Keledrain stood at the head of a large stone table, looking down at an intricately carved map of the continent. In the center of the map there was a tall peak, the only surface of the table that rose above its raised edges. The peak represented the mountain that served as the home of her army, and at its center was the war room in which Keledrain and her council met to discuss their preparations and progress towards war. Or, much to Keledrain’s frustration, their lack of progress. 

Twelve dwarves with solemn expressions sat at the opposite end of the continent table, six with white beards and long braided hair, six with short white hair and no beards at all. The oldest among them held a small metal tool in his right hand, and used it to tap on the edge of the table in a way that was both irregular and rhythmic at the same time. All twelve of the venerable dwarves held such tools in their hands, but the other eleven simply looked down at their tools, or at the edges of the table itself, as their leader continued to tap out his message. None of them once lifting their gaze to look at Keledrain in the eye. 

If they had, they might have noticed a growing impatience in Keledrain’s eyes, like a hidden flame just waiting to burst up from black, crawling lava. It was this expression, in addition to her orange irises that had earned Keledrain the nickname, “the magma gazer,” among the dwarves of the Hulfraust nation. 

Sitting at the table to Keledrain’s left was General Brynwolfn. She was Keledrain’s second-in-command, and the only dwarf in the entire mountain that she considered worth talking to. She was one of the strongest dwarves among the Hulfraust, and her endurance was almost enough to match Keledrain herself. It had been nearly a decade since Brynwolfn had been appointed by her people to be the most senior military leader in the nation, and Keledrain had been pleased with the choice. 

While most of the dwarves she ruled over refused to look Keledrain in the eye, Brynwolfn never wavered under her gaze. Every now and then, Brynwolfn would speak up in words Keledrain understood to translate the meaning behind the tapped out words and phrases that made up the dwarves’ native language. Keledrain always looked carefully for any sign of hesitation or doubt in Brynwolfn’s face as she spoke. Despite her appreciation for Brynwolfn, Keledrain didn’t truly trust the dwarven general. After all, there were few threats more dangerous than a translator with their own agenda. 

But despite her watchful eye, Keledrain never found any sign of deception or disloyalty in Brynwolfn. Her tone and expression were always neutral, her rate of speech was consistent, and she never contradicted herself. And thankfully, she had one of the few voices among the dwarves that didn’t leave Keledrain grinding her teeth. Though there was plenty else surrounding Keledrain that caused her ceaseless irritation. 

Keledrain ran her fingers along the bumps and notches carefully chiseled into the edge of the granite table. She knew the bumps represented the tactile language that the Hulfraust nation used for writing stories and records. But despite the past century that Keledrain had spent ruling over the Hulfraust dwarves, Keledrain had never learned to read, write, or speak their language. To her, the tactile language merely felt like a blemish on an otherwise smooth and flawless surface. 

Looking again across the carved map of the continent, blemishes were all that Keledrain could see. Scattered towns and villages dotted the land, connected by crooked, rundown roads and trails. Lines of trade were random and disorganized, causing what could be a wealth of goods and resources to largely go to waste. They lacked a ruler with the strength and vision to bring order to the land and unify them into a single nation with a purpose that drove them to greatness. And Keledrain knew that she was destined to be the leader that would give it to them. She had the strength and the vision. And the Hulfraust had the army, equipment, and discipline that would allow her to sweep across the continent, conquering each land as easily as a fire races across dry grass. 

The only thing standing in her way was the infuriating perfectionism of the twelve dwarves at the other end of the table who were obsessed with regulating the ideal of “balance” within the Hulfraust nation. In some ways, the Guild of Balance Sages held more power and political sway than even the Guild of Blacksmiths and army of Hulfraust Warriors that were the backbone of the real strength of the Hulfraust. The smiths outnumbered the sages ten to one. The warriors outnumbered them twenty to one. Put every balance sage in a room together and they would make up only a single percent of the Hulfraust population. 

And yet, Keledrain had learned during the early years of her reign that there was little she could accomplish with the Hulfraust if the balance sages opposed her. They wouldn’t dare directly disobey her or try to overthrow her. Not as long as they wanted to keep the volcanic heat that kept their forges glowing and their smiths busy. After all, Keledrain was the one who had restored the magma to the mountain the Hulfraust called home, and none of the dwarves doubted that she could take it away just as easily. 

But the Hulfraust were clever and careful. They had show Keledrain that where outright disobedience may be too risky, they still had plenty of other tools to frustrate her plans when the balance sages made their disapproval known. An insistence of perfection seemed to be one of their favorite tools, which is how they tricked her into accepting the terms of the Commanding Armory that she had regretted for the last eight decades. 

According to the agreement, every year the Guild of Balance Sages would commission the Guild of Blacksmiths to forge a mighty weapon for Keledrain that would be used to command the army of Hulfraust Warriors. The blacksmiths would design the weapon to any specifications that Keledrain provided, and their most skilled smiths would take her requirements and make the weapon a reality. The sages would be involved throughout the entire process to ensure the result was as balanced as possible. 

Then came the most infuriating part of the agreement. After the weapon had been forged, polished, and presented to Keledrain, she would have to don a helmet with no openings for the eyes, hold the new weapon in her hands, and walk blindly from the foot of her throne to the head of the stone table in front of her. 

By all accounts, the task should have been easy. The path she was required to walk was a completely straight line across a flat, stone floor that was impossibly level. There were never any obstacles or other obstructions placed in her way, and yet she had failed in the task every year. And every year the sages and blacksmiths would assure her that the next year’s weapon would be the most balanced one yet. It was infuriating. 

After the third year of failing the challenge, Keledrain had accused the sages of secretly commissioning weapons that were purposefully flawed. Instead of attempting to argue, the entire Guild of Balance Sages took turns completing the challenge themselves with each of the weapons created for the Commanding Armory. It had taken nearly a week for each member of the guild to have their turn, yet there was no argument or discussion over the order. They had not even formed a line. And yet there was always exactly one sage ready to take up the challenge as soon as another had finished.

Every single sage had succeeded at the task flawlessly and apparently effortlessly. The fact that mere dwarves could do something that she could not had embarrassed Keledrain to the point of madness, and she likely would have used it as an excuse to murder every single sage under the mountain, but the dwarves outnumbered her ten thousand to one, and she knew that not even she could defeat all of them. She had found little ways here and there to score points of revenge against the sages since then, but they always seemed to come out on top anyway. 

There were now eighty weapons of exquisite craftsmanship in her Commanding Armory, and she hated every one of them. Each one represented another failure, and another year wasted that she should have been able to spend conquering the continent and growing her empire. Her armory included dozens of swords, axes, maces, war hammers, and spears of various shapes, sizes, and styles. She even had some less conventional weapons such as a glaive, a trident, a few flails of different designs, and even some weapons that Keledrain considered less dignified like daggers and a quarterstaff. 

To make matters even more frustrating, the Guild of Blacksmiths truly outdid themselves with every weapon. And it wasn’t just the smiths. It seemed like every guild and profession among the entire Hulfraust nation would contribute in some way to the annual project. 

The Guild of Miners would seek out and donate rare metals and gemstones with latent magical properties to be used in the construction of each year’s weapon. The Guild of Mages and Alchemists would concoct unique alloys, as well as add enchantments and runes to produce enduring magical effects. The Hulfraust Warriors would train with models and prototypes of the weapon to find combat styles that could make the most of that year’s design. The Guild of Farmers would donate food to the Guild of Cooks and Bakers, who would then use that food to prepare meals for anyone actively working on the project. Even the Guild of Spies and Informants would participate by contributing ideas for hidden compartments, high-pitched whistles, and other subtle enhancements to be added to the design. 

Every year, Keledrain would vow not to become emotionally invested in the weapon being designed. She reasoned that it was her own eagerness that continued to throw her off each proving ceremony, and if she could simply learn some patience and regard the presented weapon as ordinary as any other, she would have no difficulty completing the challenge. After all, she had practiced the challenge thousands of times with mundane weapons, and succeeded more often than she failed when she did so. 

Yet every winter solstice, when the Guild of Balance Sages would present her with the weapon for that year, Keledrain couldn’t stop her heart from racing at the prospect of commanding the Hulfraust Warriors while wielding the weapon they offered her. Within her armory was a war hammer that sent ripples through solid stone when it struck the ground. There was an axe that felt weightless when lifted, but then heavier than a boulder when brought down on a foe. One year she was presented with a spear that become two identical spears whenever it was thrown. One of those spears would then continue towards its target, while the other spear would remain in her hand. Each one was magnificent, and never failed to surpass Keledrain’s expectations. 

As Keledrain stood at the stone table, barely enduring the endless tapping as the head of the Guild of Balance Sages continued his report, she seethed with anger at the setback from the most recent winter solstice just a week before. Of all the weapons presented to Keledrain in the last eighty years, that most recent weapon had been the most maddeningly perfect. She ground her teeth and gripped the table at the indignity of the memory. 

She had requested a double-edged sword with a long, broad blade and a two-handed grip. It hadn’t been the first time she had made that particular request because it was the style of weapon she was most comfortable with. Of course in single combat she could kill anyone she wanted regardless of the weapon she held, but a broad longsword was definitely her favorite. And the Hulfraust had certainly delivered on that request. 

Brynwolfn had roughly translated the name of the sword as “The Blade of Inner Flame,” and apparently in the Hulfraust language it had some kind of triple meaning that was a play on the kind of flame that heats one’s home, the passion that burns in one’s heart, and the heat that comes from under the ground itself. Keledrain could not have cared less about dwarven puns, but couldn’t deny the cleverness of the name once she had been told what made the sword so special. 

The sword was ordinary enough when in its sheath, except that it could only be drawn from its sheath by one of the two gauntlets that had been created with it. In addition to being the key to unsheathing the sword, each gauntlet also featured red gemstones that allowed the gauntlets to absorb and expel flames, according to the will of the one wearing them. Once drawn from its sheath, the blade of the sword would glow red-hot. It had been forged in such a way that its heat would always match the heart of the Hulfraust’s home, yet would never melt or warp from its own heat. And since the mountain that the Hulfraust called home was also an active volcano, they had essentially given her a lava sword. She immediately loved it. 

After donning the custom gauntlets, Keledrain had tested the sword in her right hand, her left hand, and both hands. No matter how she held it, she had wielded it with ease, feeling confident that she could effortlessly cut through five foes or more with a single swing. She could tell right away that it was the most powerful weapon in her entire armory. It was absolute perfection in the shape of a sword, and she had told herself again and again that it would be the weapon that would finally bring her success. 

Of course all of that passion had made her all the more furious when she walked into the wall over fifteen feet away from the door she thought she had been about to walk through. Those in attendance to witness the event had not laughed of course. Finding pleasure in someone else’s failure was seen as a sign of weakness among the Hulfraust. But they had not wept or groaned in disappointment either. The crowd merely dispersed as if nothing had happened at all. It was as if every one of them expected her to fail with such surety that the only one who felt an ounce of suspense was Keledrain herself. 

Keledrain could endure it no longer. She picked up the small hammer-like tool placed for her at the table in case she ever decided to converse in the Hulfraust’s language. She slammed the ornate tool down with such force that its steel head snapped off from its wooden handle, and a crater had been made on the edge of the table, erasing a portion of the writing that had been there. 

Brynwolfn immediately stopped her translating mid-sentence, and all twelve of the council of Balance Sages finally looked up at her. She stared at each of them, and then threw the wooden handle onto the floor. 

“Brynwolfn, you may translate this for the sages as soon as I leave,” said Keledrain. “I can’t tolerate any more of that incessant tapping for today. Besides, I’m not interested in hearing their response. After all, I’m their ruler, not their peer.” 

Keledrain paused to see if Brynwolfn would question her or try to change her mind, but she continued when Brynwolfn simply regarded her with the same obediently neutral expression as always. “My requirements for this year’s weapon will be exceedingly simple,” she said. “The sages may design whatever sort of weapon they choose. I don’t care what it will look like. My one requirement this year is that the weapon they commission must be presented to me within the next three months. If it takes them an entire year to create it, then they will have failed in their task and I will consider the Commanding Armory agreement dissolved.” 

“Furthermore, I expect them to be more proactive in this year’s design,” Keledrain continued. “The task is not for them to create a weapon that is ideal for them, but to create one that is designed for my needs. So if, when I’m presented with the next commanding weapon, I’m unable to complete the ritual, then it will be due to their failure to provide the weapon I need.” 

Keledrain then leaned forward over the table, glaring at the balance sages with each word she spoke. “And if that happens, then you will have to witness the heat of this entire mountain die and become colder than the snow at its peak,” she threatened. “And you dwarves will have no one but yourselves to blame.” 

And with that, Keledrain turned her back to Brynwolfn and the sages, walked out of the room, and slammed the door.