen its material nor his cloak before. Only the boots: dwarven material from before the separation, boots one could walk in lava with. Boots of dwarven war elephant skin.
"Pay him no attention. As you can see, he can only harm you here, in dreams. He will torment you because you could have been a paladin but renounced his grace and blessing. Yet he is right about one thing: enemies are coming—sacred warriors, heading your way. I cannot give you refuge with the Dark Elves; they have enemies less than three days away. But if the paladins reach them, they will annihilate a place that only serves their tribe—for trophies and the glory of killing those who do not think like him. Wake up! I left a place in your mind. Go and take refuge there. I left a gift for you inside, and you can use it to prepare. Now ignore that madman. He is obsessed with needing attention. He will do nothing if you ask for help, but if you renounce him, he will keep pursuing you."
As he spoke, he approached. He looked young, but in his eyes, he carried the same pain I felt—a similar loss. Reaching me, he knelt, and our eyes met.
"Do not let people die for appearances. I count on you. I will not let you die until you achieve your goal."
My eyes opened. I was in the open field. I had arrived the previous night at the edge of the mushroom forest. I still did not know how to contact the master of these lands, but it seemed unnecessary. In my mind remained both voices: one full of promises and threats from a not-so-just god, and one from a man who sought nothing more than justice and perhaps redemption. In my mind was the place he suggested—a small fortress in some mines about ten or fifteen kilometers from here. It was still night, but I could find it even with my eyes closed. I set out. I could see that the mental battle against that god had not only occurred in my mind. The ground was burned in a two-meter radius around me—proof that I had used my armor to defend myself. I had to find protection runes against sacred attacks soon.
The landscape remained monotonous. I discovered that most creatures avoided me, not out of fear but more a sense of recognizing one of their own. Only a naga—a poor woman mutated with serpent features—attacked me with her claws and fangs. I stopped her with a shield blow and used the momentum to throw her behind me. Seeing I did not finish her off, she moved away. Throughout the morning, I could feel her watching me. But compared to the wrath of a god, this was nothing. Finally, when the sun indicated midday, I arrived. It was a small cave, the kind dwarves used for protection. A wall ten meters high completely blocked the cave's entrance, but as I approached, I could see a door hidden in one corner, at dwarf height. It was not a government fortification—it was a last-resort refuge for my people during the war.
It did not surprise me that the door was open. It seemed my benefactor knew how to arrange refuges. Inside, a simple two-story structure with stone walls welcomed me. At the back, something called to me. I advanced through hallways without banners or paintings. This place was not a joke. The entrance had a service courtyard. At the back, forges and armories. On the sides, dining halls. The kitchen was on the upper floor, along with the strategy room and bedrooms. There were no class distinctions. It was a last-resort structure—elders, children, and mothers lived here, terrified of what they knew was their destiny.
I went to the forge and found something that made me smile for the first time in years. There, several texts on sacred runes awaited me, along with some steel ores and plenty of coal, as well as my old Stormhammer tools. Let the sacred warriors come. Let their god come. I would be waiting for them with steel in my hands. My resolve would not falter!