Chapter 114: The Structural Integrity of Entertainment
The common room of the Oaken Hearth had survived winter storms, mercenary standoffs, and Vanguard-level hangovers. But it had never before been subjected to a Plains Orc drinking Ember-Draft ale with a fully staffed dwarven construction crew.
It was an auditory hazard that Elian suspected violated several imperial zoning laws.
It started shortly after dinner service. Dorvik’s crew, having raised the wind-break for the Wind-Runners’ mega-fauna, aggressively invoked the alcohol clause of their contract. Torra, having slept through the day following the audit of Elian's stamina, had descended the stairs rested, ravenous, and dangerously bored.
The two forces of nature had collided over a cask of spiced dark ale, exchanged three insults regarding each other’s center of gravity, and cleared the tables from the center of the room.
Elian stood behind the heavy oak of the Iron-heart bar, a ledger open but ignored, watching absolute chaos unfold.
Torra was currently wrestling four dwarves at once.
"I am going to have to start charging an entertainment tax," Elian muttered, wincing as one of the dwarven apprentices launched through the air, landing with a floor-shaking thud on a thick braided rug.
"You should charge a property insurance premium," Bruna corrected, leaning against the bar beside him with a towel thrown over her shoulder. She was watching the spectacle with the critical eye of a woman who appreciated a good brawl as long as it didn't shatter her glassware.
In the center of the room, Torra let out a booming, joyous roar.
Dwarves were not easy opponents. They were built like granite boulders—dense, practically immovable, and possessing a terrifyingly low center of gravity. A normal human trying to wrestle a dwarf usually ended up with shattered knees and a dislocated spine.
But Torra was not a normal human. She was seven feet of Plains Orc, and she was using her massive height, brutal leverage, and sheer, overpowering mass to dominate the engagement.
Two dwarves had locked their thick arms around her waist, trying to anchor her to the floorstones. A third attempted to sweep her legs. Torra planted her boots, absorbing the weight of three hundred pounds of angry, drunk dwarven muscle, and grinned. Her green eyes flashed with feral delight.
With a guttural shout, she hooked her thick arms under the armpits of the two dwarves at her waist. She heaved upward, her massive biceps bulging, and physically lifted both of them off the floor. She spun in a tight, violent circle, using their own momentum against the third dwarf at her feet, bowling him over like a struck pin.
"Ha!" Torra bellowed, dropping the two dizzy dwarves onto the pile. "Is that all the mountain has to offer? A stiff wind on the steppes hits harder than that!"
Dorvik, standing at the edge of the makeshift ring with a tankard of Ember-Draft in his hand, scowled. "Don't get cocky, steppe-tower! You've got reach, but we've got density!"
He pointed at his largest journeyman—a dwarf nearly as wide as he was tall, with a beard tucked into his belt to prevent grappling hazards. "Karg! Show her how the stone bites!"
Karg let out a roar and charged. He didn't aim for her waist; he launched himself directly at her chest, intending to tackle her backward.
Torra didn't dodge. She met the charge head-on. The impact sounded like two heavy timber beams colliding. Elian felt the shockwave through the floorboards. Torra slid back two inches, her boots leaving short, dark streaks on the polished wood, but her spine didn't bend. She caught Karg by his heavy leather harness, her long tusks bared in a terrifying smile, and the two of them locked into a brutal test of static strength.
Elian reached up and unconsciously rubbed his own collarbone, right over the dark purple bruise hidden beneath his high-collared sweater.
"She is entirely too strong," Elian murmured, mostly to himself.
"She’s a siege engine," Bruna agreed, crossing her arms. She glanced sideways at Elian, her dark eyes glittering with knowing amusement. "And from the way you were walking this morning, I’d say you got a very thorough demonstration of her payload."
Elian felt the heat rise to his ears, but he kept his administrative face locked down. "I was merely fulfilling a highly specific, Alpha-mandated directive to maintain operational morale."
"Uh-huh," Bruna said flatly.
Elian looked back at the wrestling match. Torra had just managed to break Karg's grip, sweeping his leg and pinning him to the floor with one massive knee pressed into his chest. The common room erupted into cheers, the traveling merchants throwing silver coins onto the nearby tables in lost bets.
Torra stood up, sweat gleaming on her skin, and threw her head back to laugh. She caught Elian’s eye over the crowd and gave him a slow, wicked wink.
Elian swallowed hard. He reached into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing the heavy vellum of Rylia’s letter.
"Bruna," Elian said quietly, dropping the administrative pretense. "You've known the pack longer than they’ve been staying here. You know how the Alpha thinks."
"I know how to feed them and how to charge them," Bruna corrected, though her tone softened slightly. "What are you asking, provider?"
"The letter," Elian said, his eyes fixed on Torra as she accepted a fresh tankard of ale from a defeated dwarf, entirely unbothered by the exertion. "Rylia said it had to be someone she would like and approve of. Someone with a spine. Someone who could lift a timber and survive the frontier." He hesitated, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bar. "Do you think Rylia would approve of her?"
Bruna didn't answer immediately. She watched Torra. She watched the way the massive Orc handled the dwarves—rough, unapologetic, but without genuine malice. She watched how Torra commanded the room, taking up space without asking permission, entirely comfortable in her own overwhelming strength.
"Rylia is an Alpha," Bruna said finally, her voice low enough that it didn't carry over the noise of the tavern. "Alphas do not respect weakness. They do not tolerate fragility in their dens, because fragility gets people killed when the winter sets in. If you had brought some soft, perfumed noblewoman down to Suite One, Rylia would have returned, smelled her on the sheets, and thrown you both into the snow."
Elian winced. He knew that was entirely accurate.
"But Torra?" Bruna mused, a slow, sharp smile touching her lips. "Torra is a predator. She rides the deep routes. She just out-wrestled four dwarves simultaneously without breaking a sweat, and she respects the way you run your ledger." Bruna looked at Elian. "If Rylia were here right now, she wouldn't be angry, Elian. She’d probably buy Torra an ale."
Elian let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Of course," Bruna added, her smile turning slightly terrifying, "after buying her the ale, Rylia would absolutely challenge her to an arm-wrestling match to establish dominance. They would likely shatter that table, the chairs around it, and possibly the nearest load-bearing post. It would be a nightmare for your repair budget."
"I have a contingency fund for Vanguard-related structural damage," Elian said automatically.
From the side window, the rhythmic thud of hooves against the exterior wall echoed through the room.
Barnaby had his head thrust through the open shutters, watching the chaotic, sweaty wrestling pit with deep, administrative disdain.
Unsanctioned physical combat detected in the dining sector. High risk of collateral damage to the fruit reserves. Management is distracted by mega-fauna. Recommend immediately dispersing the crowd with a broom, or I will begin chewing on the window frame.
Torra, hearing the heavy snorts, turned toward the window. She grinned, walked over to the nearest table, plucked an apple from a fruit bowl Bruna had set out for the betting crowd, and tossed it through the shutters.
Barnaby caught it with a loud, satisfied crunch.
Bribe accepted. Combat may resume. But I am keeping a tally.
"She even knows how to manage the mule," Bruna noted with genuine respect. "Yes, Elian. The Alpha would approve."
In the center of the room, Dorvik pounded his tankard on a table. "Alright, green-skin! You took the apprentices, and you took Karg! But you haven't taken the foreman!"
Dorvik stepped into the ring, cracking his thick knuckles. He was older, scarred, and built like a cast-iron stove.
Torra wiped a line of sweat from her brow, her green eyes blazing with adrenaline-fueled joy. She tossed her empty tankard to one of the defeated apprentices and dropped into a low, terrifyingly solid grappling stance.
"Come on then, mountain-man," Torra purred, her deep voice vibrating through the floorboards. "Let's see if your spine is as strong as your mouth."
Elian opened his ledger, his heart hammering a steady rhythm against his ribs. He dipped his pen and cleanly entered a new line item under the Bay One construction budget.
Foreman Morale Expenditure. Fully authorized. He watched Torra clash with Dorvik, the sound of their impact ringing through the tavern. The den was loud enough to rattle the rafters. The walls held. For the first time since the Frost Wolves had marched north, Elian believed the empty space they’d left could be filled without being replaced.