The mountains were quiet at night in a way that felt almost hollow. Wind pushed through the narrow pass in long breaths and sent loose stones clattering down the slopes. The torches Balek carried gave off a steady light, but the flickering glow made the cliffs around him feel alive, as if they were watching.

  He moved at a slow, careful pace. His mind felt heavier than his steps. The unrest in Kellen-Tir had grown worse each day, and he could feel the pressure building like snow piling on a roof that would eventually give way. He had been up and down these ridges more times than he could count, but tonight the path felt different. Anticipation tugged at him.

  A faint orange glow appeared ahead. It held steady through the wind. Balek recognized it before he saw the man holding it.

  A figure stepped into view near the bend in the cliffside. He was tall, draped in a green cloak that blended almost perfectly with the shadows of the mountains. His hood was pulled low, hiding most of his face, but Balek did not need to see his features. He knew the stance. He knew the stillness.

  “Zerathyn,” Balek said quietly. He stopped a few feet away and let the mountain wind fill the silence. “Or as you have chosen to be known here, the Seeker.”

  The torchlight revealed only part of the man’s face, but in those shifting moments Balek saw something beneath the disguise. For a heartbeat, he saw the faint shimmer of scales under skin, and a glint in the eyes that belonged to a creature far older than the mountains around them. The sight was familiar. He felt his own scales press faintly beneath his own human shape, as if they responded to the presence of kin.

  The Seeker raised his torch a little higher. “You have heard the reports,” he said. His voice was steady but carried a depth of exhaustion that only centuries could grant. “Bram and Farrin spoke truth. Nezzarod moves again. His plans have become quiet, but quiet does not mean gone. He failed twice. He will not allow a third unless he holds something powerful enough to shift the balance.”

  Balek tightened his grip on his torch. “Then what is he after on this mountain? Is it the Hammer? The forges? Or does he simply want us fighting one another until the kingdom tears itself apart?”

  The Seeker looked up the cliff face as if he could see answers carved into the stone. Shadows cut across his hooded features. “I do not know,” he said. “He stirs disorder with purpose, not with frenzy. If he wanted chaos for its own sake, he would have revealed himself already. Instead he hides. That means his goal requires patience.”

  Balek took a slow breath. He felt the cold of the mountain settle into his bones. “He is of our blood,” he said. The words tasted bitter. “That alone should demand the High Council intervene. But when Harbinth burned two years ago, they looked away. They said one corrupted drake was no threat to the balance.”

  The Seeker’s expression shifted beneath the hood. “The Council fears repeating old mistakes. The wars we once fought shook the world. Many still believe the best way to avoid another disaster is to avoid action. They would rather wait, even if waiting means danger grows.”

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  His tone softened slightly. “But they cannot wait forever. Nezzarod gathers strength. I feel it every time I cross these lands. There are others like him, drawn to the promise of power. If he convinces even a handful to join him, the world could face the greatest threat since the days of the Black Wing corruption.”

  The mountain wind filled the silence again. It tugged at their cloaks and sent sparks from their torches drifting into the night.

  Balek felt a faint pulse in the air, like magic brushing past them. It made the hairs on his arms stand. “Magic is changing,” he said. “Everywhere. I feel it even among the dwarves who barely touch the arcane. Something is shifting.”

  The Seeker nodded. “The currents grow stronger. I cannot tell if Nezzarod causes the change or if he is only using it. Perhaps the world itself is waking.”

  Balek considered that. It was unsettling, but he had felt something similar deep in Vorr-Angrun, as if the stone halls remembered old powers. “What of the warband?” he asked. “They have become tangled in this more deeply than any of us expected.”

  “They will return to Arnathe,” the Seeker said. “Whether they know it or not, that is where the turning point will be. I have already sent word among the dryads. They stir again. Old alliances may return. Even those who have long avoided human lands are beginning to watch.”

  Balek listened carefully. The idea of dryads gathering meant something serious was coming. They did not move unless the balance of the land itself was threatened.

  “And here I am,” Balek said after a moment, “trying to keep our clans from splitting apart. Every day more dwarves lean toward Deepbrand. Every day the king’s authority weakens. I feel like I am trying to catch water in my hands.”

  The Seeker watched him quietly. “Your work is important. Without stability in Kellen-Tir, the mountain becomes a battlefield. That is exactly what Nezzarod would want.”

  Balek lowered his eyes. “There is something else,” he said. “I have been thinking of Velthur. The boy is young. Too young for what lies ahead. Yet he carries magic that can rouse artifacts. And now his dreams… if everything is as Bram and Farrin described, then Velthur may soon be drawn into something he does not understand.”

  The Seeker’s lips curved into a small smile. It was a rare expression, softened by real hope. “He is not ready yet,” he said. “But he learns quickly. He listens. When the time comes, he will be at the center of things whether he wants to be or not.”

  Balek nodded slowly. Velthur’s youth worried him, but he trusted the Seeker’s sense of the future more than his own. The Seeker had seen centuries of kingdoms rise and fall. If he believed Velthur would be ready, then perhaps the boy stood a chance.

  The Seeker shifted his torch and stepped backward. The flame lit the rough stone behind him, making his cloak look like part of the mountain wall. “The path ahead is narrow,” he said. “We walk different roads, but they lead toward the same storm. When it breaks, we will stand together.”

  Balek took a step forward. “Will I see you again before then?”

  “You will,” the Seeker said. “Sooner than you expect.”

  He turned and walked down the path. With each step the glow of his torch faded until it looked like a tiny star swallowed by the dark. Then it disappeared completely.

  Balek stood alone for a long time. The cold pressed in harder now that the Seeker’s presence was gone. He looked up at the jagged ridges. Somewhere in the heart of the mountain, dwarves whispered rebellion. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Nezzarod gathered power. And somewhere in Arnathe, a boy studied magic that would one day shape the fate of kingdoms.

  At last, Balek lowered his torch and began the climb back toward Kellen-Tir. The torchlight wavered in the wind, but he held it steady. The mountain walls rose high on either side, silent and watching as he walked.