Date: March 15, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Seven months. Seven months since Datuk and Sobra had last stepped into the "Fighting Circle" arena. Seven months in which the world around them hadn't stood still, but their friendship remained that same axis around which their lives revolved.
Datuk went to the mountains every morning. He climbed higher than the clouds, where the air was so cold it burned his lungs, and where snow lay even in summer. He lifted stones no ordinary dwarf could move, and punched cliffs until his knuckles were one solid callus. His Berserker Spirit, once a wild flame that erupted at the slightest provocation, had become a deep, steady heat. Datuk could summon it and extinguish it at will, like a blacksmith working his bellows, quenching the fire when the work was done.
Sobra lived in the forest. He returned to the old den where he'd played as a cub, and his mother, recognizing her son, licked his forehead, and his father, an old brown bear with a scar across his muzzle, grumbled but didn't chase him away. Sobra learned to hunt alone, learned to listen to the forest as he never had before, and in his amber eyes settled the calm confidence of a beast who knew his strength.
But every week, they met. At the edge where forest met mountains, where the air smelled of pine and cold stone, and where no one could interfere with their sparring. They fought until they were hoarse, until they were bruised, until both collapsed to the ground and stared at the sky, breathing heavily. Datuk taught Sobra to take blows that would break any other beast. Sobra taught Datuk to move so that not a single branch would snap underfoot. They grew stronger. Together.
In those seven months, they had both crossed the threshold of Pillar. Datuk felt it in every cell of his body, every bone, every muscle fiber. His power was no longer crude and unbridled. It had become dense, heavy, obedient. Sobra had changed too: his fur grew thicker, darker, gray at the muzzle, and his movements gained a fluidity no one expected from such a beast.
And today, this morning, as the sun just began to gild the mountain peaks and the forest still held the night's chill, they stood at the threshold of Datuk's home.
The house in Krag-Mhor was carved from the rock, like all dwarven dwellings. Walls of dark stone held the warmth, and the heavy oak door Datuk remembered from childhood was scored with scratches from his first clumsy attempts to fight with a wooden sword. From inside came the smell of smoke, roasted meat, and something else — that particular scent found only in a house where a family lived.
Datuk paused on the threshold. Sobra settled behind him, and the dwarf felt his warmth, his steady, calm breathing. With his friend beside him, everything seemed easier. But now his heart was beating faster than usual.
"Well," he said without turning. "Time to go."
Sobra gave a short grunt and nudged his forehead with his nose. Go on, I'm with you.
Datuk pushed the door.
Inside was warm, almost hot. The large stone stove hummed, chasing away the last traces of morning chill. On the table, covered with a coarse linen cloth, a bowl of porridge steamed, and a pitcher of milk stood nearby. In the corner, on an old, battered iron chest, lay a bundle of dried herbs — his mother always believed fresh herbs were better, but kept dried just in case.
Brunhilda, Datuk's mother, was busy at the stove. She was short, even by dwarf standards, but in her hands, covered in calluses and scars, was the strength to bend a horseshoe. Her dark hair was tied in a tight knot, and her apron, perpetually stained with flour and soot, hung crooked — she couldn't stand things being out of place, but somehow never fixed the apron.
Thorgrim, his father, sat at the table. He was broader in the shoulder than Datuk, and his beard, thick, dark, with the first hints of gray, was braided into a tight plait. In his hands, heavy and steady, lay a battle-axe — the one he'd taken on patrols when Krag-Mhor was threatened by goblins from the southern slopes. He hadn't fought in years, but the axe was always at hand. Now he ran a whetstone along its edge, the sound — steady, soothing — Datuk had known since childhood.
"Mother, Father," Datuk said, stopping in the doorway. "Sobra and I have decided… to leave. For a while. On an adventure."
The words came out louder than he intended. In the snug kitchen, thick with warmth and the smell of food, they seemed foreign, almost out of place.
Thorgrim didn't look up. The whetstone kept its steady course along the blade. Datuk knew his father heard. He always heard. Sometimes he just needed time for the words to settle.
Brunhilda froze at the stove. Her hand, holding the wooden spatula, paused for a moment, then resumed stirring the porridge. Datuk noticed her shoulders tense. Just for a moment.
"Leaving, then," Thorgrim's voice was low, even, no hint of surprise. "And where to?"
"Don't know yet," Datuk admitted. "Wherever our eyes take us."
Thorgrim set down the axe and raised his head. In his eyes, dark and deep as the mines of Krag-Mhor, something like amusement flickered.
"Where your eyes take you, huh. And your feet? Will they get you there?"
"We'll try," Datuk grinned.
Thorgrim was silent for a moment. Then he nodded — short, sharp. "Well then. Safe journey."
Brunhilda finally turned. Her face, weathered, lined around the eyes, was calm. But Datuk knew her well enough to see: her lips were pressed a little tighter than usual.
"Take care of Sobra," she said. Her voice was firm, as always. "And yourself, once in a while."
"Mother…"
"Don't interrupt," she brandished the spatula at him. "Did you bring food? Warm clothes? It's cold in the mountains at night, even in summer."
"We brought it."
"Medicine? For wounds, for colds?"
"Mother, I'm a Pillar now. I…"
"Pillar or not, a wound is a wound," she cut him off. "And cold is cold. When I was young, I was a Pillar too, with your father. And you know what saved us more than once?"
"Your care," Datuk smiled.
"No," Brunhilda smirked, and in that smirk, for a moment, Datuk glimpsed the girl who'd once run through the mountains with a hammer in hand. "Warm pants. Two pairs."
She turned back to the stove, and Datuk understood the conversation was over. He wanted to step forward, hug her, but he knew it would only bring tears. And Brunhilda never cried. Never.
Thorgrim rose. He was no taller than his son, but carried the same weight, the same density that made Datuk so unyielding in battle. He walked to the door, where Datuk's pack hung — old, worn, patched — and, without a word, threw it at his son's chest.
"And don't you dare show up before a year's passed!" he bellowed.
Datuk caught the pack, blinking in surprise. His father had already turned back to the table, picking up his axe again.
"I thought… this would be harder," Datuk muttered.
"Harder will be if you're still standing there," Thorgrim grunted without looking up. "Go on, then."
Datuk wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He just nodded and, turning, stepped over the threshold.
Sobra was waiting by the entrance. The bear raised his head, looked at the closed door, then at Datuk. In his amber eyes was a question: everything alright?
Datuk exhaled. "Everything's fine. Let's go."
The walk to the forest, to Sobra's parents' den, took no more than an hour. They walked in silence — Datuk processing the farewell, Sobra sensing his mood and not disturbing him.
The forest was thick, old. Here, deep in, even at midday it was twilight, and the air smelled of damp leaves and mushrooms. Datuk loved this forest. There was none of the bustle of cities, none of the clang of forges or shouts of market vendors. Only silence, broken by birdsong and the rustle of animals in the undergrowth.
Sobra's den was in a crevice between two massive boulders overgrown with moss. Warmth and the scent of beast drifted from within. Datuk stopped at the entrance, giving his friend time.
Sobra gave a short grunt — a call. From the den, a she-bear emerged first. She wasn't as huge as her mate, but her movements carried the same strength, the same confidence. She approached Sobra, sniffed him, licked his forehead. There was so much warmth in that gesture that Datuk instinctively looked away, giving them a moment.
Then, from the den, the father emerged. He was enormous — even sitting on his haunches, he towered over Datuk. His fur was thick, dark, gray at the muzzle, and the scar across his face made him look like an old warrior who'd seen too many battles. He looked at Sobra, then at Datuk. He gave a short grunt.
Sobra answered. It wasn't just a sound — it was a long, complex sequence of grunts, growls, and sighs. Datuk didn't speak bear, but he knew his friend well enough to catch the meaning. There was explanation: "we're leaving." A promise: "I'll return." And something else, private, not meant for other ears.
The father listened without interrupting. When Sobra finished, the old bear looked at his son for a long time. Then, without a sound, he disappeared back into the den.
Datuk froze. He didn't know if that meant approval or refusal. Sobra stood motionless, his fur slightly bristling.
A minute later, the bear emerged again. In his teeth, he carried a small clay pot, sealed with wax. He tossed it to Sobra. Sobra caught it deftly, cradling it to his chest. Then the old bear gave a short, sharp grunt. The meaning was clear without translation: "Go on, then."
Sobra rumbled — deep, guttural — and pressed his muzzle to his father's. The she-bear approached, licked his ear. Then they stepped back.
Datuk watched the scene, and something inside him tightened. He remembered his father throwing the pack at his chest, his mother saying, "Take care of Sobra." They said goodbye differently — dwarves and bears — but the farewell held the same thing: love that spoke no grand words, but remained in gestures, in silence, in a clay pot of honey sealed with wax.
"You know," Datuk said when they'd left the den behind, "that felt familiar."
Sobra snorted. Then he carefully transferred the pot to Datuk's pack and led the way out of the forest.
They walked for a long time. Forest gave way to sparse woodland, sparse woodland to hills covered in rough grass. The sun was setting, shadows growing long, when Datuk spotted smoke in the distance.
"A fire," he said, stopping. "Someone's there."
Sobra sniffed and nudged him forward — let's go, it's one of ours.
The path led them to a small clearing where an old dwarf sat by a fire. He was short, even by dwarf standards, stooped with age but not frailty. His long white beard was braided into dozens of thin plaits, each adorned with some metal rivet or strange stone. His clothes were simple, worn, but on his belt hung a wooden flask carved with runes Datuk couldn't read.
A shaman. Datuk didn't know his rank — fifth, sixth, maybe higher — but he felt the power before him, before which even his newly gained Pillar status seemed like a child's toy. Yet in the old man's eyes was no arrogance. When he looked up at Datuk and Sobra entering the clearing, something warm, almost familiar shone there.
"Ah, there you are," the shaman's voice was scratchy as an old cart, but there was laughter in it. "Seven months we haven't seen you, and you're the same — one with bruises, the other always hungry-looking."
"Uncle Krogan!" Datuk grinned broadly and, without ceremony, squatted by the fire. "We didn't know you were here. Just wandering… wherever our eyes took us."
"Eyes are good," Krogan nodded, eyes twinkling. "But sometimes eyes need a helper. Sit. We need to talk."
Datuk settled by the fire, feeling warmth spread through his tired legs. Sobra lay beside him, resting his head on his knees. In the pack was the honey pot his father had given him. Somewhere beyond the hills lay Krag-Mhor and the forest den, parents who'd said, "Go." Ahead lay the unknown, and an old shaman by the fire who seemed to know more than he let on.
Datuk looked at the setting sun painting the sky crimson and understood: their journey was just beginning. What came next, time would tell. And perhaps, those helpers Krogan had mentioned.