The pale afternoon light bathed Vollua in an almost supernatural calm. At the top of a woven-wood terrace, under the silent gaze of the branches of the Mother Tree, Foster, Lïanna and Köflik had seated themselves opposite King Thorgrim. A tray of natural roots served as a table, and the fruit on it had yet to be touched.
Thorgrim held his mug of fermented sap between his calloused fingers, but did not drink. His gaze was hard, devoid of hope, as if telling his story was tantamount to opening a wound that was still festering.
Foster stared at him intently, elbows resting on his knees.
- Tell us how you escaped, Thorgrim.
The old king drew a long breath, his gaze lost in the leaves.
- After I got there, they chained me to the stone and tortured the other dwarves in front of my eyes, laughing merrily, after decimating the majority of my people. I saw brothers fall... their guts spilling out, their eyes still fixed on me.
He gritted his teeth.
