"What are you worried about?" came a voice as clear and flowing as crisply as running spring water. Perhaps there was even an icy note to it, the kind that came from voices that often analyzed and observed.

Tyr wrapped his hands into tight fists, the metal of his gauntlets grinding as he stemmed his trembling. A faint smile wrapped around his cracked and burn twisted lips, though barely visible under the shadow of his royal Stonegoat helm.

"Nothing, now that you are here, Signi," said Tyr. He stood and turned, the earth colored royal cape at the back of his armor fluttering with the motion.

Pale red eyes and glinting silver hair met him. Striking features from Signi, his wife, and features that signified she had all the traits that he did not. This far down, near the heart of the world which beat strongly with magic and life through its many roots and veins, there were those among Stedhelm whom developed new traits.

Signi was one of them, hailing form a noble lineage of shamans with reddened eyes that could see and analyze all around them in detail, even allowing them to temporarily glimpse the future with their perception.

"You look wonderful," said Tyr, seeing Signi wearing her adamant chain armor wrapped around with trimmed furs meant to channel magical energy.

"As forward as ever with that simple tongue of yours," said Signi as she came to Tyr's side, beside the great throne inlaid with gleaming orange circuits powered by the Veinheld, the great sphere that channeled the world vein to give the dwarves all the power that they had ever needed.

"I cannot think beyond what is in front of me, you know that," said Tyr as he reached out to hold Signi's hand. Their armor covered hands came together as best as they could, but even though they could not feel each other's warmth through the metal, the gesture was comforting all the same.

Tyr sighed and looked ahead, down the length of the royal throne room. Or, more like an engine room. The vast, domed expanse was black in color, the stone below inscribed with ancient murals of the first dwarven king and all the glory that he had brought, but that was where the old stopped and the new began.

The pillars that stood from the stone to reach the circuit covered dome above were all comprised of moving parts and clicking mechanisms of heavy rock and polished metal, all working in conjunction to seamlessly channel the enormous energy output of the Veinheld.

He motioned around the room with his free hand. "Look. This throne room. My birthright, it is said, now that my father and brothers have all perished, but I hold not the knowledge to operate it. It is said that the Veinheld's maintenance is what makes royalty, well, royalty.

It is the blood and heart of our people, and we, as those who bear royal blood, hold the responsibility to keep it running. But in that regard, I am useless. I have always been useless."

"This again?" said Signi. "You cannot blame your blood for what you lack. Instead, you must use what you have to the best of your ability. As you have been doing now."

Tyr nodded slowly but shook his head. "All I know is how to be a sword. A blade to be pointed at, to be used. I know nothing else: my own deviant blood shows that. How can an abomination such as myself ever truly rally the hopes of an entire people?"

If Signi's lineage could develop their special red eyes and white hair, then the royal family had the most useful bloodline of all developing gleaming rainbow eyes that could see the flow of power through the earth and minds that could create and shape stone as naturally as breathing.

But Tyr was an odd one, expressing his royal blood instead in the shape of skin that was as sturdy as the hardest of ores and might and stamina that never faltered so long as his two feet could stay upon solid, firm earth. But none of these traits made him fit for rule atop the throne, and for that reason, noble society shunned him.

Constantly, Tyr had always found himself in doubt. Was he some wayward bastard as so many others mocked him to be? Was he only ever to be useful to fight and shout among the rabble of fighting knights not even worthy of stepping in the bounds of lower, more noble Stedheim? Could he ever amount to anything? Was he worth anything?

When the demons first attacked, Tyr felt his life validated. For once, his life and blood of fighting was given purpose, and he was an one man army, his immense, earthborne might letting him cleave through demonkin with ease.

His father for once treated him with value, holding him equal in might to an entire army, and when his father passed in battle, his two elder brothers, too, also revered his might.

Of course, they only ever saw him as a weapon. A sword to wield against the demons. But Tyr did not mind. For once, he had purpose. For once, his life had meaning. It felt good to be able to close his mind to rule and fight and fight and fight.

But now, he was king, and the responsibility crushed him with its weight. He knew not matters of administration. He did not even know the basic sacred knowledge of operating the Veinheld. Of stone shaping, he knew nothing, had not even the capacity to perform it, nor did he know how golems worked or where to send ores or when to fire each of the forges or how to settle noble disputes and so on and so forth.

But Signi did. She always knew what to do while he knew how to fight. It had always been that way, ever since the times they were young and rebelled against their families, leaving home to try and become adventurers.

And now, even with the years putting youthful adventure and energy behind them and giving way to responsibility and duty, she had no trouble becoming his other half, working as his head advisor and doing all that was not fighting in his stead.

"Look," said Signi as she grasped his hand firmly and shook it, rattling his armor. "I will not twist my words with needless succor. You are lacking in many areas. I know that well from laying by your side for forty year-cycles.

But you can fight, and you have fought. More so than anyone else. And it is that drive to fight, to do what you are best at, that gives the people hope. You may not see it, but the people do believe in you.

Tinkering with golems or maintaining the Veinheld or listening to the squabbles of nobles are all important parts of being a king, yes, but at a fundamental level, the king protects his people and there is not a single soul that has done that better than you."

"I…I know," said Tyr. He looked down again. "I fight because I can close my heart and mind to all my other worries when I do so. But every time I am back here, away from the front lines, I cannot help but fear for the people. All their hopes rest upon me. Every single one of their futures, whether they be noble or common or elderly or young depends upon me. The pressure, it is so very much. Too much, many times I ponder."

He took in a breath. "Tell me, Signi, is there no other way to halt the advance of the demons? Two Heralds now do war upon our ancestral home, and only I am capable of fending against them. Should this ritual fail and I perish, there will only be but failure.

Did not our envoys to the city state alliance bear fruit? Will not the platinum adventurer Lira come to us? Perhaps the elves with their newfound weapon that slays all manner of demonkind?"

Signi took her hand from Tyr's and instead placed it on his shoulder plate. She shook her head curtly, but her eyes were understanding of his plight. She had known him for so long, after all, and she knew how deeply he could become wrapped up in his thoughts, how years and years of internalizing that he was a worthless abomination could still surface now even when he was king.

"The six city states of the Alliance are reeling from attacks to their own territory," said Signi. "Never were they capable of rising above their own bickering, and that holds true even now. Our envoys to them have been left unanswered.

Lirannaven the Golden instead must spend her time defending the humans. Last I heard, she was far south in Duvin, doing battle with the herald of envy along with the legions of blood.

As for the elves, though their newfound weapon certainly brings great hope with its defeat of both herald sins of greed and pride, it will be much time before they can ever reach our mountains for we are on opposite ends of the continent.

The swarms of Gluttony and Wrath will end us before the elves have made even half their way to us."

Signi rapped Tyr's helm to rouse him and continued, "But you should not fear, my husband, for the very power that the elves used to bring forth their demon purging weapon is that which we utilize now for this ritual.

Using the power of the Veinheld, we may forge a path into the realm of the gods, and though we may not be able to wake them from their slumber, it is certain that you shall at the least be able to tap into the vast well of their divine might. Certainly enough to fend against the demons."

"But what guarantee is there?" said Tyr.

Signi had told him of this ritual beforehand, and though he had zero understanding of the magical theory and concepts behind it, the effects, he understood and now grappled with. The ritual would use the throne, the master control of the Veinheld, and siphon off the vast majority of the Veinheld's power, draining the World Vein in order to tap into a previously never before seen power using Tyr's immensely durable and earth connected body as a conduit,

Thus, Tyr would receive any power the ritual tapped into, which in this case would be a connection forged with the slumbering gods. With the might of the gods, demons would be of little issue. The matter was simply that should the ritual fail, then the Veinheld, the main power source that fueled the war golems and mountain defenses that kept the Triforge from falling to Wrath and Gluttony would shut down, and that would doom his people to extinction.

Though, in a way, it would still be one last message against the demons, for the only reason they besieged the mountains so was to tap into the Veinheld themselves.

"I myself did not believe the ritual's efficacy. After all, the gods have slumbered since the very first Darkening, and though we may practice their magic, it is precious rare that any have ever heard their voices," said Signi. "You know how much of a skeptic I am. I believe only that which mine eyes see. But I have seen, and I believe.

This ritual is formula of the Chronicler, the very being who allowed the elves themselves to find their own salvation."