Jon pointed the weapon at his former master for a few seconds longer, appreciating that Boriv neither cowered or shied away from the instrument of death that was pointed at him only feet away from his face. He didn’t want to kill the dwarf yet though, there were answers that he needed, and so once the moment passed, Jon set the weapon down casually, in easy reach of both of them. It still pointed at the dwarf while it lay on the desk, but it was more of an implied threat than an actual one without a hand on the trigger. Boriv’s fists clenched in anger at the threat before he slowly released them. 

“Yed best be careful who you point that fancy brand at, or you’re likely to find it shoved up your own arse instead.” Boriv thundered. “Ye have my attention, so say your piece and then get the hell out.”

“You misunderstand, Boriv,” Jon said smiling. “That is the message. I’m here to kill you. This conversation is just so I can savor the moment.” 

“And why would you want to kill me?” the old dwarf asked, looking at the weapon between them. “Did I take a shit in your beer or—” As he spoke, the dwarf let his right hand slowly slide back towards his edge of the desk. It was an innocent enough motion, but Jon knew exactly where it was headed. 

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” He ordered. “I know where you keep your weapon, and the moment you reach for it is the moment you die. Are we clear on that?” 

“Well isn’t that a neat trick,” the dwarf said, moving his hands back away from the edge of the desk and far from anything suspicious. “So you’re an elf blood then. You clearly have the sight if ye can see right through my old desk.” That at least was in character for Boriv, Jon thought, a little offended that he hadn’t been recognized yet. Dwarves commonly saw elves hiding behind every misfortune. While there were some famous examples that proved the rule, they would always be the exception. Just because you were having a bad day didn’t mean a conspiracy of elves was secretly out to get you. It was hardly a fear unique to Boriv though. Of all the strains of paranoia in the dwarven kingdom, fear of the ancient puppetmaster's ran deepest - even in places where they could never conceivably reach. 

“I just know where you’ve always kept it,” Jon said casually, “and I doubt you’d move something like that since I was last in your office.”

“You keep saying that ye have been here before but I think I’d remember eyes as cold as yours.” the dwarf said, nodding as he pondered the first real evidence that Jon had indeed been here before. “So tell me - when did you last grace my humble office with your presence?”

“About five years ago,” Jon said casually, leaning back in his chair to give Boriv every opportunity to reach for the weapon. 

“Five years isn’t so long. Certainly not long enough for me to forget.” Boriv answered again, thinking the whole thing over. “But I’m still drawing a blank. Maybe if you told me why you wanted me dead it would clear things up.” 

“I imagine it might,” Jon said. “I’m just back to reclaim what’s mine, and you’re one of a long line of people in the way of that.” 

“And what exactly belongs to ye?” the dwarf asked again, trying to pin him down. 

“Dalmarian. The Dulcine valley. The whole watershed of the white bramble north of the Malora pass.” he answered flatly.

“Is that all then?” the dwarf responded sarcastically. “If ye think you’ve got some claim on the protectorate, that’s a matter for you to take up with Men, not dwarves. The Warden lives just down the way and I’m sure he’d be happy to hear you out.” 

“I’m visiting the warden next. He’ll hear my grievances the same as you, though I doubt he’ll listen any better than you have.” Jon countered. “I admit that talking to you wont help get my father’s domain back, but I’m not just here for the land. I’m here for… what did you call it? What’s the word you dwarves like to throw around so much? Ah - Justice.” 

Boriv opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, looking at Jon for a long moment while the incredulity blossomed on his face. Finally he said, “Naw, can’t be. Jonathan is dead. Whoever ye are, ye ain’t him. I’m sure of that much.”

“And where did they tell you I died? The powdermill? The deep runs?” John asked, his voice growing more intense. “Did he tell you it was the troll that got me, or did I die in the collapse? Maybe the messenger told you I just passed away on my own, of natural causes. That would put your mind at ease, right?” 

“Maxov never told me, and I had no reason to ask.” Boriv said stiffly, almost offended by the idea that he’d be complicit in anything so underhanded. He’d have to be of course. Dwarves were very prickly where their personal honor was at stake. “Three years ago he sent me a message letting me know that Jonathan passed. That’s all. So ye can’t be him.”

“Not even if I know that I used to sit by that window right there and do all your maths because you and your fellow dwarves can’t wrap your mind around the number ten?” Jon asked, holding back his laughter at the irony that after all these years he was here to get his revenge but Boriv didn’t believe that he was who he said he was. 

“Everyone knows how incompatible human and dwarven maths are. Anyone might know those things,” Boriv said waving his hand dismissively.

“And might anyone know about the fireshard, or the gambler?” Jon smiled, feeling almost smug as he watched the consternation twist his former master’s face. 

“How in the hells did you—” Boriv started, before a knock at his door interrupted him. He looked to Jon for how to respond. Jon merely  shook his head at the interruption. It obviously wouldn’t do to have another visitor in here just now. 

“We’re busy in here,” Boriv bellowed. “Leave us be!” After that there was no second knock, and he picked back up where he left off. “How in the hells do you know about that? No one could know about that.”

“Tell me,” Jon asked, already knowing the answer. “Did you catch him? Did you catch the gambler and find out if it was really an elvish plot that destroyed my life, or was it just a hustler looking for a big score at my brother’s expense?” 

“No,” Boriv said, the frustration fresh in his voice after all these years. “Nothing Marcus said helped us find him. Not even after we put him to the question.”

Boriv slammed his fist down hard enough to make his heavy oak desk rattle from the impact of the first real anger he’d shown in this conversation. “But if he knew about the Aetherite then elves had to have a hand in it. We sent agents to investigate every lead from here to the capital, but we never turned up that lucky bastard.”

“Look at you,” Jon said smiling. “Always so sure about every little detail. If you admitted I was alive, even just to yourself, then all your carefully tended certainties might start to unravel.”

“Let’s say for the sake of argument that ye are Jonathan Shaw then,” the dwarf said, suddenly sounding reasonable. “What does that change? Your name is still shamed and stricken. Your father’s title has already been passed on to a new and more worthy family by the Mithril Throne.”

“The Mithril Throne can’t sell what doesn’t belong to it,” Jon said, disputing Boriv’s version of events. “Your investigation, and even that show trial proved my father was never complicit in—”  

“By rights the only thing it would change is that I would be honorbound to kill ye here and now.” Boriv continued, ignoring Jon’s point. He knew that no dwarf would ever recognize a legal argument from a human. That was why violence was going to be necessary. “The terms of yer leniency were very clear. Yer banishment—”

“Leniency?!” Jon leaned forward his outrage catching him unawares, “There was nothing lenient about my treatment at the hands of your people Boriv. They sent me to hell. Do you understand that? Hell.”

“I know that the conditions in our cities might not have been pleasant for you, but—” Boriv started.

“Hell. Fire and Brimstone.” Jon repeated, unimpressed by Boriv’s attempt to prevaricate. “They sent me to places no human should have been able to survive. Your kin tried to kill me because I helped you and saved your blasted train. How is that lenient? How is that Just?” 

“Well if that’s true, it just proves the point.” Boriv said, switching from denial to the tactical disbelief that typified his race. “Jon has to be dead, so rather than throwing your life away to avenge him why not just walk out of here and make a new life for yourself?” 

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but it was at that moment that the squeaky hinges on the door to Boriv’s office saved his life. They screeched loudly in protest for an instant as someone slammed the door open. After that, everything was a blur. Jon dove sideways knocking his chair over as a heavy battle axe came down hard in the spot he’d just vacated.

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Even as he dove from his chair, Jon willed the smallest spark of flame into the chamber of his weapon. Boriv had thought he was safe to reach for the brand now that Jon’s hand wasn’t anywhere near it, but that just showed a lack of creativity. Triggers were for people that hadn’t learned to wield fire like an extension of their will. A dwarf might need to pull the trigger to ignite the cap and set the powder ablaze, but Jon merely needed to think to accomplish the same effect. With no warning at all, the barrel thundered, and though Jon couldn’t watch where it hit, from the wet meaty sound the bullet made as it impacted his target, he knew that he’d struck his target. It was a shame that he hadn’t been able to watch such an important moment, but avoiding decapitation from the second dwarf had become the top priority.