War of the Dwarves

Mike couldn’t complain about his life. At 4’0", he wasn’t the shortest dwarf around, but he still had trouble doing everyday stuff. And he’d been lucky enough to be proportionate with no medical defects other than his height. He smiled at himself in the mirror.
Spitting the foamy toothpaste into the sink, he rinsed and stepped down off the stool.
As Mike walked through his Manhattan apartment, he stopped at a window to admire the city at night. From the 10th floor, it all seemed so peaceful.
He quietly padded through the kitchen into the living room. “Goodnight, Gidget,” he cooed to his yorky. She wagged her butt-knuckle in return and nuzzled into her blankets. When Mike turned to go to his bedroom, he noticed a blue glow coming from underneath the door. Curious, he thought, walking to the door. He slowly opened it and stared in amazement. The axe that his grandfather had given him on his 18th birthday, which bore the family crest, was glowing a pale blue.
He reached for the axe to inspect it.

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