One hour had passed since the mountain fell. The once-mighty peak now lay broken, its stones scattered like the bones of a fallen giant. In the ruins, amidst the dust and rubble, a sound persisted—a soft, mournful cry.
Lucifer lay there, tiny and broken, his wings twisted at unnatural angles beneath him. Golden feathers, once radiant, were now torn and soiled with earth and ash. His small body writhed, arms and legs flailing weakly in pain and confusion. He cried not from hunger or fear alone, but from a deeper, nameless sorrow—an instinctual ache of abandonment, of rejection, though he could not yet understand it.
The sun had begun to dip behind the distant peaks when a crunch of boots on gravel echoed through the broken valley. A group of Dwarves, ten in number, emerged from a narrow trail carved through the rock. They were hardy folk—miners and craftsmen from the Blue Mountains, returning from a scouting journey north.
Their leader, a broad-shouldered dwarf named Fundrak, was the first to notice the golden glint amidst the rubble. He raised a hand, signaling the others to halt.
"What in Mahal's name…?" he muttered, approaching the strange light.
The others followed cautiously, weapons at the ready. And then they saw it—him.
A golden-haired baby, with wings like sunlight shattered on stone.
For a long moment, the Dwarves stared in silence.
"That ain't right," said one of them, his voice low. "That ain't no Elf-child."
"Could be a trick," grunted another. "Some foul work of the Dark One."
"Leave it," growled Fundrak. "Whatever it is, it's not our concern."
Nine of them turned away, already resuming their path.
But one remained.
Her name was Thrálin, the only woman among them—a smith with a sharp tongue and a sharper axe. She stepped forward, her thick braids swaying with every stride. As she knelt beside the crying child, her stern face softened.
"He's just a babe," she murmured, reaching down carefully. "Whatever he is, he's hurt… and alone."
"Thrálin, don't be a fool!" Fundrak snapped. "You don't know what that thing is!"
"Aye," she replied, lifting the child gently, taking care not to touch his broken wings. "But I know what he isn't. He isn't a threat. Not like this."
Lucifer squirmed in her arms, his cries quieting as she cradled him close. Then, with a surprising burst of strength, one tiny hand shot out and tugged on her thick, braided beard.
"Oi!" she exclaimed, laughing despite herself. "You've got a grip like a troll!"
She tried to pry his fingers free, but they held fast, stronger than any babe had a right to be. The others stared in astonishment.
"Mahal's hammer," one of them muttered. "What is he?"
Thrálin didn't answer. She merely adjusted her grip, cradling the child against her chest, his hand still tangled in her beard, and started walking.
The others followed, grumbling, but none dared challenge her.
Hours passed as they made their way through rocky passes and winding trails. By nightfall, they made camp in a sheltered ravine. A small fire crackled in the center, casting flickering light on the stone walls.
Lucifer had not let go.
Thrálin sat against the rock, her back sore, her beard still caught in the child's grip. She looked down at him, his golden hair catching the firelight, his features serene in sleep.
She sighed, brushing a hand across his cheek.
"You're not like anything I've seen," she whispered. "But there's something in you… something broken. Maybe that's why I can't leave you."
For a moment, she was quiet.
"Lucifer," she said softly. "That'll be your name. I don't know why… it just fits."
As if in response, the babe let out a tiny sigh and, at last, released her beard.
The next morning, the company set out again. Lucifer was swaddled against Thrálin's chest, bundled in furs. His wings, though still broken, had stopped bleeding.
They traveled swiftly, the mountains slowly giving way to the deeper valleys of the Blue Mountains.
By midday, the great gates of Nogrod rose before them—carved deep into the rock, flanked by statues of ancient kings, their beards like flowing rivers of stone. The forges roared within, and the clang of hammers echoed from the depths.
Lucifer stared at it all with wide, unblinking eyes.
The child born of darkness had found his first home.
Nogrod. The city of stone and steel, of fire and forge. Carved deep into the heart of the Blue Mountains, it was a place of unyielding strength, where hammers rang like thunder and the works of the Dwarves stood eternal.
And in this city, in a home of stone warmed by the fire of its hearth, lived Thrálin, the woman who had taken in the golden-winged child.
Her husband, Bor, was a respected warrior and smith, the younger brother of Thrar, Lord of Nogrod. Their home was grand by Dwarven standards—strongly built, adorned with intricate carvings of their ancestors, and warmed by the glow of forge-light. Despite the unease of the other Dwarves, Bor admired the child his wife had brought home. He saw the strength in him, the spark of something powerful and great.
Lucifer, though still a babe, had found a family.
In the weeks that followed, he healed quickly. His broken wings, once twisted and torn, had mended fully within a month. Their golden feathers gleamed under the stone-hewn lamps of Nogrod, shimmering as if touched by the sun itself.
Bor and Thrálin's son, Thror, had taken to Lucifer as a brother. Though still young himself, he slept beside Lucifer each night, their small forms curled together beneath thick fur blankets.
And so, the child born of darkness lay safe within the halls of the Dwarves.
The month had passed swiftly, and with it came an occasion of great joy: a feast to celebrate the birth of the Lord of Nogrod's daughter.
Thrálin and Bor dressed in their finest, preparing to leave for the royal fortress where the feast would be held. Even Lucifer, barely old enough to walk, was wrapped in a fine woolen tunic, his golden hair combed neatly. His wings, now fully healed, fluttered softly against his back, their glow illuminating the dimly lit home.
Bor chuckled as he fastened a small cloak around Lucifer's shoulders. "A fine-looking lad, isn't he? Might be the best-dressed of us all."
Thrálin smirked. "He'll outshine the jewels of Nogrod if we aren't careful."
Thror, excited for the feast, grabbed Lucifer's tiny hand and led him out the door. "Come on, Lu! We're going to see Uncle Thrar!"
The family made their way through the grand stone streets of Nogrod, past roaring forges and bustling merchants, until at last they stood before the great Royal Fortress of Nogrod.
Towering gates of blackened steel loomed before them, guarded by warriors clad in finely crafted armor. As they approached, the gates opened, and they were welcomed by none other than Thrar, the Lord of Nogrod, and his family.
"Brother!" Thrar greeted Bor with a firm embrace. His wife stood beside him, smiling warmly. At his side were his two sons, Thorin and Dáin, and in his wife's arms, the infant daughter for whom the feast was held.
"Welcome," Thrar said, nodding toward Thrálin. His gaze then fell upon Lucifer, whose golden wings shimmered faintly even in the dim torchlight. Thrar stroked his thick beard. "I must admit, the boy is… unusual."
Bor grinned. "That he is. But he is my son now, and I am proud to call him so."
Thrar gave a small nod. "Then let him feast among us."
The doors to the great hall were thrown open, and inside, a grand banquet awaited.
Tables laden with roasted meats, golden ales foaming in great stone mugs, and the air filled with the sound of laughter and song. The Lords of Nogrod knew how to celebrate.
Lucifer, despite his young age, was at the center of attention. The women of the feast—noble daughters, wives, and sisters—were drawn to him. They marveled at his beauty, at his bright wings, at the way he seemed to glow like fire-forged gold.
Even the infant daughter of Lord Thrar, Lís, found herself fascinated by him. Though she could not yet speak, she giggled and reached for Lucifer as if drawn to him by some unseen force. The two sat together on a soft fur rug at the foot of the high table, playing as the feast carried on.
Not all were pleased.
Thorin, the eldest son of Thrar and heir to Nogrod, watched with burning jealousy. He had always been the pride of the hall, the one the noble daughters admired. But now, they fawned over Lucifer. Even his own sister seemed drawn to the winged child.
And Thorin, drunk on ale and pride, would not stand for it.
Thorin stumbled toward Lucifer, his face flushed with drink. He loomed over the child, scowling.
"What are you?" he muttered. "A trick? A cursed thing?"
Lucifer, still too young to understand, merely blinked up at him.
Thorin sneered. Then, suddenly, he grabbed hold of Lucifer's wings.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Thorin pulled, hard, trying to rip the golden feathers from Lucifer's back. "You're nothing special," he snarled. "Let's see if you still shine when you're just a broken thing!"
But then—
A light burst from Lucifer's wings. Not just a shimmer, but a blazing, golden fire that flared like the heart of a forge. The heat surged outward, searing Thorin's hands. He screamed as flames licked at his skin, sending him stumbling backward.
The feast fell into stunned silence.
Thrar, the Lord of Nogrod, rose to his feet. His voice was like thunder. "What is the meaning of this!?"
Thorin, clutching his burned hands, pointed at Lucifer. "He attacked me! That cursed thing—he's dangerous!"
Bor stepped forward at once, his face dark with anger. "He is a babe, Thorin. A babe you tried to harm!"
Thrar's face was red with fury. Without hesitation, he struck Thorin across the face. The blow echoed through the hall.
"You shame me, boy," Thrar growled. "You are to be the Lord of Nogrod one day, yet you let jealousy rule you like a child!"
Thorin, humiliated and in pain, said nothing.
Thrar turned to a healer. "Take him. Tend to his hands. And he will not touch another cup of ale this night."
As the healers led Thorin away, Thrar sighed and turned back to Bor. "Forgive me, brother. My son was a fool tonight."
Bor, though still furious, gave a nod. "He is young. But you must teach him better."
A tense silence followed. Then—Thrar laughed. He clapped Bor on the shoulder and raised his mug. "Come, brother. Let us drink! May our families remain strong, and may our sons learn wisdom!"
The feast resumed, the incident cast aside—for now.
And two hours later, Bor and Thrálin carried their children home, Lucifer nestled safely in their arms.
The boy had lit his first fire that night.
But it would not be his last.