The dwarven roads shift as we move, narrow corridors forcing me us low beneath time-worn arches, then sudden expansions into cavernous halls where ceilings vanish in darkness.

  Silence fills these tunnels, broken only by Eimhar’s ragged breathing and the faint drip of water somewhere behind crumbling walls.

  Yet other things still living, watching behind fallen pillars.

  Eimhar senses it, too.

  His mechanical leg, pressurized, hisses, more noise to mark our steps.

  I hear him murmur old dwarven prayers, he expects a threat lurking in the gloom.

  So do I.

  For years, these roads stood sealed.

  Whatever remains might be an echo of dwarven glory, or a monstrous inheritance from deeper dark.

  Eimhar stumbles.

  The harness he wears does not match his movement.

  I catch him before he collapses, letting my bony arm support his weight. He scowls, tries to wrench free.

  “I can stand, damn ye,” he mutters.

  He cannot.

  I say nothing, simply adjust my grip to keep him upright. We continue.

  Eimhar grumbles under his breath.

  A string of dwarven curses and suspicious nature of my existence.

  "Unnatural thing," he mutters. "Walking bones. Should leave ye here in the dark where ye belong."

  His words catch, replaced by a wet cough.

  I adjust my grip, taking more of his weight. The mechanical parts of his harness whine in protest.

  "Bah," he spits. "At least ye could argue back."

  I move my fingers and my hand, an old battlefield gesture meaning 'save breath for walking.'

  He snorts. "Now ye mock me with soldier-signs? What army taught you to speak with hands?"

  I do not answer. The memories of twelve fallen legions stir. The voice I gained from Lormenos is better saved for times of words.

  "Fine then." His mechanical leg scrapes stone. "Keep yer secrets, bone-knight. Not like I've much choice in companions now."

  The grumbling continues, softer now.

  Things turn to rust and dwarven stone.

  Eimhar's breath catches s as we pass a leaning statue, a dwarf warrior clutching a hammer.

  His left arm is sheared off.

  "ThraneThree-Hand," he rasps. "My great-granduncle. Could drink any drink or man under a table."

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  His laugh turns to a cough. "Lot o' good it did him."

  Rubble shifts underfoot.

  Half a hall ahead, shattered torches glint on walls. Webs of ancient piping line cracked walls, valves frozen by centuries of disuse.

  "Here." He staggers toward an alcove, pointing at faded murals. "The Foundry's Heart, and there, the way to Maha Marr'."

  A section of of wall crumbles as look, revealing claw marks beneath.

  Deep. Frenzied.

  Something of deeper dark.

  "Those days gone," he mutters, though clenched jaw.

  I halt at the sight of the first remains.

  A dwarven skeleton lies half-buried beneath fallen stone, its armor deteriorated to flakes of rust. The bones grip a war pick, its blade marked with eroded runes that no longer hold power.

  Not recent. Old.

  Dwarven soldier lost in fall.

  Eimhar stops beside me.

  "Ansgar."

  The name emerges raw, stripped of ceremony.

  He does not kneel or offer prayers. His features contort, whether from rage or loss, I cannot discern. He draws a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

  "Later," he promises. He will return.

  We press forward.

  More remains appear as we descend. Dwarven bodies trapped by cave-ins. Others felled by unseen dangers. Some wear corroded plate, while others rest unarmored against stone walls.

  More dwarves killed by things of deeper dark.

  Their weapons lie scattered, just beyond reach of skeletal fingers.

  Then we enter passages devoid of bodies, only vacant suits of armor remain. Some torn open like discarded shells.

  Eimhar's words die away.

  He refuses to speak names for these empty suits. Instead, he forces his damaged frame faster, mechanical parts protesting as he pushes through obvious pain even as bone shard settles his heart.

  I match his pace, ready to catch him should the harness fail. The borrowed bones within me recognize this place as a tomb, though something about these remains speaks of endings far stranger than simple death.

  We pass through a collapsed market square. Bone shards, dwarven, settled between stones that mark the path.

  Eimhar doesn't look down.

  His harness hisses. A piston jams. I snap a rusted pipe from the wall, twisting, molding, to fit within failing joint. He slaps my hand away. "I’ll fix it myself."

  The pipe holds.

  He grunts, stomps onward.

  His boots kick over a dented helm, a crest of other dwarven lords. "Maharrim," he mutters. He talks aloud but not to me. "Tunnel fighters. All gone now, aye?"

  I place a palm against a massive doorframe—carved with interlocking gears.

  "Nothing left," Eimhar snarls. "No songs, no smoke from the forges. Just ghosts and rot."

  His metal fist slams into the stone.

  A gear motif breaks loose, tumbles into the dark below.

  Time loses meaning as we navigate labyrinthine intersections. Eimhar tries to guide us. He mutters about signs or certain runes, pointing as he can when darkness splits in three directions. His dwarven words mix with coughs.

  The harness’s battered valves clank, each motion threatening to fail.

  We pass ancient signposts hammered into the stone. Many letters are chipped, blackened by soot. Eimhar leans close.

  From Maha Marr may we someday return.

  “That way,” he rasps, guiding us downward. “We are getting close.”

  Ancient rubble chokes the side passages, leaving only a single path forward. Shattered scaffolds jut from walls like broken bones, their metal joints corroded beyond repair. Half-buried drilling machines rust beneath fallen stone, their purpose forgotten.

  We descend deeper. A new scent fills the stale air, sharp and metallic, like blood but hotter. My borrowed bones remember similar smells from ancient battlefields, when armor grew too hot under summer sun.

  His breath catches. Hope and fear war across his features as he peers ahead.

  "Maha Marr," he whispers, voice cracking.

  We follow.

  Eimhar stumbles. His hand shoots out, gripping my arm with surprising strength.

  "Quiet now," he hisses. "The wards watch. Hidden eyes guard these depths."

  I nod, shifting my weight.

  The tunnel opens to a vast chamber. Steam rises from grated vents, obscuring the ceiling high above. Ancient forges line the walls, their furnaces cold and dark. Yet something still burns deeper within, a presence that makes these bones resonate with unease.

  Eimhar's mechanical parts whine as he pulls away from my support. His fingers trace the bone shard protruding from his chest, where it keeps his heart beating.

  "I'll lead, you. Just. Gods." His voice cracks. He stares at the shard, reality settling in his eyes.

  The horror of what keeps him alive finally overwhelms his pragmatic acceptance from earlier.

  He touches the shard again, fingers trembling.

  I stand motionless, giving him space to wrestle with this truth. My borrowed bones remember similar moments, when soldiers realized they'd survived through means ever wanted.

  When the price of living has a cost.

  His mechanical leg locks up. The pistons grind as he forces himself to stay upright, refusing my offered support.

  Steam hisses from overtaxed joints.

  "Gods," he says once more.