We move through crumbling passages, the fallen king's body cradled against ribs. Royal armor cools against permanent bone, no longer molten. Brannug's beard drapes across fore bone, white strands returned to hair, no longer metallic, but restored to mortal hair.

  The streets of the old city are different now.

  Changed from absence.

  Where once heat unending pressed down, now is only empty.

  Shadows reclaim corners where divine burning once pushed back all darkness.

  But these, these shadows are only darkness.

  Not a thing of deeper dark.

  Eimhar limps ahead of me, his mechanical exo-frame damaged by our battle's heat. Steam hisses from compromised valves. Metal plates grind against each other with each step. Yet he moves with newfound purpose, his shoulders squared.

  He too heard the kings last words.

  A king who kept faith while burning. .

  I shift my grip on the king's body, giving care to honored dead.

  "He knew," Eimhar says suddenly.

  His voice echoes against stone walls that no longer hold godflame. "All these years, we thought King Brannug had gone mad."

  Eimhar stops, turning to face me. The light catches on his beard where tears have left tracks.

  "But he was burning. Every moment." His mechanical hand clenches, gears whining in protest. "Burning to keep us safe from what lurked below. What you destroyed."

  I incline my skull, acknowledging his words.

  The fragments within me, dragon, wolf, soldier, Carida, all understand sacrifice.

  "The histories will need rewriting." Eimhar reaches out, touching Brannug's cooling armor. "Our greatest king, should not be remembered as a monster who sealed himself away. He was our greateast shield against the dark."

  We pass the scorched remains of the Dwarven Citadel, walking the paths Brannug-Domhrann once burned through corruption. The corpses of those claimed by Arkashoth lie untouched.

  The fragment of Arkashoth within me observes without emotion.

  Where once it might have claimed these husks as extensions, now it merely acknowledges their passing. Ancient knowledge without hunger, primordial awareness without corruption.

  The passage widens as we approach the old city's limits. Dwarven stonework gives way to natural cave formations. Stalactites hang from the ceiling.

  Now they drip with condensation, the chamber's temperature falling for first time since dwarves lost the city.

  Eimhar pauses at a junction where three tunnels branch outward. His exo-harness sputters, gears grinding to a momentary halt before emergency systems engage.

  "Left passage," he directs, pointing with his functional arm. "Leads back to the Sealed Path. To Maha Marr."

  I follow without question, Brannug's body held with reverence against my frame. The king weighs nothing against divine-forged strength, his mortal form unburdened now by godflame.

  We ascend through winding tunnels, leaving the old city's devastation behind. The scent of forge-fire fade.

  Echoes of our passage carry farther now, unimpeded by oppressive heat that once smothered sound.

  Familiar runes appear in the stonework, markings left by dwarves who fled upward when corruption claimed their ancient halls. They tell stories of retreat, of desperate measures, of a king who sacrificed himself.

  Of He Who Burns.

  "They will not believe us," Eimhar says after long silence. His mechanical leg drags slightly, hydraulics failing as emergency power wanes. "That he hadn't gone mad, still protected us even as he suffered."

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  I consider his words. The borrowed memories within me understand how truth transforms when carried upward from darkness. How survivors reshape events to make sense of horror.

  How history becomes legend, then myth.

  "Truth remains," my grave-voice rasps.

  He nods. "Aye. But truth and belief are different metals. One doesn't always forge well with the other."

  We continue upward, leaving discussion for those with breath to spare. Eimhar's condition worsens as we climb, his exo-harness functions deteriorating from the damage.

  he bone shard in his chest pulses steadily, keeping his heart beating where dwarven craft fails.

  The tunnel opens into a wider passage. Familiar gear-shaped doors appear ahead, mechanisms still engaged from our earlier passage. Beyond them lies the route to Maha Marr, where the dwarves linger, preserved by sacrifice.

  Eimhar slows, his mechanical leg locking completely. "Can't go much further," he admits. "Systems failing."

  I pause, assessing his condition. The exo-harness vents the last of its steam, pressure gauges dropping to dangerous levels. The frame could never have withstood divine heat, even in waning.

  I shift the king's body to one arm, freeing the other to offer support. Eimhar hesitates, pride warring with necessity.

  Then exhaustion wins.

  He leans against my frame, mechanical arm draped across bone shoulders.

  Together we pass through the gear-shaped doors, the king's body between us. A symbol of what was lost and what might be regained. The tunnels beyond show signs of more recent passage, dwarven patrols maintaining vigilance against threats from below.

  Fresh runes glow along the ceiling, providing steady illumination where darkness would otherwise reign. Ahead, distant sounds echo—the rhythmic clanking of machinery, the hiss of steam pipes, the low murmur of voices. Maha Marr stirs beyond these final passages.

  Eimhar straightens as the sounds grow louder, attempting to recover dignity before meeting his kin. The bone shard in his chest pulses visibly now, compensating for mechanical systems in complete failure.

  "Whatever happens," he says, voice low, "you fulfilled your bargain. The deep darkness ended. The burning god found peace."

  I nod, acknowledging the debt settled. Haven will have its alliance, its trade routes, its chance for survival against corruption above.

  The price has been paid.

  The tunnel curves ahead, opening into a checkpoint chamber where dwarven guards maintain watch.

  We emerge.

  A dozen warriors stand in formation, weapons raised at our approach. Their captain steps forward, visor hiding all but a beard streaked with gray.

  Then all eyes fall to what I carry.

  For a moment, silence reigns as the dwarven warriors stare, weapons still raised in defensive formation.

  The king's face, unmistakable even in death.

  He returns.

  "Is that,?" The captain's voice falters.

  Eimhar, leaning heavily against my frame, nods. "King Brannug. Released from his burning."

  The captain's axe slips from his fingers, clattering against stone.

  One by one, the warriors lower their weapons. A dwarf near the back removes his helmet, revealing a face lined with age. He drops to his knees, a low keening sound escaping his throat.

  Then another follows. And another.

  The captain's composure breaks. He approaches with trembling steps, reaching out to touch Brannug's cooling armor. His fingers brush against the metal that once burned.

  "Our king," he mutters.. Tears flow freely into his beard.

  The sound that fills the chamber is unlike anything I have heard. Not battle cries or death rattles, but something deepe, the collective grief of a proud people.

  These dwarves, hardened by generations of struggle, fall to their knees before their fallen king. Their sobs echo against stone walls, a mourning.

  One elder warrior presses his forehead to the ground before Brannug's body.

  I stand motionless, holding the king with reverence as the dwarves weep openly. Their armor clatters as shoulders shake with grief. Beards grow dark with tears. Hands that crafted weapons and worked forge-fires now cover faces overcome with sorrow.

  This is not the controlled grief of soldiers acknowledging fallen comrades. This is raw, unfiltered, anguish.

  I stand motionless, holding Brannug as the dwarves mourn.

  The borrowed memories within me understand loss, but this, this collective anguish of an entire people for their king, esonates differently.

  The dragon bones within my frame stir with recognition.

  They remember when great wyrms were mourned by their kin, their passing marked by storms and thunder.

  The soldier fragments recall battlefield laments, the quiet honors paid to fallen commanders.

  But I remain separate from their grief, an observer to these emotions.

  Eimhar slumps further against me, his mechanical systems now entirely failed. Only the bone shard keeps him upright, his consciousness fading in and out.

  Yet he makes no sound, adds no tears to those already flowing.

  The captain rises first, wiping his face with a gloved hand. He straightens his shoulders, armor plates shifting as he composes himself.

  The others follow, one by one regaining their footing, though many still tremble.

  "We must, we must bring him home," the captain says, voice rough but steadying.

  The elder warrior who had pressed his forehead to the ground now stands, his beard wet with tears but his eyes clear.

  "Death's Champion," he addresses me directly, "you have returned our king to us. This debt cannot be measured."

  I incline my skull in acknowledgment.

  The captain gestures, and four warriors step forward, arms extended to receive their king's body. I transfer Brannug to their care, ensuring his dignity remains intact even in this final journey.

  As they take him, something changes in the chamber. The raw grief hardens into something else, purpose, determination.

  The dwarves form an honor guard around their fallen king.

  The captain finds his composure, enough of it to address me formally. "Our leaders must know what happened below. What you have done. Will you come?"