Narrator: Priorin

  Emerging from the tunnels struck our eyes with an unbearable gold. After the centuries of dust and the scent of stagnant stone, the air of the Valley—sweet, smelling of warmed earth and ripening barley—felt almost like a hallucination. We stood on the border of two worlds: behind us lay the black maw of the Bastion, gripped by the Brazen Blight; ahead of us swayed a sea of life.

  Flint nodded, exhaled sharply, and, pressing two fingers to his lips, emitted three steady, clear notes. The signal of a friendly watch. The Boots of Milather on his feet were silent—I realized that even in the thick grass, the Hadozi hadn't flattened a single stalk, as if he weighed no more than down.

  After a few heartbeats, an answer came from the edge of the field—a similar whistle, but drier and shorter.

  "Survivors," I noted, feeling my shoulders relax. "They’re coming to see who’s called."

  A gnome stepped out to meet us. Wiry as a kindle-stick, without a beard to hide secrets—his face was open and weather-beaten. He stopped a few paces away, studying us with the look of a man who checks the state of your soles before peering into your soul.

  "Balbap," he introduced himself quietly. His voice matched his appearance—low but distinct, like the strike of a small hammer on an anvil. "You… from the Lion Watches?"

  I squared my shoulders, letting him fully appreciate my height and the breadth of my chest. In the tight pants from the Bastion, I felt ridiculous, but the axe at my hip spoke for me convincingly enough.

  "Priorin. This is Gellia, Flint, and Faurgar. We rose from below, from the old tunnels. I saw your people’s contract in the old journals. It was overgrown with dust, Balbap, but I read it."

  The gnome nodded. His gaze slid over Gellia, lingering on her empty scabbard (she still held her sword in her hands), and over Faurgar, wrapped in his curtain-cloak.

  "What’s down there?"

  "Three dwarves lie at the southern fork," I replied directly. "It wasn't a fight. Gas, a needle, a cold whisper in the head. A spirit of the Pillar held the tunnel; we took it down. I’ve collected the tags—we’ll bury them according to protocol. Everything is accounted for, Balbap."

  The gnome looked down for a moment. "Sad. We… we are gnomes. We have our accounts with dwarves, blood and coin, but to the dead—honor. Always. The Bastion is rotting, Priorin. I can smell the rust even here."

  I didn't dally and got straight to the point:

  "The Bastion is in trouble. Mangratum is a week into half-rations. The Black Wolf’s bandits have cut the roads. They’ll welcome food more than any orders from Vellaris."

  Balbap smirked. "I don’t need money, Priorin. And I don’t ask favors from Mangratum—they taste bitter. I’m ready to feed the fortress for nothing. But I have a condition. One."

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  "I’m listening," I leaned forward, sensing Faurgar behind me already reaching for charcoal and parchment.

  "Let Mangratum admit aloud: without gnome masters, the Bastion won't survive another winter," Balbap’s voice grew harder, metal ringing in it. "Let him seal it with paper and the Great Seal. We take on the 'Status of Way-Masters': full maintenance of the lower nodes, valves, and vents. They don't stick their noses into our work without our consent. And one more thing: no conscription. Our children go within those walls only if they wish, not by the order of a hungry Commander."

  Faurgar spoke in his "protocol" tone:

  "Status of Way-Masters, exclusive access to nodes, mandatory coordination of all engineering works, ban on forced recruitment. Money—optional. Have I recorded the points correctly, Master Balbap?"

  "Yes," the gnome confirmed softly. "Gnomes don't need another's purse if they have their own functioning tools. Money comes and goes. Order remains."

  "Accepted," I said. "We return to the tunnels, clear the last blockage. Then I go to Mangratum with your conditions. If he sets the seal—you send the train that very minute."

  "And if he doesn't?" Balbap narrowed his eyes.

  "Then I won't let you move a single wagon under his 'word of honor'," I cut in. "The Bastion gets bread only along with respect for those who grew it."

  On the steps of the subterranean avenue, Faurgar stopped. He didn't wait to return to the barracks. He unrolled a scroll and began to write. Each word fell onto the parchment like a nail driven into an oak board:

  To Colonel Mangratum, Head of the Bronze Bastion.

  We have found the valley where winter holds no power. Elder Balbap, son of Zeprek, is ready to establish supplies of grain and meat to the Bastion via the lower avenue.

  The gnomes' condition is an admission of fact: "The Bronze Bastion needs the help of the gnomes." No additions, no haggling, no orders. Following this, the first shipment will depart within twenty-four hours.

  We are prepared to escort the train and clear the way. We confirm: the avenue to the valley is passable; threats at the site of the missing squad have been neutralized.

  Faurgar of Vellaris

  Gellia, Paladin of Tyr

  Priorin the Leonin

  Flint

  The first sack of grain Balbap gave us "for a taste" was strapped to Flint’s belt. It smelled of living sun and dry road dust. We entered Mangratum’s office.

  The Commander read the letter slowly. I saw the parchment in his hands begin to tremble.

  "They want me to say aloud the words that should have been spoken here three hundred years ago," he said finally. His voice was a whisper, but in the dead silence of the office, it sounded like the start of a landslide.

  "They want an end to the hunger, Colonel," Gellia snapped. "This is survival, not politics."

  "Recognition is not a mercy you grant them," I added, stepping forward. "It’s the start of a new road. First—order in the relationship. Then—food on the tables."

  Mangratum rose slowly. He stood on his dais as if on a parapet before a final assault. His gaze turned glassy, and his voice landed on the stones of the room like a heavy smith's hammer.

  "I will say it once," he began, looking through us into the very blackness of this fortress’s history. "So that never again shall anyone dare say I whispered in corners or hid my eyes."

  He took a deep breath. The Bastion held its breath, awaiting the sound that would either shatter it or save it.

  The Price of Pride. The climax of this chapter isn't a fight—it's a choice. For Commander Mangratum, admitting that the Bastion needs the gnomes is harder than facing an orcish horde. He is a character defined by tradition and the "Old Ways."

  Balbap, aren't asking for gold; they are asking for Status. This is a very "Dwarven/Gnomish" way of thinking: in a world where currency is failing, recognition and rights are the only true wealth. The squad has successfully manipulated the situation to ensure their passage, but they’ve also fundamentally changed the power balance of the region.

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