Narrator: Priorin

  Mangratum descended to the plaza before the dust had even settled on the stones. The wall was still humming like a disturbed hive: some were howling in pain, others were swearing under their breath while bandaging wounds, and some just sat there, staring into space, trying to cough the grey spore-haze out of their lungs.

  The Colonel approached us without ceremony. His voice had returned to its dry, professional tone, stripped of the fierce roar that had led him against the blighted unicorn.

  "The Shield to you, Leonin. The Belt to her. This isn't a mercy or a gift. It’s payment for work. Today, you did it."

  He gestured to a Forged sentry, who handed me the Shield. It was heavy, with a dark bronze rim and a deep, predatory engraving at the center. It was made of the same light-drinking dark metal as Flint’s boots. As I slid my arm through the straps, my bones resonated with a strange, vibrating warmth. It felt as if the shield already knew my grip—it knew how I shifted my weight during a swing and where the gaps in my defense opened. It was that "recognition of craft" found only when a master creates for a master.

  Mangratum noticed me testing the weight and gave a short nod. But I felt something else.

  The second the Shield buckled onto my forearm, something in the squad shifted. Gellia’s head snapped up, her fingers turning white on her sword hilt. Her eyes became terrifyingly clear. She wasn't just holding a blade anymore—she was sensing its "mood." The sacred blade of Milather, sensing the proximity of the Shield, ceased to be mere iron. It was translating the world into surgical data: perfect strike points, trajectories where death would pass without resistance. She had become a surgeon of the battlefield.

  Flint jerked too. The Boots of Milather on his feet emitted a low, triumphant hum. The Hadozi gave a tiny hop, and I could have sworn he hung in the air a split second longer than nature allowed. The resonance made him faster, more elusive.

  But it was Faurgar who was the most frightening to look at.

  He stood apart, checking the buckles on his bags, but I saw his hands shaking. His gaze, usually cold and calculating, was fixed on the bronze rim of my Shield. A dark vein throbbed on his neck. I could feel it through my skin: this wasn't mere greed. It was a physical hunger, an irrational, maddening desire to possess these things.

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  Only the iron discipline of his Function kept him from lunging at me right there in front of the garrison. It pained him to breathe, but he remained silent, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grind.

  "Side effects might manifest in a few days," Faurgar managed to squeeze out. His voice was dry, like the snap of a breaking branch. It took immense effort just to speak.

  "Blisters?" Gellia asked with an ironic arch of her eyebrow, adjusting the Belt of the Bastion that now hugged her waist, granting her an unnatural vigor.

  "More like hair," Flint coughed, trying to thin the tension, though his eyes never left my new gear. "Very lush hair. Possibly on the chin. It is Dwarven craft, after all."

  Gellia snorted but didn't take the belt off. On the contrary, she tightened it, feeling the strength of the Bastion pour into her veins.

  Mangratum adjusted his shoulder, where the unicorn's horn had left a black, scorched scrape. He looked at us differently now. Like men who had survived the same trench.

  "The wave was thicker than usual today," he said. "But you held. I must admit... and frankly, I’m glad I have to. That rarely happens on this wall."

  He ascended the three steps to the plaza’s dais. His voice, amplified by the acoustics of the stone well, reached every corner of the courtyard. Hollow, yet incredibly clear, he spoke the words that should have been uttered three hundred years ago:

  "Tell the gnomes: 'The Bronze Bastion needs the help of gnomes.' We will move the supply train. We will sign the contract. Any of my soldiers caught laughing or arguing will pull solo watch on the outer slope until the next siren. No exceptions."

  For the fortress, these words were louder than any explosion. The sentries on the walls froze. Veterans exchanged glances, clutching their shields. The young dwarves who had seen us in action remained silent—the mockery of the "strangers in strange pants" was gone.

  The siren finally died out. The air still smelled of copper, salt, and acrid dust. The Shield in my hand continued to vibrate quietly, syncing with my breathing. I felt us growing stronger. And I felt that this strength was beginning to demand a price from each of us.

  A word is also a wall. And today, that wall finally slid into place, closing an old breach in the history of the mountains.

  "Pack up," I said, not looking at my friends. "The supply train won't wait. It’s time to head back into the dark."

  The Weight of a Word. Mangratum’s public admission is a huge moment for the lore. In the Shadows of Vellaris world, Dwarven pride is literally as hard as the mountain, and breaking it is a seismic event. By saying those words, Mangratum didn't just save his people from hunger; he ended a 300-year-old cold war.

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