The mont Zeke stepped into the hall where the celebration was to take place, he imdiately realized that this would be nothing like the stuffy banquets favored by the empire’s nobles or the rchants of Tradespire.
In a word: it was utter chaos.
There was no discernible seating arrangent—family mbers wandered the hall at will, striking up conversations with whover they pleased. Even more baffling was the near-total disregard for rank. Lords and laborers, elders and apprentices, all mingled freely, their laughter and voices blending into a lively, unrestrained din.
Amidst this pandemonium, the arrival of any guest, including his own, was hardly noticed by the majority of attendees. It was no wonder Gunner had assured him that making connections would be easy once he got his foot in the door.
“Over here, lad!” soone called out.
Zeke turned to see a dwarven man built entirely of muscle, his presence as solid as the stone halls around them. The dwarf was looking directly at him, his expression expectant.
Zeke didn’t recognize him at first, but the transparent screen hovering beside the man’s head rendered introductions unnecessary. Erlin Ironhide—Drogar’s father. Judging by the warmth in his smile, he was likely the one with the most goodwill toward Zeke in the entire family.
Pushing past a few already drunken dwarves, Zeke made his way to the towering figure of Erlin. Only then did he notice the much smaller Drogar, partially obscured behind his father’s massive fra. Beside them stood a woman who was the complete opposite of the two—slender, with delicate features and a reserved smile.
She exuded an air of refinent, unlike any dwarf Zeke had encountered so far. Instinctively, he straightened his posture, shaking off the relaxed deanor he had adopted in the festive atmosphere. With a respectful nod, he greeted his hosts properly.
“I am truly honored by your invitation, Mr. and Mrs. Ironhide.”
Erlin nodded as if it were only natural, but his wife—whom Akasha had identified as Edna Ironhide—imdiately began to frown. Before her husband could even open his mouth, she voiced her displeasure.
“Who stuffed a stick up yer arse, laddie? Ye seed like much more o' a man when I saw ye on stage.”
Her voice was deep and raspy, a stark contrast to the refined impression Zeke had ford of her. And her words? Sharp and utterly unfiltered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zeke caught Erlin grimacing. Clearly, he had misjudged the dynamic between them. It seed the husband was the one who cared more for decorum, while his wife had no qualms about speaking her mind.
Ti to course correct.
“I might be a bit stiff,” Zeke admitted, rolling his shoulders, “but that’s probably because no one’s had the decency to offer a drink yet. Tell , mada, how is a man supposed to relax when his throat is this dry?” He pointed at his throat for emphasis, feigning the struggle of even getting the words out.
“Truly a cri!” the woman exclaid, feigning outrage. “Drogar, dear, be a good lad an’ fetch us a keg.”
Drogar rolled his eyes but obeyed without complaint. As he turned to leave, he shot Zeke a quick wink—an unmistakable sign that he had played his cards well.
“So,” the woman drawled the mont her son was out of earshot, leaning in slightly. “I hear ye ca t’ our city lookin’ fer a tradin’ partner.”
Zeke’s eyes widened in surprise. Normally, he had no trouble maintaining a poker face, but her words had completely blindsided him. Not only had she shifted the conversation without warning, but she had also pinpointed his exact reason for being here.
Still, this wasn’t his first ti navigating such situations. He glanced at Erlin to confirm that he had no problem letting his wife lead the conversation before returning his attention to Edna. He masked his surprise, replacing it with an appreciative smile. “You’re well-inford, madam. That is indeed my intention.”
"An' th' competition?" she pressed, raising a brow. "Jus' a way t' gather so attention?"
Zeke started to nod but hesitated. That had been his initial reasoning, but things had changed once he actually stepped into the arena.
"In the beginning, yes," he admitted. "But I also enjoy competing. Facing strong opponents has always been my way of pushing my limits. It was an opportunity I couldn't pass up."
The woman studied him, her sharp gaze glinting with interest. "Is tha' wha' ye think o' son? A worthy competitor? Or ye jus' tellin' wha' ye think I wanna hear?"
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Zeke smiled, appreciating her straightforwardness. Though it felt like she was testing him, he sensed that as long as he was honest, his answer would be accepted, no matter what it was.
"In this competition? Yes," Zeke admitted, his tone thoughtful. "Victory could have gone to either one, depending on luck."
Her expression shifted subtly, clearly understanding the implication. Zeke had implicitly confessed that his performance, appearing immune to the brew, had been an act. Even he, with all his advantages, could have been overwheld, depending on what his dreams had turned out to be.
But the woman, tactfully, didn't press further. Instead, she shifted the conversation. "And wha' 'bout outside th' drinkin' contest?" Her voice, once sharp like an interrogation, now softened to one of genuine curiosity, as if she were a mother simply seeking his thoughts on her son. “How do ye rate his chances in a diff'rent kind o' competition?”
Zeke grinned, his tone light. “Zero percent.”
The woman’s brow furrowed in disbelief. "In wha' type o' contest?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
“Any that isn’t based on luck, mada.”
Her expression tightened. She gave him a disapproving look. “Confidence be admirable, Heir von Hohenheim. Arrogance, though, ain't.”
Zeke shrugged nonchalantly. “You asked, I answered.”
Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of challenge in them. "Would ye bet coin on—"
Before he could respond, Erlin cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. "Enough!" It seed his wife had finally crossed a line in his eyes. "I think ye've grilled our guest enough, deary." he continued, casting Zeke a brief, apologetic glance.
Just then, Drogar returned, carrying a massive keg that seed almost too heavy for him. He carefully set it down on a nearby table before cracking it open and filling a couple of mugs, which he then passed around to those nearby.
“What’s goin’ on ‘ere?” he asked, noticing the sudden silence hanging in the air.
“…Heir von Hohenheim says he could stomp ye in any contest that ain’t based on luck,” his mother replied, not giving anyone a chance to stop her.
Zeke shook his head in mild exasperation. Why ask the question if she didn’t want to hear the answer? Still, he wasn’t embarrassed by her words. After all, his confidence in himself was unwavering, and he had no hesitation in stating his thoughts.
Drogar humd, his expression one of deep thought. It was clear that this was not the response his mother had hoped for, as her frown deepened in disappointnt.
Before the tension could escalate further, his father stepped in, trying to defuse the situation. “That ain’t what Heir von Hohenheim ant,” Erlin said, his voice calm but with a hint of pleading. “He just ant he’s confident ‘bout his chances, aye?”
His eyes flickered toward Zeke, silently imploring him to smooth things over. But Zeke had no intention of retracting his words.
“Not quite,” he replied firmly, his voice unwavering. “I am certain that I would win any competition that isn’t based on luck.” He t Drogar’s mother’s gaze again, this ti with an unflinching resolve. “And yes, I would be willing to bet on it.”
To his surprise, it wasn’t Edna who responded, but Drogar himself. “What ‘bout smithin’?” he asked, his tone sharp and direct. “Ye confident ye could beat at that?”
Zeke’s grin widened. “Smithing, forging, machinery, enchanting… I’m confident in all of them.”
Drogar, clearly not acting on a re whim, turned to his father for approval. “Think this be a good chance t’ make up fer previous loss. Ye gonna allow it?”
Erlin slapped his forehead in exasperation, clearly stunned by the turn of events. But the mont of frustration passed quickly, and after a brief mont of thought, his expression shifted. It seed that, upon reflection, he saw the potential value in the challenge.
This human had just won the drinking competition, besting both his son and the Stormshield boy. If Drogar were to win against him now, it would make a statent—that he was either the best of the three or at least on par with Zeke, the human who had already proven his strength.
Zeke could almost see the gears turning in Erlin’s mind as he weighed the situation. His expressive face betrayed his thoughts to anyone watching, and Zeke knew exactly what was going on behind the older dwarf’s eyes.
“…An' ye’re truly fine with that?”Erlin asked, seeking reassurance.
Zeke shrugged casually. “I could be convinced to compete.” His eyes glead, clearly recognizing the opportunity before him.
Erlin sighed deeply. “What is it ye want? Yer contract?”
Zeke grinned, satisfied with how things were progressing. However, he wasn’t interested in a contract—not for this. He was confident he could secure that on his own. No, what he truly wanted from the Ironhide family was sothing far more valuable—sothing only they could provide.
“There’s a scholar of Lore in the Ironhide family—Thoren Ironhide,” Zeke said, his tone steady but expectant.
Erlin raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of slight concern. “Aye, he’s uncle,” he replied, furrowing his brows. “What’s it t’ ye?”
“I’d like to et him,” Zeke stated simply.
“That’s all ye want? A etin’?” Erlin asked, his tone incredulous as if trying to gauge if Zeke was serious.
Zeke nodded, his expression resolute. “I’ve co across an artifact that I would like his help deciphering.”
Erlin took a mont, his eyes narrowing as he considered the request. “If that’s th’ case, I can make th’ introduction. But if uncle thinks th’ task’s beneath him, there ain’t much I can do t’ change his mind.”
A smile spread across Zeke's face. He wasn’t concerned about the scholar rejecting the task once he laid eyes on the cube. No, the introduction itself would be more than enough. “Thank you, truly,” he said, his voice sincere, his gratitude evident.
Before Erlin could respond, Drogar’s mother interjected, her tone sharp and laced with disapproval. “Oi, hold up a sec! Why’re ye actin’ like ye’ve already won? Did ye forget how a wager works?”
Zeke nodded, acknowledging the woman's words. She wasn't wrong. Despite his confidence, he couldn't afford to underestimate Drogar. The dwarves weren't renowned as the best craftsn on the continent for no reason.
“How will we compete?” he asked, his tone steady.
Drogar gave a small nod, clearly pleased that Zeke had stopped acting flippant. "Tha' be up t' ye. I’ve already picked th’ field, so th’ challenge be yer call."
Zeke considered it for a mont, then a smile began to spread across his face. There was one aspect of craftsmanship he was more confident in than anything else.
“Speed,” he said, his voice tinged with barely contained excitent. “I’d like to compete in speed.”
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