The chamber was old, even by dwarven reckoning. Its walls were carved from black-veined basalt, polished smooth where centuries of hands had brushed them. Brass filigree lined the arches, its patterns dulled with age but still glinting faintly in the firelight. Tall braziers burned along the walls, smoke curling toward a vaulted ceiling far above. Shadows leapt and twisted, making the reliefs carved into the stone seem alive: dwarves locked in phalanx, golems carrying their burden without rest, dragons roaring flame across battlefields.

  At the far end of the chamber sat King Thoman Flintmantle, ruler of Kellen-Tir. He leaned forward slightly on the low throne carved to resemble twin anvils. His beard, thick and ruddish, had been combed into three braids tucked with rings of black obsidian. A cloak of griffin-hide spilled over the arms of the throne, heavy on his broad shoulders. His fingers laced together as he listened, silent but intent.

  Before him stood General Marn Strongblood. His armor was plain, patched where old dents had been hammered flat, but it was worn with a soldier’s confidence. His hair was streaked with silver, his cheek lined with an old scar.

  “With respect, Your Majesty, waiting invites the hammer. The reports from Arnathe say the kobolds are no longer content with outlying farms. They are striking at towns. Coordinated raids, not scattered skirmishes. This is not chance. Something has changed. They are planning.”

  Thoman’s brow furrowed beneath his golden coronet. His voice, when it came, was measured and heavy. “And what is that to us, Marn? Have the kobolds breached the outer hamlets? Have they mined into our veins or dammed our rivers? No. This is a matter of men. Their quarrels, not ours. The last time we sent our kin to aid them, half never returned. The half who did were broken.”

  Marn’s jaw set. He had known the king long enough to hear the edge of finality in his tone, but he pressed on anyway. “This may have started in the lands of men, but it will not end there. You know that. You have seen it before, as I have.”

  The king did not respond immediately. He sat still, but his fingers tapped once, twice, against the carved stone of his throne.

  In the shadows of a pillar to the side of the hall leaned Balek Hearthgleam. His green velvet tunic was fastened with polished bronze clasps, too fine for a commoner yet not worn for show. His hands were folded neatly behind his back. His eyes, though, betrayed him. They gleamed golden in the brazier light, not like ordinary eyes but like amber catching fire.

  He let Marn’s words hang in the chamber before stepping forward. His voice was smooth, calm. “Your Majesty,” Balek began, “perhaps we do not need to speak of war. The general asks only to act, not to march an army. An investigation. Quiet. Why not allow a voluntary expedition? Those who go would do so by their own choice.”

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  Thoman’s gaze flicked toward him. He respected Balek, as did most in Kellen-Tir. Still, his jaw remained tight.

  Balek glanced sideways at Marn, then back to the king. “There are young dwarves in our halls who have not lifted pick or axe in months. The golems build the bridges, lay the pipes, raise the walls. The masters complain of idle apprentices, and the apprentices complain of being idle. Hands once calloused grow soft. Let them go, Majesty. Let them carry themselves for duty in the service of the king. A chance to act, to matter, to be needed. That might renew them.”

  Marn nodded sharply, seizing the chance to press the point. “Idle hands rot, Your Majesty. They rot faster than wood in water. Our people are restless. If the kobolds are gathering strength, better we meet them on the road than wait for them at our doors.”

  The king sat back, his heavy cloak creasing against the arms of the throne. His mind turned inward. He had ruled long enough to know the weight of sending his kin beyond the mountain. He had seen mothers clutch empty cloaks at burial fires, fathers curse his name for sons that never returned. He had sworn, after the last war, that dwarves would not bleed for men’s mistakes again.

  But Marn’s words dug into him. And Balek’s voice, too smooth, too reasonable, had a way of sounding less like suggestion and more like inevitability.

  Thoman exhaled through his nose. “And when men betray us, as they have before? When kobolds strike with poisoned blades and hidden traps? What then? We lose our kin for nothing.”

  Marn stepped forward. “Then they fall doing something they chose. Not sitting idle, waiting for the storm to break. And we will learn what we can. Even loss teaches.”

  Balek’s eyes glinted. “The general is right. To bury our heads in stone and slag will not hold back what comes. The mountain does not ignore the rumble beneath it. Why should we?”

  Thoman rubbed his thumb against one of the obsidian rings braided into his beard. The chamber was silent but for the hiss of the braziers. He thought of the young ones who now sat at empty workbenches, of guild halls where tools lay unused, of voices that no longer sang work songs in the forges. Something was slipping away from his people. He had tried not to see it.

  He sighed, deep and weary. “A dozen volunteers. No more. And no banners. No proclamation. If they must go, they go as wandering kin, not as emissaries of Kellen-Tir.”

  Marn inclined his head, relief visible in the loosening of his shoulders. Already he was running names in his mind, considering which young dwarves were strong enough, eager enough, but not reckless.

  “Aye, sire,” he said.

  Balek bowed slightly. “As always, Your Majesty, wisdom prevails.”

  His lips curved with the barest hint of satisfaction as he stepped back into the brazier light. He hid it well, but not completely.

  Thoman saw it and frowned, though he did not call it out.

  Balek turned his gaze to the flame, his thoughts his own. The dwarves would call it duty, or pride, or loyalty. It did not matter what they named it. What mattered was that they would march. And once the march began, the world would move with it.

  The fire in the mountain stirred.

  And soon, stones alone would not hold it back.