The air in Ghor Nheram was thick with the scent of iron, sweat, and lingering embers. Nearly two weeks had passed since Wyatt and Cassian had arrived in the dwarven capital, and the city was beginning to buckle under the weight of relentless attacks. Each day brought another battle against the frost drakes and the unknown creatures that emerged from the deep tunnels. Each day, more dwarves fell, and no word had come from the supply run.

  Wyatt tightened his grip on his war hammer, the worn leather straps of the handle digging into his palm. The weapon had become an extension of himself—each swing felt more instinctual, more precise. Fighting alongside the dwarves had taught him to wield it not just with brute force, but with measured, efficient strikes. Cassian had learned as well, his sentient sword Galeheart whispering guidance in battle while his shield, Grundholde, turned away blows that would have otherwise broken him.

  The two dwarven kings, Sindras and Vargas, stood upon the stone ramparts, their expressions dark beneath their braided beards. A few members of the royal guards were still willing to fight, but a few of them had sustained injuries, their armor dented and dulled from repeated combat. The morale of the dwarven capital was waning. Without fresh supplies, their defenses would eventually falter.

  “We cannot hold much longer,” Sindras muttered, rubbing a hand over his weathered face. “Our warriors fight as true as any son of the mountain, but even stone cracks under enough pressure.”

  “Bah! We should be marching out to find the blasted supply run!” Vargas slammed his gauntleted fist onto the rampart. “Sitting here like trapped cave rats will be the end of us!”

  Wyatt exchanged a glance with Cassian. They had fought alongside the dwarves, had seen firsthand the struggles they faced. The creatures they fought were not mere beasts—they were methodical, their attacks almost coordinated. Something or someone was directing them.

  Cassian adjusted his grip on Galeheart, the sword pulsing faintly in response. “If the supply run has been intercepted, we might already be cut off from the outside. We need to act before the city falls apart.”

  Sindras sighed heavily. “We have few options. My scouts have either vanished or returned with nothing but grim tidings.” He turned his gaze to Wyatt. “You and your companion have fought fiercely for us. If you have any counsel to offer, now would be the time.”

  Wyatt ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, considering. They could take a small force to search for the missing supplies, but that would leave the city even more vulnerable. Or they could fortify their position and hold out—though how long they could last was anyone’s guess.

  A deep, guttural roar echoed from beyond the walls, and the ground trembled beneath them. Another attack was coming. And this time, it would be worse.

  Wyatt lifted his war hammer. “We can talk about plans later. Right now, we fight.”

  With a nod, Cassian raised his shield, and together they descended into the chaos once more.

  Uriel was already at the forefront, holding off the advancing horde with a dozen royal guards. His transfiguration magic shaped the battlefield itself—stone bulwarks rose from the ground to shield the wounded, while massive spears of rock jutted from the earth, skewering the monstrous attackers. With a flick of his wrist, Uriel reforged broken blades mid-swing, turning what should have been fatal missteps into decisive counterstrikes.

  The creatures pressed forward, their numbers relentless. Frost drakes swooped from above, their icy breath freezing steel and flesh alike. Wyatt and Cassian joined the fray without hesitation.

  Wyatt swung his war hammer in a brutal arc, shattering the leg of a towering beast before driving the weapon into its chest. The creature let out a choked snarl before collapsing, its breath still steaming in the frigid air. Cassian moved with newfound confidence, his shield glowing faintly as it deflected a drake’s freezing breath. Galeheart pulsed in his grip, whispering its will, and with a precise thrust, he drove the blade into the creature’s heart.

  Uriel barely glanced at them as they fought beside him. “You’re late,” he said, voice steady despite the carnage around him.

  Wyatt grinned despite himself. “Didn’t want you to have all the fun.”

  Another tremor rocked the battlefield, and this time, the earth split apart at the city’s gates. Something massive was coming.

  A deafening crack split the battlefield as the ground at the city’s gates erupted in a violent cascade of shattered stone and molten embers. Warriors stumbled, the shockwave sending dust and rubble skyward. The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat—just long enough for a wave of cold dread to wash over those who dared to look.

  Something was clawing its way from the abyss.

  First came the hands—if they could be called that. Black, gnarled limbs, thick as tree trunks, burst from the chasm, their surface shifting like cooled magma, veins of deep crimson pulsing beneath cracked obsidian skin. Clawed fingers, each the length of a greatsword, dug into the broken earth, pulling the monstrous form upward. A head followed—jagged and unnatural, like a crown of serrated bone framing a maw filled with abyssal fire. Its eyes, smoldering pits of violet light, swept over the battlefield with a hunger that sent even the frost drakes wheeling back in terror.

  Uriel’s stopped his chants mid-cast, the stone bulwarks he had summoned crumbling into dust as his hands clenched into trembling fists. “By the Divines…” he whispered, his voice devoid of its usual confidence.

  Wyatt’s grip tightened around his war hammer, his pulse hammering in his ears. He had fought unknown horrors thus far, but this—this was something else. The sheer presence of the creature seemed to gnaw at his resolve, as if its very existence was an insult to the world itself.

  From the ramparts, Sindras and Vargas stood frozen. The hardened kings, who had faced centuries of war and ruin, were struck into silence. Sindras’ face had gone pale beneath his battle-worn beard, his knuckles white as they clenched the stone ledge. Vargas, the ever-defiant, had lost his bluster entirely.

  “This… this cannot be,” Sindras murmured, almost to himself. “Not in our time.”

  Vargas swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. “A Hrythuun. A nightmare given flesh. We were told such things had perished already.” His eyes darkened. “But the old legends… they warned that some still slumbered beneath the world.”

  The Hrythuun fully emerged from the pit, its towering form dwarfing even the mightiest of the frost drakes. Its molten breath spilled into the air, and where it touched, steel melted, stone hissed, and flesh blackened in an instant. A guttural, earth-rending growl rippled through the battlefield, an unnatural sound that burrowed into the bones of all who heard it.

  Wyatt exhaled, steadying himself. “No use in standing and waiting to die. Let's kill it.”

  Cassian barely spared him a glance, his shield lifting as Galeheart pulsed with new intensity. “If we even can.”

  The Hrythuun let out a roar that shattered the silence. And then it charged. The beast moved with terrifying purpose, its obsidian claws carving deep trenches into the earth as it stormed forward. It paid no heed to the frost drakes still circling above or the monstrous creatures still locked in battle. No—its smoldering violet gaze was fixed upon the city itself, as if drawn by something greater than the chaos around it.

  Dwarves and royal guards, hardened warriors who had weathered countless battles, found themselves united by a singular, unspoken command: stop it, or all is lost.

  Uriel was the first to act. His hands moved in a flurry of gestures, arcane light crackling to life as the battlefield itself answered his call. The broken earth trembled, then surged upward—monolithic pillars of stone erupting before the beast’s path, attempting to slow its advance. But the Hrythuun did not slow. It did not even acknowledge the obstacles. With a single, sweeping motion of its claw, the stone barriers melted away, reduced to glowing slag in an instant.

  Wyatt and Cassian rushed forward, joining the dwarven ranks as they braced for the inevitable clash.

  Wyatt planted his feet, war hammer ready. “We’re throwing everything at it, right?”

  Cassian lifted his shield, his sword pulsing in his grip. “If we hold back, we die.”

  From the ramparts, Sindras and Vargas locked eyes for only a moment. The hesitation that had gripped them before was gone. With grim determination, the kings of Ghor Nheram descended into the fray.

  Sindras, despite his age, moved with practiced precision, raising Tharnok, the sacred scepter of his House. Ancient dwarven runes ignited along its golden shaft, their power older than the mountain itself. As he slammed the scepter into the ground, a wave of golden energy rippled outward, washing over every dwarven warrior in its wake.

  Armor sealed itself, shattered shields mended, and wounds knitted closed as the defensive runes burned into the air like embers caught in the wind. Warriors who had barely been able to stand now roared in defiance, reforged by their king’s magic.

  Vargas, however, needed no enchantments. He was already moving.

  Draknhjold, his ancestral war axe, blazed to life in his grip, runes carved into the steel flaring with each breath of battle. As he charged, the air itself seemed to darken—the clouds above roiling with latent energy. The moment his feet left the ramparts and struck the battlefield, a crack of thunder split the sky. Lightning surged through the axe, illuminating the battlefield in raw, untamed power.

  “For Ghor Nheram!” Vargas bellowed, his voice booming over the chaos as he swung Draknhjold in a devastating arc.

  The moment the runed blade struck the Hrythuun’s obsidian hide, the sky itself answered.

  A jagged bolt of lightning descended from the storm-choked heavens, slamming into the axe and channeling directly into the beast. The impact shattered the air, sending a shockwave rippling outward that knocked frost drakes from the sky and turned lesser creatures to cinders.

  The Hrythuun staggered.

  For the first time, it reacted.

  Its massive head snapped toward Vargas, those smoldering violet eyes narrowing. Smoke curled from the wound left in its chest—not deep, but real. The king’s attack had marked it. It could bleed.

  Wyatt saw the moment of hesitation and moved. No chance wasted.

  With a surge of strength, he swung his war hammer, aiming low—not to kill, but to break. The weapon connected with a sickening crunch, shattering one of the creature’s clawed feet. The Hrythuun reeled, its stance buckling for the first time.

  Uriel, regaining himself, seized the opportunity. With a sweeping motion of his arms, he transfigured the battlefield—the loose stone and slag around them twisting into jagged spears of obsidian, which launched forward like a storm of black arrows, burying deep into the beast’s exposed flanks.

  Cassian, shield raised, saw the opening. “Now!” he shouted, surging forward, sword gleaming with Galeheart’s unnatural brilliance.

  The battlefield roared with the fury of the dwarves, their kings, and their unlikely allies as they threw everything they had against the legend made flesh.

  And for the first time since it emerged, the Hrythuun let out a sound—not a growl, not a roar, but something else.

  It screamed. But, the Hrythuun did not stay staggered for long.

  With a shriek that sent cracks running through the stone beneath them, the beast reared back, its obsidian form twisting unnaturally as it retaliated. Its massive claws lashed outward, faster than anything its size had any right to move.

  The first strike came down like a black thunderbolt, slamming into the front line of dwarven warriors. Even with Tharnok’s enchantments reinforcing them, some were sent flying, their armor crumpling under the sheer force of the blow. Others, their runes flaring in defiance, dug in their heels and held their ground—but not without cost. Bones cracked, shields shattered, and more than one warrior hit the earth, blood seeping between stone.

  Another claw raked across the battlefield, sweeping dwarves aside like broken statues. One fell screaming as the talons dug through his armor, his body crumpling lifelessly against the ruined stone.

  Wyatt barely had time to react before a massive tail—spined, jagged, and moving with unnatural precision—lashed outward in a vicious arc. It slammed into him like a battering ram. The air left his lungs in a violent gasp as he was lifted off his feet, crashing hard against a ruined wall. His vision blurred, pain lancing through his ribs.

  Cassian managed to brace with his shield, but even Grundholde’s enchanted defenses buckled under the impact. He skidded backward, his boots leaving deep trenches in the battlefield. A lesser shield would have shattered. His arm still burned from the force of the strike.

  Even Vargas, for all his ferocity, was forced back, Draknhjold crackling in his grip as he steadied himself. The storm above raged in answer, but even lightning itself seemed hesitant against a monster that should not exist.

  Yet amidst the chaos, one group remained unfazed.

  The royal guards.

  As if waiting for this moment, they moved as one.

  Uriel was the first to charge. His coat, long and tattered from battle, billowed as he raised his rune-etched battlestaff, the inscriptions along its length blazing to life as he channeled raw transmutation magic.

  The battlefield shifted instantly.

  Stone rippled like water beneath his feet, warping at his command as he propelled himself forward at an impossible speed. With a sharp crack, he slammed the staff’s base into the ground, and the stone beneath the Hrythuun twisted into jagged spikes, rising like a row of massive spears.

  The monster lurched, caught off balance for a fraction of a second. But a second was all the royal guards needed.

  Behind him, they descended upon the beast without hesitation.

  A female warrior with a curved saber sprinted low, her blade trailing raw kinetic energy. Each swing magnified the force of her strikes, turning every slash into a devastating shockwave that sent tremors through the Hrythuun’s thick hide. The more momentum she built, the deadlier her attacks became. She weaved through the chaos with unrelenting precision, her weapon carving into weak points in the beast’s armor with terrifying strength.

  A heavily armored knight strode forward, wielding a tower shield reinforced with rare minerals. With every step, the air around him thickened, his sheer presence distorting the weight of the battlefield. He raised his shield just as the Hrythuun struck, and the impact rippled outward, absorbing the force and redirecting it into the earth beneath him. The ground cracked, but he stood firm, buying his allies the opening they needed.

  A soldier clad in darkened steel lifted his gauntlet, and the very shadows of the battlefield coiled at his command. His magic wove between the Hrythuun’s legs, solidifying into barbed tendrils that bound its limbs, restricting its movements just long enough for the others to strike. With a sharp motion, he drove his longsword deep into the monster’s exposed flank, twisting it before pulling free.

  A veteran archer, standing at a distance, nocked an arrow and whispered a command. His bowstring hummed with stored kinetic energy, and when he loosed, the arrow moved faster than any normal projectile should. It struck the Hrythuun’s eye with a crack, burrowing deep before detonating in a concussive blast.

  Uriel struck again.

  This time, he twisted the battlestaff mid-motion, its runes shifting, flowing as it reshaped itself to fit his intent. The weapon’s tip glowed with arcane brilliance as he brought it down upon the Hrythuun’s shoulder with a thundering impact.

  The moment the staff connected, the monster’s obsidian hide cracked.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A shriek, deeper this time. Not just of rage, but of something else—pain.

  The battlefield, once on the verge of collapse, shifted.

  For the first time since the battle began, the dwarves, the kings, and their allies were pushing back.

  And the Hrythuun—legend made flesh—was bleeding. Athough wounded, it was far from defeated. Each strike only seemed to drive it into a greater frenzy. Its obsidian hide cracked in places, deep fissures glowing with an eerie, pulsating light. But even as blood seeped from its wounds, it fought harder.

  A clawed swipe caught one of the royal guards off guard, sending him crashing into a ruined stone wall. The female warrior with the kinetic saber barely managed to roll away before another strike splintered the ground where she had stood. The knight with the tower shield braced for impact as the beast slammed its tail against him, sending shockwaves through his defenses. Even Uriel was forced onto the defensive, his battlestaff twirling as he redirected stone barriers to shield his allies.

  Wyatt, bloodied but standing, gritted his teeth. This wasn’t working. No matter how much they struck, the Hrythuun refused to fall.

  Then—a sudden shift in the air.

  A sound, like the whisper of the wind through the trees, but sharper.

  A heartbeat later, the sky darkened.

  Not from storm clouds. From arrows.

  Thousands of them.

  The battlefield froze as a volley of arrows rained down like a storm of silver. They struck true, each one glowing with enchantments designed to pierce even the toughest of hides. The Hrythuun roared in agony as the projectiles embedded deep into its form, its massive frame staggering under the sheer force of the assault.

  Wyatt’s gaze snapped toward the horizon—toward the source of salvation.

  Across the ruined plains, a tide of warriors surged forward.

  They moved with lethal grace, their banners flowing like silk in the wind. Elves.

  And not just from one House.

  Wyatt’s eyes widened as he recognized warriors of different heraldry, bearing the insignias of multiple elven Houses. Some clad in elegant emerald and gold, others in midnight silver, and some in deep sapphire hues, their armor reflecting the sunlight like the glistening waves of an untouched lake.

  At their head, an elvish warlord on a silver steed raised his blade.

  “Aen'ala tura! For Ithilien!”

  The elven forces crashed into the battlefield like a rising tide, their precision honed from centuries of war. Blades flashed, spells whispered across the air, and suddenly, the tide of battle turned.

  The Hrythuun, now battered, fought with renewed desperation. But it was no longer facing just the dwarves and the men of Primera. Now, the wrath of the elves had descended upon it.

  A unit of archers, their bows shimmering with elvish runes, let loose a second volley, their arrows sinking deep into the beast’s eyes and joints. Warriors with curved blades weaved around it, cutting away its defenses piece by piece.

  Wyatt saw Cassian charging in alongside an elvish warrior, their strikes synchronized, Galeheart’s gleaming edge carving into the exposed cracks of the beast’s armor. Uriel, despite his exhaustion, summoned one final surge of magic, shaping the earth beneath the Hrythuun’s feet into jagged spires, trapping it in place.

  And then, Vargas struck the final blow.

  With a roar of defiance, the dwarven king lifted Draknhjold high, the sky above thundering in answer. He brought the war axe down with all the fury of the storm, the impact shattering through the beast’s core.

  The Hrythuun let out a final, piercing wail.

  Its obsidian form fractured. The pulsating light within it dimmed. And then, with a deafening crack, it collapsed.

  For a long moment, silence reigned.

  Then—cheers erupted.

  Dwarves and men alike raised their weapons to the sky, their shouts of victory echoing across the ruined battlefield. Some warriors collapsed to their knees in relief, while others embraced their comrades, laughing despite their injuries.

  The two dwarven kings stood side by side, panting, but unbowed.

  Wyatt exhaled deeply, his war hammer still in his grip. He turned to Cassian, who was just as bloodied but grinning like a madman.

  Uriel, catching his breath, looked toward the elvish forces.

  The elves, composed and disciplined even after the battle, began to regroup. Their commander dismounted from his steed, flanked by several of his officers.

  Sindras and Vargas, their expressions softening from battle-hardened warriors to gracious hosts, stepped forward to meet them.

  Wyatt, Cassian, and Uriel exchanged glances before following.

  The elvish commander removed his helmet, revealing high cheekbones, piercing gold eyes, and long silver hair braided in the fashion of elvish nobility. He offered a respectful nod.

  “I am Lord Vaerion of House Lithanis,” he introduced himself, his voice calm yet authoritative. “We have come at the behest of King Ithilien.”

  Sindras raised a brow. “Ithilien sent you?”

  Vaerion nodded. “Yes. Your plight reached his ears, and instructed Faelar, the Ranger-General to write a letter to all northern elvish houses near the dwarven realms to aid in the defense."

  The two dwarven kings fell silent. For a moment, Sindras and Vargas, both weathered and unyielding, said nothing.

  Then, as one, they stepped forward.

  Vargas clasped Vaerion’s forearm in a firm grip. “You have done more than aid us. You have saved our city.”

  Sindras placed a hand over his chest, nodding deeply. “The sons of the mountain do not forget their debts.” His gaze shifted beyond the elvish army, where a second caravan approached, wagons filled with much-needed supplies.

  A grin spread across Vargas’s face. “And you’ve rescued our supplies as well, I see.”

  “Not only yours,” Vaerion said with a small smile. “We bring provisions from our own realms, to ensure your people do not falter before this war is won.”

  The relief was palpable.

  Wyatt, Cassian, and Uriel shared a look of silent gratitude. No words were spoken, but all three knew—this was Ithilien’s doing. The elvish king had answered their call for help, even without being asked directly.

  Sindras turned to the gathered army and raised his voice. “Then you are guests of Ghor Nheram! Tonight, you feast in the halls of the mountain!”

  A roar of approval spread through the city.

  And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope returned to the dwarves of Ghor Nheram.

  ***

  The halls of Ghor Nheram were alive with the sounds of celebration.

  Long tables stretched across the great feasting hall, laden with roasted meats, golden ale, and hearty dwarven bread. The deep, resonant laughter of dwarves filled the air, mingling with the more tempered conversations of their newfound elvish allies. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the city was not under siege.

  But for some, the weight of war still lingered too heavily to enjoy the revelry.

  In a chamber just off the main hall, a council had gathered.

  Seated around a massive stone table were Uriel, Wyatt, Cassian, Kings Sindras and Vargas, Khandem the emissary, and Vaerion of House Lithanis. The torchlight flickered across their tired faces, casting deep shadows on the walls as they contemplated their next move.

  Sindras was the first to speak, his voice gravelly but resolute.

  “The North is bleeding,” he stated, fingers drumming against the stone. “Even with the strength of our people, we cannot hold out forever. The attacks come without end. We strike them down, but they do not stop.”

  Vargas scowled. “Aye, and there is no sense to their tactics. It’s as if they do not care for victory, only destruction.”

  Wyatt nodded grimly. “That’s what troubles me the most. There’s no strategy here. Just unrelenting force.”

  Uriel, leaning forward with his hands clasped, exhaled sharply. “And still, no word on the true hand behind this.”

  There was a moment of silence, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

  Then Khandem, his braided beard swaying as he shifted in his seat, turned his gaze to Vaerion. “And what of Primera? What of the realm of Men? Surely, if there were ever a time for their armies to rally, it is now.”

  At those words, Vaerion’s expression darkened.

  He hesitated, then slowly exhaled. “I thought you had already known.” Uriel’s brow furrowed. “Known what?”

  The elvish warlord leaned forward, his voice heavy.

  “Primera is at war.”

  A cold stillness swept over the room. Vaerion continued, his words slow and measured.

  “Across the lands of the Great Houses, an unknown enemy has risen. They are unlike anything the realm of Men has faced before.” He paused, as if carefully choosing his next words. “At first, they were dismissed as mere outlaws, strange wanderers of unknown origin. But then, they came in numbers. Hundreds of thousands, emerging from nowhere.”

  Wyatt’s fists clenched. “Who are they?”

  Vaerion’s emerald eyes met his. “They are like Men,” he admitted. “But… not. They bear a pale complexion, markings across their bodies—patterns that seem almost ritualistic. They fight without hesitation, without mercy.”

  Cassian exchanged a glance with Uriel. “And what do they want?”

  Vaerion’s jaw tightened. “They do not speak. They only kill.”

  Khandem let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead. “By the stone…”

  Vaerion pressed on. “The Great Houses have mobilized their full strength. Every able-bodied man is in battle. The Lower Houses have turned to defending the civilians, evacuating entire cities to safe zones. The enemy does not take land, nor hold positions. They come, destroy, and then vanish. They attack, but almost as if someone is commanding them.”

  Uriel’s hands tightened into fists.

  “It’s them.”

  The room turned to him.

  He inhaled deeply before speaking. “This… this is no coincidence. The North awakens, monsters of legend return, and at the same time, Primera is attacked?” His silver eyes flickered with realization. “This is coordinated.”

  Wyatt exhaled slowly. “Which means…”

  Uriel’s expression darkened.

  “It means we’re fighting the wrong enemy.” Sindras leaned forward. “You think someone—or something—is behind this?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind,” Uriel confirmed. “And whoever they are, they wanted us occupied here.”

  Cassian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That would explain why the attacks don’t stop. They don’t need to win. They just need to keep us here.”

  Vargas slammed his fist onto the table. “Cowards! Too afraid to face us outright, so they send beasts and horrors instead!”

  Khandem, still visibly troubled, turned back to Vaerion. “And… what of the Abussonians?”

  Uriel’s gaze sharpened at the question. Vaerion hesitated. “We’ve had no word from King Ennoris.”

  Silence.

  Wyatt exhaled, his mind racing. “That’s… unusual.”

  Cassian nodded. “It has been a month since the summons. Surely any word from the Abussonian kingdom must have reached Primeran shores by now."

  Uriel leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Unless…” He closed his eyes, his thoughts piecing themselves together. “Unless they’re fighting their own war.”

  Vaerion inclined his head slightly. “It is a possibility.”

  Uriel sighed, rubbing his temple. It made sense. The Abussonians were warriors, defenders of the deep. If they had not answered the summons, it could only mean one thing.

  They were facing a battle of their own.

  Sindras finally spoke, his tone measured. “Then we are alone.”

  “No,” Vaerion corrected. “We are together. The elves stand with the dwarves, just as we will stand with the realm of Men when the time comes.”

  Vargas grunted. “Hmph. I’ll drink to that.” Uriel exhaled. “Then we need a new strategy.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Agreed. We cannot stay here forever, nor can we wait for an enemy to reveal itself.” Sindras stroked his beard in thought. “Aye… then what do you propose?”

  Uriel straightened, his mind already forming a plan.

  “The attacks on Primera cannot be ignored,” he said. “We need to know who—or what—is behind them. But at the same time, we cannot abandon the North.” His gaze flickered between the gathered warriors. “We need scouts. Information. Answers. We cannot fight an enemy we do not understand.”

  Khandem nodded. “And we need a way to contact King Ennoris.”

  Cassian exhaled. “Then we split our efforts.”

  Vaerion leaned forward. “I can send some of my best rangers to Primera. They will find out the truth.”

  Vargas cracked his knuckles. “And I say we take the fight to them. Our scouts have reported noises and unknown rumblings over in the ancient stronghold of Khaz Vareth. If these beasts want to keep us locked in Ghor Nheram, then we march beyond the gates and show them the might of the mountain.”

  Sindras smirked. “For once, I agree with you.”

  Uriel nodded slowly. “Then it’s decided. We take the first step. No more waiting. No more reacting.” His silver eyes burned with resolve. “It’s time we turned the tide of this war.”

  As the war council prepared to disperse, Wyatt remained seated. His fingers idly traced the worn leather grip of his hammer, his expression troubled.

  “I need to say something,” he muttered, breaking the silence.

  The others turned to him, noting the unease in his voice.

  Wyatt exhaled slowly before speaking.

  “I was almost useless today,” he admitted. “Against that monster, against the tide of these creatures… I fought, but I could barely hold my own.” His grip tightened around his weapon. “It wasn’t enough.”

  Cassian frowned. “Wyatt, you—”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No. Don’t sugarcoat it.” He turned to King Sindras, his gaze unwavering. “A fortnight ago, during the defense of Winterspire, you temporarily awakened something in my hammer. I felt it—just for a moment. Power I had never known.”

  Sindras, who had been listening intently, suddenly sat up straighter. His eyes widened in realization.

  Khandem blinked. “Winterspire… aye, I recall that moment.”

  Wyatt nodded. “That’s the point. I know this weapon is more than what it seems. And if I’m to keep fighting—if I’m to be of any real use in this war—I need to understand what it is.”

  Silence hung in the chamber.

  Sindras slowly leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the war hammer resting at Wyatt’s side. His deep-set eyes burned with newfound understanding.

  “I should have seen it before,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  Cassian frowned. “Seen what?”

  Sindras met Wyatt’s gaze. “The reason why I couldn’t awaken its full strength.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just above the hammer’s head. “This… this isn’t just a dwarven weapon.”

  A ripple of shock passed through the room.

  Khandem furrowed his brow. “Not… dwarven?”

  Sindras shook his head. “No. The runes—they are old. Older than our kind. And not of our making.” His voice grew lower, as if speaking the words aloud carried a weight of their own. “This weapon… it carries the touch of something greater.”

  Uriel narrowed his eyes. “You mean… the Divines?”

  Sindras nodded solemnly. “The only reason I couldn’t awaken its full power is because it does not answer to dwarves alone. Its runes are not ours.” His voice was almost reverent now. “The Smith had a hand in its forging.”

  The chamber grew deathly still.

  Cassian exhaled, his gaze flickering to Wyatt. “Then… that means—”

  “It means,” Sindras interrupted, “that this hammer was never meant to be wielded by an ordinary warrior.” He looked at Wyatt with newfound respect. “You were chosen by something greater, lad.”

  Khandem stroked his beard. “Aye… but a weapon without its full strength is nothing more than an iron club.” He eyed Wyatt thoughtfully. “So, what’s to be done?”

  Sindras sat back, his expression darkening in contemplation. Then, slowly, his eyes lifted toward the high mountain peaks beyond the city walls. “There is only one path forward.”

  Uriel followed his gaze. “The Lonely Mountain.”

  Vaerion’s eyes sharpened. “Where the Hermit resides.” Wyatt’s pulse quickened. “You mean…”

  Sindras nodded. “If anyone in this world can reveal the truth of your weapon, it is the Hermit.” He exhaled. “The mortal hand of the Smith himself.”

  A heavy silence filled the chamber.

  Khandem furrowed his brow. “That mountain is treacherous. No one has sought the Hermit in an age. Only your father, the Ironclad, was able to even attempt the journey and survive! The idea is suicidal at best!”

  Wyatt stared at his hammer, his mind racing. If this was true—if the Smith’s touch truly lingered on his weapon—then his entire path was shifting.

  “My father trained under him,” Wyatt murmured. He trained under the Hermit… and that’s how he was able to craft this hammer. But if the Hermit was his teacher, then he—he must know the weapon’s true purpose. I carry on my father's legacy. I cannot simply go to war knowing that I could have done more to help. If father were here in my place, he would have done the same.”

  Sindras’s voice was firm. “This war continues, but this is your battle now. We will fight on in your absence, but you must go alone.”

  Wyatt looked around the table, at the warriors and kings who had become his brothers-in-arms. The thought of leaving weighed heavily on him.

  But he knew. If he stayed, he would never reach his full strength. And the war needed him at his strongest. Wyatt took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I’ll go.”

  Uriel smirked. “And don’t die. That hammer’s no use to us if you freeze to death.” Sindras and Khandem both nodded approvingly.

  As the council reached its conclusion, the weight of their decisions settled upon them like the stone walls surrounding them. There was no turning back now.

  King Sindras rose from his seat, his gaze sweeping across the gathered warriors. “We march at dawn,” he declared.

  Vargas cracked his knuckles, his war axe Draknhjold resting against his shoulder. “Aye,” he rumbled. “No more waiting in the dark. We take the fight to them.”

  The assembled leaders murmured in agreement.

  Sindras turned to an older dwarf clad in polished steel, waiting in the shadows, his presence commanding even amongst the seasoned warriors. “Thrain,” he said, “you are to remain here and watch over the capital in our absence.”

  Thrain, the armsmaster of Ghor Nheram, bowed his head. “Aye, my king. The city will stand when you return.”

  With that, the meeting began to disperse. Wyatt remained behind, standing with Uriel and Cassian as they faced King Sindras one last time.

  The dwarf king studied Wyatt, his expression a mixture of respect and caution. “The Lonely Mountain is not kind to those who seek it,” he warned. “Even if you reach the Hermit, there is no guarantee he will grant you an audience.”

  “I know,” Wyatt said. “But I have to try. My father did it, then so can I.”

  Sindras nodded, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Follow the northern pass until you reach the Shattered Crag. From there, climb westward. You will find a path—narrow and near impossible to see unless you know what you’re looking for. That path leads to the Hermit’s domain.”

  Wyatt committed the directions to memory, knowing there would be no second chances.

  Sindras rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Be strong, lad. You carry the weight of something greater than yourself.” Uriel smirked and crossed his arms. “You’ll make it,” he said. “And when you do, make sure you come back stronger. We’ll need you.”

  Cassian nodded, gripping Wyatt’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “Safe travels, my friend.”

  Wyatt met their gazes and gave a firm nod. “You too. All of you.”

  With that, he turned, his war hammer strapped to his back. His path was set.

  At the break of the first light, as the armies prepared to march and the fires of war burned ever closer, Wyatt took his first steps toward the Lonely Mountain—toward the Hermit.