The doors of the conference chamber closed with a weight that seemed to belong not merely to wood and iron, but to the burdens carried by those within. Advisor Corrondell gestured toward an open seat near the central table, his posture formal yet cautiously welcoming. "Please… have a seat right here," he said, voice measured, the faintest edge of curiosity betraying itself in his eyes as he regarded the stranger.
Indura stepped forward without haste, his gaze drifting across the gathered officials like a man strolling through a gallery of sculptures. He studied their postures, their carefully composed expressions, the subtle tension in their shoulders. And then he saw him — seated at the largest chair, sunlight brushing across his blonde hair — Prince Julius. Recognition glimmered behind Indura's calm amusement. He took his seat with quiet satisfaction, folding himself into it as if the room existed primarily for his entertainment.
Julius leaned forward slightly, fingers interlocked, studying him in return. His tone was courteous, yet edged with caution. "Thank you for traveling such a distance to attend this meeting… your name?" His eyes lingered, searching, unsettled by something he could not name — the stranger's composure, perhaps, or the way his presence seemed too comfortable within walls meant to intimidate.
Indura's lips curled into a faint smile, one threaded with playful self-awareness. "Indura. My name is Indura," he replied, voice smooth and easy, as though introductions were small rituals performed for the sake of others rather than necessity.
"Well then, Indura," Julius continued, nodding slowly, "we are grateful you've come. I am told you are… highly regarded among the dwarves. A figure of trust, perhaps even influence." His brow lifted slightly, as though weighing whether the statement itself might provoke a revealing reaction.
Indura tilted his head, resting his elbow casually against the armrest. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well… as you can see," he said, gesturing lightly toward himself, "I am quite the role model." A soft chuckle escaped him, amused not just by the words but by the delightful elasticity of truth when shaped by circumstance.
A few council members exchanged uncertain glances. Julius allowed a small breath to leave him — not laughter, not approval, but acknowledgement of the man's strange confidence. He slid several parchment sheets forward across the table. "Then I will be direct. We face a construction problem. Completion stands midway, yet progress halts. We lack a vital material." He tapped the diagrams. "Adamantium. A metal found within the dwarven lands. Through your connections… we hope to negotiate access."
Indura leaned forward, examining the sheets. Lines intersected with blocks and symbols, numbers pressed into order like disciplined soldiers. He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing. To him, the parchment looked less like meaning and more like ritual markings humans used to convince themselves they understood permanence. After a quiet moment, he lifted his gaze. "What… exactly are you building here?" His tone carried genuine curiosity rather than strategy.
Julius hesitated. The pause stretched — subtle but noticeable — until Corrondell stepped in. "A new palace," the advisor answered, hands clasped. "One that must be completed swiftly."
The words struck something loose within Indura's thoughts. Memory flickered — a mountain, shattered stone, trembling humans promising recompense beneath his shadow. His grin widened, barely contained. So that was it. He masked the recognition, letting silence pass before replying, nodding with composed understanding, though inside amusement rippled through him like wind across open skies.
Julius shifted in his seat, unsettled by the way Indura's gaze lingered on him — not hostile, not friendly, simply… knowing. He cleared his throat and continued discussions, voices layering over parchment and plans. Decisions were made, details refined, responsibilities assigned. The machinery of governance clanked onward.
And then, breaking the rhythm entirely, a low growl echoed through the chamber.
Indura froze. His stomach responded again, louder this time, betraying him with primal honesty. The room fell awkwardly silent. Julius blinked once before his expression softened, a hint of humanity overriding diplomacy. "You have traveled far," he said gently. "We have neglected hospitality. That is our failing." He signaled toward a servant. "Escort him to the dining hall. Ensure he is fed well."
Indura rose with gratitude shining plainly across his face. Hunger was an argument no creature, divine or otherwise, should debate philosophically. As he followed the maid through the corridors, she stole occasional glances toward him, her curiosity thinly disguised. His stride was confident, radiant in its own way, and she found herself wondering who he truly was — noble, envoy, or something stranger.
The dining hall opened before him in polished brilliance. Light cascaded over marble and silver. Indura smiled, taking his seat before the long table. "Well, well," he murmured, eyes alight. "This isn't bad at all."
Plates arrived — meats, fruits, fragrant stews — and with the first bite, restraint abandoned him entirely. He devoured with enthusiasm, unburdened by etiquette, hands moving swiftly, savoring textures and flavors with reverence usually reserved for sacred revelations. Between bites, laughter bubbled from him. "Yes… This is a meal worthy of existence itself. Tender flesh, vibrant fruit… and this drink… it stings with life." The staff watched, stunned, as course after course vanished.
"More," he declared eventually, eyes gleaming. "I want more of this, my dear friends." And more they brought, until even the kitchen struggled to keep pace. At last, an hour later, he reclined with contentment washing over him. "I may return here eternally," he mused aloud. "Feasting while the world spins. A fair arrangement, I think."
Rising, he wandered back through corridors, thoughts turning toward the vendor who sold radishes. Coins would solve that. Empires, after all, hoarded wealth for reasons he found delightfully negotiable. Spotting an attendant, he smiled warmly. "Kind man, could you take me to the treasury?"
Guided through stairs and guarded hallways, he reached the vault entrance. When told only royals could enter, he thanked the attendant… then tapped his forehead gently. The young man collapsed, unharmed, into sleep. Indura exhaled softly. "You'll wake soon enough."
The steel doors resisted briefly — then folded inward beneath his touch, metal compressing with quiet violence. Inside, gold and silver glittered in mountainous abundance. He wandered among it, reflective. Humans assigned value to these metals, anchoring meaning in matter. Strange creatures — believing permanence could be stacked and counted.
Selecting three bags, he exited just as guards approached. Wind surged, carrying him unseen through corridors. He wandered in circles, mildly lost, until bursting into a room open to the sky. A young woman turned toward him, startled, eyes wide with suspicion and wonder.
Indura paused, meeting her gaze. For a heartbeat, they studied one another — her questioning, him amused. He winked lightly, then leapt through the window, vanishing into the currents beyond.
And somewhere within the palace, confusion bloomed like thunder without lightning, while the wind carried laughter only the open air could hear.