An air of jubilation filled the Great Hall. Soldiers of the Allied Forces—a mix of dwarves, humans, and wood elves—shouted and celebrated with boisterous enthusiasm. Those familiar with Farran pressed in around him, eager to clasp his hand or offer a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. Galdur, Fiona, and Marino, who had shared the journey, received an equally spirited welcome.
Suddenly, the cheering faltered and gradually died away as Grimm, a prominent general, strode into the hall flanked by a contingent of dwarven soldiers. It was immediately clear that he intended to speak with Farran. Grimm shouldered his way through the crowd surrounding the young man and spoke with blunt directness.
“Farran… my father wishes to see you.”
Grimm’s father was none other than Dodan, the supreme leader of the dwarven army and the commander-in-chief of the fortress itself.
Farran drew a long, steadying breath before replying politely, “May I go to my quarters to stow my gear first?”
He had only just returned from a grueling journey, and exhaustion weighed heavily upon him. Even so, Farran understood all too well that reporting the mission’s outcome to a commander of Dodan’s stature was a duty that could not be deferred.
“Very well,” Grimm conceded. “We shall be waiting to hear your report in the Command Room on the third floor.”
Grimm harbored a quiet respect for Farran. Like Dodan, the young man was a disciple of the god Magni, yet he never boasted of his status or treated it as a privilege. Farran carried himself with the discipline expected of a soldier, and it was that humility that earned Grimm’s esteem.
The two commanders parted ways. Farran and his companions ascended to the second floor of the fortress before dispersing to their private rooms for a brief respite.
The moment Farran stepped through his door, he dropped his bags onto the floor. He cast a lingering glance at the bed, barely resisting the urge to collapse into its softness after days spent camping in the wild. Despite the fatigue tugging at his limbs, he knew it would be improper to keep Dodan waiting. As he forced himself upright again, something caught his eye.
Farran walked over and picked them up: three envelopes, all postmarked from Iceland and addressed to him. After a quick calculation, he judged that he still had enough time to read them before reporting to the third floor.
With that, he picked up the first letter and tore it open.
“Farran…
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits.
I am writing this on the morning of our departure for the Kingdom of Allasia. Today, the sky above the village of Mj?llnirshús is exceptionally clear. There is no fog—only white clouds and a cool breeze. A perfect day for a pleasant journey.
Gripr is still singing his songs to rouse the villagers, just as always. No matter how one looks at him, that dancing dwarf hardly resembles a blacksmith capable of forging magical weapons. And yet, a few days ago, our cook bought a knife from him and, after applying just a bit too much force, sliced clean through the corner of a table! Had you seen it, we would have shared a good laugh.
This journey comes at the invitation of King Valen, to serve as witnesses to an execution—Prince Torvin, the man who murdered his own father. It is almost absurd. In his formal letter, King Valen even enclosed forty gold coins, citing them as travel expenses. Such a meticulous king, cautious over the most trivial matters. Or perhaps, in his eyes, I appear so destitute that I truly require an allowance merely to travel.
Our caravan consists of eight wagons. Four are loaded with goods provided by merchants and blacksmiths as gifts for Allasia, though in truth, they are little more than product samples. That, of course, was Gripr’s idea.
Has the Ruby Team returned to you in Alfheimr yet? We have not had the chance to properly thank Lady Berlynda for her assistance in delivering Torvin to Allasia. If you happen to meet them, please pass along my gratitude. Especially to Amanda… tell her that since that day, I have grown a bit taller. I believe I am finally taller than she is.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As for you—do find some time to write back.
— Málóei”
Farran finished the letter and let out a soft, weary chuckle.
“Hmph… tonight, after I’ve had some sleep, I will certainly write to you, Málóei.”
A faint smile touched his tired face. In truth, he was still just a young man. Bearing the weight of the battlefield was a heavy burden for someone his age, and these letters—brimming with warmth—felt as though they were breathing life back into his exhausted soul.
He picked up the second letter, tore it open, and began to read. A moment later, he blinked in mild confusion.
“Wait… did I read these out of order?”
“Farran…
Lately, Mj?llnirshús has grown unbearably noisy once again. The blacksmiths are working day and night, for most of their wares simply cannot compete with Gripr’s. Even though that fellow spends his days singing and dancing, he forges the finest weapons in the entire village.
The Ruby Team delivered Prince Torvin to our village three days ago. I have had that wicked prince imprisoned while we await word from the Kingdom of Allasia. As for the three guests, I welcomed them with the highest honors and have shared breakfast and dinner with them for three consecutive days.
By the way… how can Lady Berlynda be so strikingly beautiful? Her crimson hair is unlike anything I have ever seen in this world. Gripr attempted to mix various materials to replicate that hue, but nothing he produced came even close.
Over these past three days, I seem to have found a new friend in Berlynda’s disciple, Aki. She received a new set of daggers from Gripr and appears to smile and laugh more often now. This stands in stark contrast to her petite senior disciple, who possesses a truly dreadful personality. Despite being smaller than me, she insists on calling me ‘Little Leader.’ Utterly ill-mannered.
Before the Ruby Team arrived, I began cataloguing the village’s valuables, as you suggested. My father forged a total of two hundred and fifty-five weapons. Gripr helped inspect them and informed me that of those 255 pieces, only eighteen are truly magical. He claims the rest should be melted down so he can forge superior weapons from the scrap.
Should I really trust this jester who does nothing but sing and dance? He even claims that artifacts forged by the gods are inferior to his own work. How ridiculous.
Once you have finished your business in Alfheimr, do hurry back. Here, there is only Gripr, who makes my head ache from laughter every day. I miss the three of you dearly and still wish to learn much more from Galdur.
I truly miss you all.
— Málóei”
Farran finished the second letter and smiled.
“Little Leader… it does suit her. Amanda certainly has a knack for names.”
In his mind, he pictured Mj?llnirshús filled with laughter—a sharp contrast to the grim realities of the battlefield. The image alone eased the tension in his heart. He could not help but feel a quiet sense of pride. He had been right to persuade Gripr to return to Mj?llnirshús; the dwarf had become a true friend to Málóei.
Farran drew a deep breath, steadying his thoughts, before picking up the final letter. He intended to read it quickly, then make his way to the third floor to meet Dodan.
“Farran…
Disaster has struck!!!
During the execution of Prince Torvin, the unthinkable occurred. King Arkhad of the Kingdom of Amirfar led a force to raid the prisoner convoy and successfully helped Prince Torvin escape.
Everything happened with terrifying speed and without reason. Many Allasian soldiers were slain, and an arrow from the Amirfar forces was fired directly at me! It was King Valen who deflected it—otherwise, I would not be alive to write this letter.
King Arkhad’s actions are a clear declaration of hostility, not only toward Allasia, but toward our Kingdom of Iceland as well. It seems they have been preparing for this for a long time, for immediately afterward, six other kingdoms joined King Arkhad in declaring war on Allasia. It is as though they were merely waiting for this signal to cast off their masks and shatter the alliance.
Yet, owing to King Valen’s prestige, ten kingdoms rallied to his side in response. I fear that a great war in Midgard is imminent.
What should I do? As the leader of Iceland, where should I stand? What should I say, and when should I remain silent? I long for your counsel. Even though you now serve as Dodan’s general, never forget that you are still my Greatest Guardian.
As for the Amirfar soldier who shot at me—when Gripr heard of it, he abandoned all his work and vowed to construct a crossbow capable of firing twelve bolts at once, so that I may repay King Arkhad in kind. I cannot decide whether I should laugh or forbid him. He has already begun singing, dancing, and forging all at once again. Watching him like that brings me a strange calm and allows me to forget these troubles, if only for a moment.
But once you are finished in Alfheimr, please do not forget this home, which is now in utter turmoil.
By the way… has my father defeated the god Vidar yet? How many days have they been locked in combat now?
Please, return quickly, Farran.
— Málóei Modinic”
This time, Málóei had signed her full name, lending the letter a gravity absent from all previous correspondence.
As Farran read of the Amirfar soldier firing an arrow at Málóei, his heart ignited with searing fury. He clenched his fist tight. A single, burning thought consumed him—he wanted to abandon this land and settle this blood debt with King Arkhad himself.
“King Arkhad…” Farran muttered in a low, dangerous tone. “You have some nerve—not only aiding a villain like Torvin, but daring to set your sights on our High Leader as well.”
Knock. Knock.
The sharp sound startled him. Galdur opened the door and stepped inside.
“Have you seen Dodan yet?”
Farran shook his head. “Not yet. I was just about to go.” He paused, as if struck by a thought. “Wait.”
He turned back to the table and gathered the three letters together.
“You should hurry to see Dodan,” Galdur warned, his voice firm. “Our commander is not a man who indulges those who keep him waiting.”
Farran clenched the letters in his hand and thrust them toward Galdur.
“What is this?” Galdur asked, brow furrowing.
“Something has happened to our Little Leader,” Farran replied curtly. “Read them for yourself.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the room, his long steps carrying him toward the third floor—the Command Room of the Ainen-dor fortress.
Frieren. The ending song, "The Story of Us" by milet, resonated with me so deeply that I knew I had to craft a story about a letter.
Frieren—in the comments! But don't let the cozy inspiration fool you: in this world, the Elves are the Villains.