The zone is silent as Thorvak Bloodrune and his elite team prepare for the ascent. Excitement rises among the warrior’s companions as their leader guides them to the surface, toward glory. The grand tunnels connecting the Fissures are temporarily closed, leaving the group incomplete. Hildas and her men remain trapped in the second Fissure; if the debris is cleared quickly, they will join Thorvak on the surface. Otherwise, they face the arduous task of climbing thousands of meters of stairs with their heavy equipment. Fortunately, communication pipes remain intact, allowing messages to flow between different parts of the kingdom, including the agricultural Fissures beneath the ground.

  While Bran and Drimli bustle with preparations, Thorvak stands prepared. The great metal elevators, masterpieces of dwarven engineering, are activated to carry them to the summit of the subterranean lands. The mechanisms groan slightly as massive chains begin turning, slowly but steadily lifting the platforms toward the surface light. Boxes and crates of equipment are loaded onto the sturdy planks, and the dwarven engineers set the system in motion. The group begins their ascent.

  Thorvak has assembled a diverse team of seasoned warriors and eager young dwarves looking to make a name for themselves. Among them are numerous young dwarves yet to see their first century, energetic and bold but already experienced. Thorvak’s guild is among the best in the dwarven kingdom, recently granted the exclusive right to conduct surface explorations.

  “A fine opportunity,” Thorvak muses. The potential for a jackpot, especially if the dragon is truly weakened, looms large. Even if not, just venturing out, exploring, and uncovering the cause of the catastrophe is enough for the dwarven leader and his crew to gain even more popularity amongst younger dwarves.

  The elevators steadily climb, pulled by the massive chains powered by the forges below. The scent of water vapor and earth oil drifts up, mingling with the faint metallic tang in the air. The engineers below better have donned their protective suits to manage the intense heat. The sound of gears and pulleys reverberates through the tunnels, a reassuring testament to the mechanical genius of their ancestors. These elevators, despite their infrequent use, were designed to venture out, not to cower within.

  For young dwarves like Bran, the excitement is palpable. He looks at Thorvak, grinning.

  “Can you imagine, Thorvak? If the dragon’s really dead, this is our chance! Entire lands for us. Not these cramped holes, but forests, plains! Maybe even a fortress to build on the surface.”

  Thorvak gives him a stern but amused look. “Bran, save your breath for the fight. If the dragon’s still alive, even wounded, this won’t be a walk in the mines. And the humans won’t sit idly by.”

  Thorvak knows well that the Kingdom of Elbak to the north is almost as close to the draconic crater as the dwarves are. The opportunity must be seized before those weak creatures ruin everything. The forest must not fall into their hands.

  Bran nods, though the enthusiasm in his eyes doesn’t waver.

  As the elevators near the exit, bright light begins to filter through cracks in the walls. The ascent takes nearly an hour, rising from the Fissure, past the cliffs. Hildas won’t make this journey on foot, if the tunnels aren't opened soon, her group is doomed. The young dwarves squint, surprised by the intensity of the luminous bands in the scarlet morning sky.

  When they finally reach the top, the elevators grind to a halt, and the metal gates open to reveal the outside world. The group pauses, taking in the sight before them. The landscape is a stark contrast to their subterranean life: an immense forest, dense and mysterious, stretches as far as the eye can see. In the distance, to the south, the massive silhouette of the lake glistens under the light, and beyond, further west, the karst peaks emerge timidly through misty clouds.

  But what captures their attention most is the devastation. Evident traces of a massive impact scar the land. Trees lie toppled, the ground charred, and faintly glowing metallic fragments glint among the ashes. Gigantic shards of metal litter the horizon, from the northern forest to the lake. Some resemble collapsed fortresses, others, enormous creatures asleep forever.

  From atop the cliff, they cannot make out the details, nor can they see the robots frantically gathering the last salvageable debris near the lake.

  Elda murmurs, almost to herself, “This is where it happened… The rain of fire. The battle.”

  The sight excites and unnerves the group. Bran steps forward, gripping his axe, already eager to explore.

  “We’ll find that dragon. If it’s weak enough, we’ll do what no one’s dared before: kill it. And if those humans come, we’ll show them they have no place here.”

  Elda grabs his arm firmly. “Don’t rush, Bran. This isn’t a game. Remember: if the dragon is dead, it means something even stronger killed it. Did you see those debris fields? What could they be?”

  Thorvak, leading the group, raises his hand to command silence. His face is unusually grave.

  “Enough. We’re not here to dream of glory or gold. We’re here to uncover what happened. If the guardian is weak, we need to know why. If something worse is at play, we must prepare. Follow me, and stay vigilant.”

  In his mind, the questions multiply rapidly. The quest for glory and fortune in slaying the dragon is overshadowed by another thought: terror and the thrill of discovering what truly occurred, what ravaged the forest and caused the tunnels below to collapse. Something is wrong—no, it’s far beyond that...

  Torlin speaks to me our head scout, but I listen distractedly, more focused on my steps. The forest here isn’t entirely destroyed, but strange shards of metal and small charred clearings hint at something profoundly unnatural. Not that I needed these signs to know that…

  “Chief, are you listening?”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I don’t answer immediately, my gaze sweeping over the other members of the squad. Elda, my wife, lingers at the back, murmuring protective runes while tracing symbols on the smooth surface of her hammer. Drimli inspects the bolts of his heavy crossbow, his sturdy fingers adjusting a piece here and there, ready to turn it into a lethal masterpiece.

  “Yes, Torlin?”

  “We’re nearing the lair.”

  A memory of that clearing—the one and only time I visited it—surfaces. I was just a babe, maybe twenty years old, barely a proper beard on my chin. My father had brought me here for a ritual hunt, a rite of passage for the heirs of our line. The dragon already ruled this forest as its master, a shadow no dwarf dared to disturb. But the air… the air in that clearing had a particular scent, a deep warmth like that of the forges. Perhaps it was simply the odor of a colossal beast and the remains of countless carcasses accumulated in its crater.

  Today, that warmth returns, that stench, though muted. Something waits ahead. It’s not just the dragon we’ll find. It’s a fragment of what shattered the sky, of that cataclysm from the stars, a piece of the answer to this strangeness.

  As we advance, the trees grow denser, their enormous trunks twisted and gnarled. This part of the forest is ancient. The daylight, already faint beneath the canopy, becomes almost nonexistent. The clearing is close. I feel the tension rising in the squad—a mix of fear and excitement. The dragon, the legends… it will soon become real.

  I turn to them, my voice low but firm. “Prepare yourselves. We’re nearly there. Whatever we find, stay together. Elda, keep the runes ready. Drimli, watch the heights. Torlin, keep scouting, but return as soon as you see anything.”

  The clearing unfolds before us, immense, like a yawning chasm in the heart of this ancient forest. The trees, which until now formed an impenetrable wall, give way to a desolate expanse. It isn’t the blackened, cracked soil like the one we saw at the top of the cliff. No, this is different. It’s been carved into the rock, crafted. Even without seeing it for decades, I remember this place. Memories mingle with reality, amplifying the oppressive solemnity.

  At the center of this crater, it rests.

  The dragon.

  Immense, far beyond even the most exaggerated tales. Its scales, dulled and broken, glimmer faintly with a sorrowful sheen. One wing is folded against its flank, damaged, torn like a sail shredded by a storm. The other is stretched out, massive, each membrane marred by gaping holes. Its breath is slow, uneven, lifting a thin layer of dust with every exhalation, swirling it around its colossal form. Its maw rests half-open, revealing fangs capable of crushing stone itself.

  The group halts abruptly. Not a word is spoken, not even a whisper. Even Bran, who is usually unable to contain his enthusiasm, stands frozen, his axe suspended mid-motion. It’s as if the very act of breathing too loudly might awaken this titanic beast.

  I step forward, my gaze fixed on the dragon. A wave of heat washes over me—not the heat of fire, but of ancestral respect, almost reverence. Every dwarf here feels the same, I know it. This is not merely a creature. It’s a force. A living memory of ages long past, far older than anything we can comprehend.

  Elda murmurs beside me, her words barely audible. “Thorvak… look at its wounds. They’re not from here. Whatever destroyed the forest fought it.”

  She’s right. The marks on its body are strange, almost geometric, like burns traced with mechanical precision. Shards of metal, black fragments embedded in its flesh, tell a story that defies imagination.

  I grip my runic hammer tightly, my thoughts racing. This being… this guardian, as our legends call it, didn’t fall in a simple battle. It faced something we’ve never seen. And it lost.

  “Drimli,” I say quietly, “examine the surroundings. Look for signs, clues. Torlin, watch the perimeter. If this creature is as weakened as it seems, there may be other threats lurking.”

  Drimli nods, his gaze moving from his crossbow to his comrades, signaling a few to assist him. Torlin vanishes almost instantly into the shadows with three other dwarves, her steps as light as a breath.

  I turn to Bran and Elda. Bran remains frozen, his axe still raised as if ready to strike, but his eyes betray a fear he refuses to admit. Elda stays composed, her fingers brushing the runes etched on her hammer.

  “What are you going to do, Thorvak?” she murmurs.

  I fix my gaze on the dragon, drawing a deep breath before answering. “We need to understand. If this guardian falls, then our kingdom is vulnerable. And if something brought it down… we must know what it is.”

  I take another step forward, then another, slowly approaching the dragon. My hammer is ready, its runes faintly glowing, but I’m not here to fight. The dragon’s breathing deepens slightly, and for a moment, I feel as though it’s noticed us.

  I freeze, my hammer suspended in my hand, the weight of my thoughts heavier than the steel I carry. The dragon lies there, vulnerable, almost at our mercy. A part of me, shaped by the traditions of my people, whispers that I should seize this chance. To slay this legendary creature, to bring its bones and scales back to the stone halls and forge them into eternal relics. The armors we could craft from its hide, the weapons engraved with runes on its bones, would be marvels to make even the gods of the mountain pale.

  But as I look at it, broken yet still unbearably majestic, doubt creeps in. These marks on its body… they’re not natural. They’re not claw marks or burns from a terrestrial battle. They’re wounds from another thing, scars etched by something beyond our comprehension.

  “Thorvak, what do we do?” Bran asks, his voice tinged with an unusual nervousness. He raises his axe as if seeking direction, a clear order, something to channel the energy boiling within him. Why is everyone asking me the same thing? How am I fucking supposed to know?

  I don’t answer immediately, my eyes still locked on the dragon. Elda steps closer, her hand brushing my arm. She says nothing, but I can feel that she shares my doubts, my thoughts.

  “This dragon,” I finally say, my voice heavy and measured, “faced something we cannot comprehend. These wounds aren’t from here.”

  I take a step forward, placing a hand on the shaft of my hammer as if to anchor my thoughts. “I will not kill it. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

  Bran exclaims, his expression a mix of surprise and frustration. “What? But Thorvak! Think of the artifacts, the weapons we could forge from its scales! We could protect our kingdom for generations!”

  I turn to him, my gaze stern. “Protect it from what, Bran? From a force that shattered the sky and left scars on a creature like this? Think for a moment what that means. If this dragon falls, who will face the next threat? Us?”

  Bran steps back slightly, unsettled. Elda moves to stand beside me, her voice calm but firm. “Thorvak is right. This isn’t just a beast. It’s a symbol. A guardian. If we kill it, we destroy more than a life. We risk breaking a balance we don’t even understand.”

  Drimli returns from his inspection, his voice grave. “I found shards of metal, fragments like those embedded in its wounds. They’re cold, lifeless, but… they’re not from this land.”

  I nod, my resolve firming. “We didn’t come here seeking glory or gold. We came to understand. And to protect our people. If this dragon still lives, it has a role to play. And we must discover what attacked it, before it’s too late.”

  Then, I step closer to the dragon.

  “Guardian… if you can hear me, know that we are not your enemies. We are here to understand, to protect this land as much as you.”

  The dragon’s breathing intensifies briefly, like a whisper rising from the depths of the earth. Its eyelids, so massive they seem to weigh tons, twitch slightly. A silent message, perhaps, or merely coincidence. But it’s enough to rekindle my determination.

  “We must prepare,” I tell the squad. “Not for a fight against it, but for what may come. We have much to learn, and little time to do it.”