WOSE Chapter 38

"Keli. I'm sorry."

The whispered words were familiar. Sindri. Uncle. Even half-asleep, she knew who it was. And she understood, in that drowsy haze, that this single words was his last farewell to her.

'Where are you going?'

She should ask. She should grab him. If necessary, she should chase after him. But her sleep-weighted body wouldn't move.

In that moment, the hand smoothing her hair withdrew. Warmth receded. Cold seeped across her skin—and then Kelgrida's eyes snapped open.

The room was empty.

No trace remained of it—as if it had been a dream. But she knew. Her uncle had left. He would never return to Smidrhame.

He'd run. He'd abandoned responsibility. And he'd abandoned her.

The cowardice infuriated her. Or perhaps—perhaps what truly enraged her was the fact of abandonment itself.

In truth, she couldn't accept his soft thinking. He'd lectured her ceaselessly about protecting the dwarves, and then he simply left. Worse, he possessed the natural talent to make such protection possible, and yet he wouldn't make weapons. It was deception. It was waste.

So he'd left her behind.

She wanted to find him, to demand answers. But her grandfather didn't search for the son who had departed, leaving three Orichalcum swords behind.

He simply watched from the window for a long time, observing people below who went about their tasks unaware of what had transpired in this house. Then his hand clamped down on her shoulder—painfully.

"The dwarves, blessed with a harsh world by God, are pitiable beyond measure. From now on, you and I must protect and care for them."

"…"

"Remember this: a leader is not a self-aware individual. A leader is merely the head of a group. When the head of a living thing is severed, the body dies. You must hold firm. Do you understand?"

And so Kelgrida learned the weight of responsibility for the first time. She became an adult.

Her hands blistered from gripping the hammer. She worked the bellows. She honed blades. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't match the sword her uncle had left behind. With each passing day, her initial desperation curdled into inferiority. There came moments when she felt the weight she'd shouldered was too much to bear—moments when she understood, just slightly, why her uncle had abandoned everything.

But when her grandfather—after long years of service—returned to God's embrace, and a beastfolk she'd never seen before delivered her uncle's legacy: a useless toy, a decoration with no function whatsoever.

That was when she swept away the old sunshade and the mechanical figurine that had occupied a corner of her desk. She threw them into storage. And she became clan leader willingly.

Her people welcomed her. In the flood of cheers, she finally felt her purpose. Her grandfather had been right. She was a component—a part engineered for the dwarves' survival.

She worked endlessly. Then, when she objectively recognized the shortage of hands, she bore a child.

Fortunately, the boy resembled his uncle greatly. There was his soft appearance, certainly, but especially that natural aptitude for craftsmanship.

When she first held him, did her grandfather feel as she did? Did he have faith the child would bring prosperity to their people, unquestioning and absolute? She taught the boy his duty, his role. So he wouldn't become another failure like his uncle.

But whether by blessing or curse, the child's nature proved utterly unlike his uncle's.

When the boy—Darun—turned ten, Kelgrida carved time from her packed schedule to return to her estate. She wanted at least to share a meal with him; she'd been so consumed with work she barely saw his face anymore.

"Young Darun is at play in the garden now, by the aide's report."

She changed direction toward the garden. Between the sparse plants, she spotted a small, hunched figure.

What captured his attention so completely that he didn't move even as she approached? She wondered, drawing near.

Thunk. Thunk.

She saw clearly then: the boy wasn't observing anything. He was acting.

Was he planting something? The thought lasted only an instant. She stopped. The shovel in his small hands was unmistakable. But it wasn't earth he was excavating—it was the corpse of a small animal.

"Darun! What in the world are you doing?"

"Oh! Mother! When did you arrive? Are you finished with work?"

"I'm asking what you're doing!"

"The creature's leg was injured, so I helped ease its suffering!"

The boy dropped the blood-smeared shovel carelessly to the ground. He smiled, bright and clear.

He'd been saying things like this since he'd started walking. We have a duty to care for the helpless, he'd declare. We must work to ensure their peace.

Whether the explanation had been insufficient, whether there'd been some misunderstanding—it was hard to say.

Kelgrida suppressed her disturbance. She knelt before her son and grasped his blood-stained hand with brutal force.

"Darun, listen carefully. You must never harm a living creature."

"Why? Mother said my mission is to bring peace to everything in Smidrhame. You taught me that."

Kelgrida dragged forth morality, ethics—abstract concepts she could barely remember—in an attempt to convince him. The boy nodded, yet didn't seem genuinely convinced.

After deliberation, Kelgrida appointed not a servant, tutor, or nurse to watch over her son. She assigned an aide: Ulrik, a man of few words with rapid efficiency.

Ulrik reported regularly. The animals Darun killed grew larger over time. From creatures the size of a palm to things the size of a man.

Kelgrida attempted to persuade her son several more times. Eventually, she turned away. Many people kept hunting as a hobby, after all. The boy would simply be one of them.

Aside from this minor issue, he was flawless. Before he'd even fully matured, he assisted her brilliantly with administrative work. His skill at forging weapons grew daily.

But after darkness descended on Smidrhame—specifically on the crucial mines—everything crumbled.

The loss of their most vital livelihood plunged the people into instant chaos. Worse, Kelgrida found herself consumed with investigations into the disappearances that erupted in succession.

'Why the Orichalcum mine of all things?'

She pressed her throbbing temples as she exited the study. For days now, she'd gone without proper sleep, searching for solutions to meet contractual quotas.

Seeking even a moment of cold air, she drifted half-conscious down a corridor. At its end, something dark stood waiting.

"What are you doing there?"

She approached and confirmed: it was Darun. Dressed for going out.

"Where have you been at this hour?"

Kelgrida's words died mid-sentence.

The boy smelled of metal. A sharp, nauseating copper tang. She wrinkled her nose.

"You were awake, Mother."

The shadow at the corridor's end peeled away, and Darun stepped into visibility. He held the weapon he'd completed not long ago and shown to her with pride.

Blood smeared across it. Across his hands.

Only then did Kelgrida recognize the true nature of the scent she'd detected: not oxidized metal. Blood.

Sleep abandoned her entirely.

"…Did you go hunting again?"

Darun tilted his head, then smiled.

"I went to help."

Some instinct seized her: she must not ask what kind of help, or who had received it.

Forcing an appearance of normalcy, she addressed her son: "Don't wander about so late. It's dangerous out there."

"Yes, Mother."

But the next day, a report arrived: a third person had gone missing.

Was it coincidence? It had to be coincidence.

Yet her hope shattered almost at once. On the night before each disappearance, Darun had left the estate with his weapon.

The final confirmation came from a slip of paper that Ulrik—the aide assigned to her son—delivered.

A note she had never sent. A note bearing her name, offering Ulrik the chance to be chosen as her aide, promising important work.

Her hand trembled. The handwriting was familiar. The seal was unmistakably hers.

She'd prevented even her closest aide from accessing it. Only one person had ever been granted that access.

Her son.

All evidence pointed to a single person. Yet she turned away from the truth. Not because of sentiment—not because the accused was her child.

This boy had the potential to grow into a remarkable craftsman who would revitalize the dwarven people. So her judgment had been simple: just as she had willingly become a component for her people's sake, the loss of one small component was unavoidable.

But her judgment failed with spectacular completeness.

She was certain. Absolutely certain. She hadn't been wrong.

So why had it failed?

Now, standing alone in the plaza, she finally considered such things.

'Should I have never drawn in the Savior?'

Behind those narrow, black eyes—eyes that had called her a savior—roiled a profound and ancient hatred.

She'd believed that if the Savior eliminated the darkness, her son's horrific acts would end. So she'd moved to use the Savior, more desperately still. Perhaps the Savior had seen through her all along—had recognized that she meant to deploy even salvation as a mere tool.

Or perhaps she should have acted without hesitation. Should have used her sword, not her son's limbs.

No. That wasn't it either. Like her uncle, she should have fled this cursed responsibility.

If that night she hadn't feigned sleep. If she'd followed her uncle instead. Then—

Yes. In truth, her uncle hadn't abandoned her. She had abandoned him.

'Keli, won't you come with me?'

By choosing not to hear those words.

She'd fought so desperately then. Proving her worth. Never surrendering her resolve.

And this was the result. Kelgrida looked quietly up at her people gathered around her.

'The dwarves are pitiable beyond measure.'

Perhaps it was she who was pitiable.

'From now on, you and I must protect and care for them.'

But a failed person never received a second chance.

In a time when past and present and future held only uncertainty, this one thing was clear: that truth alone could not be questioned.