Year 85 of the Sun, First AgeThe city of Nogrod had not changed much in twenty years. Its stone halls still rang with the hammers of smiths and the laughter of warriors. Its forges still burned bright, lighting the carved tunnels and grand plazas beneath the mountains with a steady, molten glow.
But Lucifer had changed.
He stood now at six and a half feet tall, towering over every Dwarf in the city. His golden hair had grown long, reaching down to the small of his back, thick and bright like woven strands of light. His wings—wider now, stronger—had grown to a full six-foot span, though he kept them hidden most of the time, unsummoning them into his back with a strange flicker of golden light. Where they went, even he didn't know.
Despite his striking form—lean, sculpted, and graceful—Lucifer was not what one might call "driven." He was lazy, in fact. Not unkind, not cruel, just… disinterested.
Where his adoptive brother Thror woke before the forge fires to train, to labor, to work the stone and steel with pride, Lucifer preferred the soft warmth of his bed, the lull of distant anvils as background music to his dreams.
It was something of a sore subject.
"Get up!" came the sharp voice of Thrálin, his mother, as she threw open the curtain to his room. The golden light from cracks in the mountain walls spilled across Lucifer's face.
He groaned, turning over. "Five more minutes…"
"Young man," she snapped, arms crossed. "If you want dinner tonight, you will be at the forge. No excuses."
Lucifer blinked open one eye. "No food?"
"No food."
He groaned dramatically, dragging himself from his bed. "You're crueler than any Orc."
"Then get moving, oh mighty golden beast," she said, rolling her eyes. "You've work to do."
Lucifer leapt from the balcony, his wings bursting forth in a shimmer of golden light, catching the wind beneath the mountain dome. He soared lazily through the air, weaving between the massive stone arches of Nogrod, his eyes half-lidded with sleep.
He glanced down at the city below—its winding stone paths, its glowing forges, the vast underground gardens carefully tended by the green-fingered Dwarves, and the soft rays of sun that streamed through the stone cracks above, left behind by the old stone-singers, Dwarves who could shape mountains like clay.
"Wonder what it feels like to fly… outside," Lucifer murmured, gazing up toward the cracks where sunlight spilled like liquid gold. "All that sky. All that air…"
BANG.
He slammed into a rock wall, head first.
He dropped like a stone—unharmed, but dazed—landing in a cloud of smoke and soot inside the great forge chamber.
Lucifer stood, coughing, brushing ash from his shoulders. "Alright, alright," he muttered. "I'm up…"
The heat inside the forge was like a living thing, breathing and pulsing through the stone. Dwarves bustled around, hammering blades and armor, crafting jewels, and pouring molten silver into carved molds.
At the center of it all stood Telchar, already renowned as one of the most gifted young smiths of his generation. Barely ten years older than Lucifer, he had risen quickly, his skill unmatched even among elders.
And he was Lucifer's closest friend—outside of Thror, at least.
"You're late," Telchar said without looking up from his anvil, his hair tied back and sweat streaking his face.
"I was contemplating the nature of wind," Lucifer said, yawning. "Also, I crashed into a mountain."
Telchar smirked. "That makes the sixth time this month."
"Don't judge me," Lucifer said, picking up a pair of tongs. "I'm delicate."
They worked for hours. Telchar was focused, rhythmic—striking metal with perfect precision. Lucifer moved slower, less skilled, but stronger than most. He was the only one in the forge who could lift some of the heavier tools without effort.
As Telchar shifted position, the silver chain around his neck slipped loose, dangling dangerously close to the glowing heart of the forge. The pendant—a small carved talon, blackened and worn—was precious. His late mother's last gift before she passed.
Lucifer saw it slip, and without hesitation, lunged forward, grabbing the necklace just as it fell toward the flame.
But the fire licked his arm.
It should have burned him.
It didn't.
Lucifer blinked. The flame curled up his skin like a living ribbon, golden instead of red. It danced across his flesh, not scorching it, but greeting it.
He pulled his arm back quickly and slipped the necklace into Telchar's hand.
"Almost lost this," Lucifer said casually.
Telchar's face paled. "What?!" He looked down at the necklace in his palm. "Mahal's beard… I didn't even see—Lucifer, thank you. Truly. I—"
Lucifer waved him off. "Don't get sappy. We're friends."
"No, I mean it," Telchar said. "I owe you. A big one."
Lucifer smiled. "Then maybe you can work while I nap next time."
Hours passed. The forge quieted as the others left for the evening. Only Lucifer remained, sitting near the great flame at the center of the forge.
He looked at his hand—the one the fire had touched. Slowly, he reached forward and held it out again.
The flame danced toward him, drawn to him. It curled into his palm, forming a small, floating orb of gold-tinged fire.
He stared at it, transfixed. He could feel it—not just the heat, but the essence of it. The will. The life in the flame.
"I heard a story once," he whispered, "that when I was a baby… my wings exploded with fire."
The fire in his palm flared in response.
Lucifer smiled. Not lazy now. Not tired. Just curious.
And deep down, somewhere in the flame, something stirred.
---
Four months later...
A golden glow lit the dark stone walls of Lucifer's room. The shimmer pulsed gently, like a living heartbeat.
Lucifer sat cross-legged on the floor, shirtless, his wings fully unfurled—wide and radiant, their golden feathers flickering at the edges with fire. Not just any fire—his fire, summoned and shaped from deep within. It danced from the edges of his wings like threads of molten sunlight, swirling in patterns above his open palms.
His breathing was steady. His eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the flames. In the quiet, it almost looked like he was meditating.
The flame obeyed him now. Four months of secret practice, hidden away after long hours at the forge. He could make the fire shape into spheres, into ribbons, into the form of a bird once—though it had nearly exploded in his face.
Still, he was getting better. Stronger.
He flicked his wrist, and the fire swirled into a spiral—
Then the door burst open.
"Lucifer!"
He startled, the fire vanishing in an instant, wings snapping back into his back with a shimmer of golden light. His heart thudded once—then he recognized the voice.
His mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Why are you always glowing when I come in?"
Lucifer blinked. "Natural charisma?"
She rolled her eyes. "Put on something decent. We're going to Belegost."
Lucifer sat up straighter. "Wait—what?"
"You heard me. We leave in two hours. Dress well."
He stared. "I'm leaving Nogrod?" He stood up quickly. "For the first time?"
"Yes," she said, sounding vaguely amused. "Your cousin Thorin is getting married to the Lord of Belegost's eldest daughter. It's a formal alliance. Every major house is going."
Lucifer's excitement dimmed. "Thorin?"
"Yes." Her expression darkened slightly. "Behave yourself."
Lucifer muttered, "I'd rather fly into a Balrog mouth."
His mother shot him a look.
"I'll behave," he added, raising his hands.
But as he pulled open his wardrobe, he couldn't help but feel the sour twist in his chest.
Thorin. The future Lord of Nogrod. Drunk more often than not, prone to fits of rage and jealousy.
He was to marry royalty. He would rule.
Lucifer, the golden-winged foundling with fire in his blood, would remain a blacksmith's son.
He pushed the thought away. Jealousy was poison. He knew that. Still… it gnawed.
He pulled on a finely stitched tunic of deep navy blue, trimmed with golden thread. It fit well. Too well. His mother had definitely planned this ahead of time.
---
Two hours later, the caravan rolled out of Nogrod.
Dozens of carts, guards, and nobles moved through the wide tunnels carved into the mountains. Lanterns hung from carved roots above, casting flickering shadows on the stone road.
Lucifer walked at the back, as ordered. His mother had strictly forbidden him from flying—it would be seen as "disrespectful." Thorin, of course, led the procession with smug pride, a gilded axe at his side and a goblet already in hand.
Lord Thrar had ordered the two kept far apart, knowing full well that if they stood within arm's reach, fists would fly.
Lucifer walked beside Telchar, who had forgone the finery and instead wore a simple black smith's coat—only barely cleaned. Thror, Lucifer's adoptive brother, walked on the other side, chewing on a strip of jerky.
"You think they'll make it a week before the bride stabs him?" Telchar asked dryly.
"One can hope," Lucifer muttered.
"You alright?" Thror asked after a pause.
Lucifer didn't answer at first. He watched the caravan wind through the stone pass, the heavy banners of Nogrod fluttering against the cold breeze from the northern peaks.
"I just… don't get it," he said finally. "Thorin? Of all people?"
"Politics," Telchar said. "Strengthening ties. Keeping the mountains united."
Thror added, "Doesn't mean he's earned it. Just means he was born into it."
Lucifer didn't respond. He didn't need to.
He wasn't bitter, not truly. But part of him wondered what would've happened if he'd been born as something. A prince. A noble. A flame-touched being forged by gods. Instead, he was a foundling thrown from the sky, raised in the shadow of mountains.
As they turned a final bend, the city of Belegost came into view.
Massive stone gates stood open before them, carved with images of Dwarves and stars. Unlike Nogrod, which was compact and steep, Belegost was wide and grand, stretching across multiple levels with towering bridges, deep terraces, and waterfalls that gleamed in the sunlight.
Lucifer stopped walking, letting the sight wash over him.
"Woah…"
Thror elbowed him. "Welcome to Belegost."
Lucifer grinned. "Let's try not to burn anything."