Cassian's heart was still racing when they finally crossed the gates of Ghor Nheram after the hellish battle and exhausting trek. Even through the haze of exhaustion, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer grandeur of the dwarven capital. Towering stonework stretched high above them, etched with runes that pulsed faintly with an ancient glow. The halls were lined with statues of past kings, their stern visages carved into the very mountain itself.

  But Cassian had little time to admire the craftsmanship—his focus was on Wyatt, who had been out cold since the incident in the throne room.

  "You’re lucky the lad's a tough bastard," Khandem muttered, adjusting his grip as he helped carry Wyatt through the bustling streets. "King Vargas tends to be the more difficult one to deal with. And heavier hands."

  Cassian shot him a sharp look. "You call this luck?" He exhaled sharply, adjusting Wyatt’s arm over his shoulder. "How much longer until we reach where we’re staying?"

  "A few minutes. The Grand Hearth should have a room ready for him," Khandem replied. "Best place in the city for resting weary bones. Quickly lad, I still have to attend to Lord Rykard."

  Cassian barely heard him. He looked down at his unconscious friend, then toward the towering halls ahead. This was not how he expected their arrival in Ghor Nheram to go—but something told him this was only the beginning of their troubles.

  The young man's boots clacked against the stone-paved floor as they moved deeper into Ghor Nheram. The air was thick with the scent of burning embers and iron, a testament to the city’s forges that never slept. Around them, dwarves moved with purpose, their beards dusted with soot, their hands calloused from years of labor, while others sat down wearing bandages that covered wounds, a clear sign that the defense had already begun. Some cast surprised, but grateful glances their way—humans were a rare sight here, especially an armed expedition.

  But it wasn’t Cassian or the others that drew the most attention. It was Wyatt.

  Even unconscious, he commanded a presence. Some dwarves whispered in hushed tones, while others merely shook their heads and continued on their way.

  “They recognize him,” Cassian muttered under his breath.

  Khandem nodded beside him. “Aye, lad. He bears the blood of a man they once revered. His father had deep ties to our people and strong alliances. Many here still remember his deeds.”

  Cassian frowned. He had already met Wyatt’s father, but he never fully grasped the weight his name carried, especially among the dwarves. He could feel a mix of either amazement and scrutiny in their eyes, as if they were measuring Wyatt against the legend of his lineage.

  Finally, they reached the Grand Hearth, a massive stone hall that doubled as an inn for travelers and honored guests. The scent of roasting meat and fresh ale filled the air, making Cassian’s stomach twist with hunger. Warm firelight flickered against the walls, casting long shadows across the polished stone floors.

  A stout dwarven innkeeper greeted them with a grunt. “What's with the boy?” He motioned to Wyatt.

  “Long story,” Khandem said. “He needs rest. Took a rough beating at the entrance.”

  The innkeeper looked at Wyatt, who was still out cold, inspecting the damage. "Let me guess, King Vargas?" The emissary responded with a nod.

  He waved them inside. “Come on, I’ll get him set up.”

  Cassian sighed in relief as they carried Wyatt into a private chamber, laying him down on a sturdy cot. His friend didn’t stir, his breathing steady but deep.

  Khandem clapped Cassian on the shoulder. “Rest up, lad. You need it as well—we all do. And knowing our luck, trouble’s just getting started.”

  Cassian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Khandem was right. With the frost drakes stirring and the unspeakable creatures they faced hours ago, there was no telling what would come next.

  He found an empty cot across the chamber and sat down, exhaling deeply. "I'll take it from here. Thank you, Khandem."

  The emissary studied him for a moment before shaking his head. "No, you need rest. I'll ask the innkeeper to fetch something cold for the swelling."

  Cassian hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Thank you."

  After setting his equipment aside, he laid down, exhaustion weighing on him like armor too heavy to bear. His last thought before sleep claimed him was of the battles yet to come, and whether they would all make it through the storm ahead.

  ***

  Cassian awoke with a start, the heaviness of exhaustion still clinging to his limbs. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of embers from the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. He sat up, rubbing his temples, realizing just how long he must have slept. His stomach twisted with hunger, a sharp reminder of the toll their journey had taken on him.

  Glancing across the room, his eyes landed on Wyatt, who remained motionless on his cot. His breathing was steady, but he hadn’t stirred. Cassian moved closer, checking for any sign of fever or distress, but found none. Satisfied, he strapped on his gear, buckling his sword belt before slipping his shield onto his back.

  Stepping outside, the brisk mountain air filled his lungs, bracing and sharp. The city of Ghor Nheram was alive with activity. Dwarves moved with practiced efficiency, hauling supplies, reinforcing structures, and sharpening weapons. The damage from the frost drakes was evident—deep claw marks marred the stone walls, and massive shards of ice covered portions of the city’s outer defenses.

  Cassian’s gaze landed on a group of dwarven soldiers repairing a battlement. He approached one of them, a burly dwarf with a thick gray beard and a bandaged arm. “You’ve been fighting them too, haven’t you?” Cassian asked, nodding toward the distant mountains where the frost drakes lurked.

  The dwarf wiped sweat from his brow and huffed. “Aye. But the drakes weren’t the worst of it.”

  Cassian frowned. “The creatures…”

  The soldier’s expression darkened. “Aye. The ones that don’t belong to this world. We were caught off guard at first, blades barely bringing them down, arrows doing little more than phasing through their bodies.”

  Cassian’s grip tightened around his sword hilt. “How did you fight them off?”

  The dwarf exhaled, shaking his head. “We didn’t, not at first. We lost good men before King Sindras figured it out.”

  Cassian straightened. “Figured what out?”

  The soldier met his gaze. “That they aren't immortal, or never-ending. There’s a weakness—King Sindras dove deep and found ancient dwarven runes that made the intangible solid, and their regeneration slowed just enough for us to cut them down. Unfortunately, as of the time, he's the only one who can cast the rune due to his magic, assisted by the scepter he wields.”

  Cassian absorbed the information, a slight relief washing over him. He thought would have been better if there was a more practical approach, but it was a step towards standing a chance. “That’s good to know.”

  “Aye, but knowing and surviving are two different things, lad,” the soldier said grimly. “They’re relentless. If they come in greater numbers, even knowing how to kill them won’t save us. And I'm not even including the drakes here.”

  Cassian glanced toward the city gates, his jaw tightening.

  Before he could respond, a voice rang out from behind him. “You there! You were one of the newcomers, weren't you?”

  Cassian turned to see a regal-looking dwarf approaching, his armor adorned with intricate runes that shimmered faintly in the morning light. His presence alone commanded respect, and it didn’t take much to realize who he was.

  King Sindras.

  Cassian immediately straightened. “Your Majesty.”

  The dwarven king studied him for a moment before nodding. “You must be Wyatt’s companion. I saw you help him after my brother's antics.”

  “Yes, my name is Cassian,” he confirmed. “We came to help however we can.”

  Sindras gave him a small but approving smile. “Brave words. We need all the help we can get.” His eyes flickered to Cassian’s sword and shield, and his expression suddenly shifted, a look of curiosity replacing the earlier formality. “That weapon of yours… may I see it?”

  Cassian hesitated for a moment before nodding, unbuckling his sword and handing it over. Sindras took it carefully, running a hand over the blade’s surface. His fingers traced the metal with surprising familiarity, and then his eyes narrowed.

  “Interesting,” the king muttered. “There are inactive runes embedded in this blade… and your shield as well.” He looked up at Cassian. “These are marked weapons.”

  Cassian blinked. “Marked weapons? But how?”

  Sindras turned the sword, letting the light catch faint etchings that Cassian had never noticed before. “This work… it has the signature of Viktor.”

  Cassian furrowed his brow. “Viktor? You mean Dale's partner back in the Capital?”

  “Yes. That would be him. Dale spoke often of their work together during his time here.” Sindras explained. “Wyatt's father was the only one capable of forging marked weapons, but Viktor… he was the only other person who came close to matching his skill. Unfortunately, due to an old injury, and of course, a lack of knowledge, he was never able to make them.”

  “So… Viktor must have secretly inscribed these?”

  “Indeed,” Sindras said. “The runes aren’t active yet, but they’re there, waiting to be awakened.”

  Cassian gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling its weight differently than before. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, knowing that he too, bore something of incredible power.

  Sindras studied him further, then pointed to the shield. “That one… upon reading the scribblings, it holds immense defensive power. When fully activated, it won’t just block projectiles—it will nullify their force entirely. With proper timing, it could even redirect them.”

  Cassian’s eyes widened. “Redirect them?”

  Sindras nodded. “Yes. If you master its use, you could turn an enemy’s attack against them.”

  Cassian let out a slow breath, processing the implications. “And the sword?”

  Sindras ran his fingers over the hilt. “This one… it’s incomplete, but its markings suggest it was meant to channel something greater. If activated, you could enhance its strikes—perhaps even cut through defenses that should be impenetrable.

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  Cassian’s grip on the sword tightened. “So Viktor left me something that was meant to be completed.”

  "Aye, lad, and that was clever of him," the dwarven king chuckled. "Dale always spoke of his cunning, but I never thought I’d live to see the proof of it myself."

  Cassian frowned in confusion. "What do you mean, Your Majesty?"

  Sindras met his gaze with a knowing look. "If you weren’t aware, I possess the ability to manipulate runes. It allowed me to temporarily awaken your friend’s weapon. But in your case…" He studied Cassian’s sword and shield with interest. "I believe I can fully awaken these without issue."

  Cassian’s brows knitted together. "How? What makes Wyatt’s hammer different from the scribblings on mine?"

  Sindras let out a small, amused sigh. "Those 'scribblings' are dwarvish runes, lad. Marked weapons are usually forged with runes tied to the wielder’s people—elves have their ways, as do you humans. But these… these are our runes." His expression shifted as realization fully settled in.

  "Viktor," he murmured, shaking his head with a smirk. "The old fox… he sent these inactive runes knowing you’d eventually find me." His gaze sharpened, the weight of their situation returning. "Well, no sense wasting time. Hand them over. We have a war to fight, and we’ll need every advantage if we want to survive."

  The dwarven king ran his hand over the flat edge of the sword while the others watched in silent anticipation. As he did, the dormant markings sprang to life, pulsing with a deep hum. A brilliant glow erupted from the blade, momentarily blinding everyone in the vicinity before settling into a steady shimmer.

  The sword itself remained unchanged in appearance, but as Sindras tilted it from side to side, it emitted a sharp, resonant hum—almost as if it were slicing through the air without even moving.

  "Amazing," Cassian murmured after Sindras handed him back the sword. "But how do we know if Viktor’s runes are as precise as true dwarven craftsmanship?"

  Sindras gave him a sly look.

  "Get down," the king ordered.

  Cassian barely had time to react before Sindras made a swift slash through the air. A shockwave ripped through the hall, an invisible force that sent everyone instinctively ducking to the ground. A split second later, a thunderous crack echoed through the chamber.

  Cassian lifted his head, turning toward the far wall—where a massive section of stone had been cleanly severed, as though a giant blade had carved through it like butter.

  Sindras smirked. "Does that answer your question?"

  Cassian stared at the damage, speechless.

  The dwarven king turned his attention to the shield next. Unlike the sword, it bore only a single rune. He waved his hand over its surface, and the rune flared to life, casting the room in a brilliant light.

  "Grundar..." Sindras muttered under his breath. His eyes flickered with admiration. "This is fine work. The simpler the rune, the stronger the enchantment."

  Cassian studied his sword, now brimming with power. "What does that mean?"

  Sindras grinned. "You'll see soon enough." He straightened, then took a step back, gripping the shield firmly. "Now, let's put that sword to the test. Give me the strongest swing you've got."

  Murmurs of alarm rippled through the crowd.

  "My King! You’re not serious, are you?" a soldier blurted out.

  Sindras didn’t waver. "I am. These weapons are forged with dwarven runes—the pride of our race, the essence of our ancestry. We must see them in action. Now swing, lad! That’s a command!"

  Cassian hesitated, swallowing hard. But as Sindras braced himself, an unshakable force of confidence in his stance, Cassian felt the weight of the moment. He let out a sharp breath, tightened his grip, and with a powerful grunt, he swung the sword in a downward arc.

  The blade cleaved through the air, sending a visible shockwave hurdling toward the dwarven king. Sindras raised the shield, pivoting at just the right moment—redirecting the force of the attack as the shield cast a near-transparent veil.

  The redirected strike blasted past him, crashing into a distant mountain with a deafening roar. A moment later, the ground trembled as a small avalanche cascaded down its slopes.

  Cassian stood frozen, wide-eyed in shock.

  Sindras chuckled, lowering his shield. "Not bad, lad. Not bad at all." He dusted off his gauntlets as if he had merely deflected a training strike. "For a second there, I almost thought you were trying to kill me."

  Cassian exhaled, still gripping his sword tightly. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

  Sindras clapped him on the shoulder. "You’ve got some skill, but power is nothing without control. And that—is what you must learn." He gestured toward the distant mountain.

  "One last thing before I forget," Sindras muttered before whistling a low, rhythmic tune. At once, the sword lifted from Cassian’s grasp, hovering in the air as if responding to the call. It moved with purpose, shifting slightly as though testing its own weight—alive in a way that sent shivers down Cassian’s spine.

  "'Vindrok-Karr'—these are the runes inscribed upon this blade," Sindras declared, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. "In the human tongue, it means Galeheart. Carry it with pride, and wield it with all your heart, for you will need its company in the battles to come."

  As if acknowledging its new master, the sword hummed softly before gliding back into its scabbard. Cassian stared, still in awe, when Sindras turned to the shield and lifted it with reverence.

  "And this," he continued, running a firm hand over its surface, "is called Grundholde—or 'Unyielding Defender' in your tongue. Treat it as you would your own soul, for it will stand with you when all else falls."

  The gathered dwarves leaned in, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of admiration and awe as the king placed the shield firmly in Cassian’s grasp. Then, raising his voice for all to hear, Sindras proclaimed,

  "You now bear weapons worthy of dwarven halls and legends! See to it that you honor them, lad. Make our race proud!"

  A thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd. Before Cassian could even process what had happened, the dwarves surged forward, sweeping him up in their celebratory fervor. Despite their exhaustion, their spirits burned anew—rekindled by the sight of weapons that could tip the scales of war in their favor.

  And at the heart of it all, Cassian stood, still reeling from the whirlwind of fate that might have changed his role in this expedition, for better or worse.

  ***

  The great halls of Ghor Nheram bustled with activity in the heart of the mountain, the forge fires casting shadows that danced across stone walls and iron pillars. Cassian found himself standing within the sparring hall, the newly marked sword and shield heavy in his hands. The weapons hummed with dormant power, their runes glowing faintly beneath the forge's fiery light.

  "Are you Cassian?" A voice reached out.

  Across from him stood a dwarven warrior with arms like iron bands and a beard streaked with silver. His eyes were sharp, assessing Cassian with the scrutiny of a master craftsman inspecting a blade.

  "Yes, I am. Who are you?" He asked the dwarf.

  "I am Thrain. I heard all about what happened earlier with the king. Khandem asked me to help you master these weapons of yours." Thrain replied as he approached Cassian.

  "These are not ordinary weapons, human," Thrain said, his voice gravelly. "You do not wield them. You become one with them."

  Cassian nodded, tightening his grip. "Then show me how."

  With a grunt, Thrain lifted his own practice axe and took a stance. "Good. We begin with understanding. Hold your shield higher. These weapons bear the mark of mountain steel and ancient runes. They are heavier than what you're used to, but balanced. Trust the weight. Let it guide you."

  Cassian adjusted, feeling the weight of the shield settle more naturally against his forearm. The grip felt warm, as though responding to his touch.

  "Strike!" Thrain barked.

  Cassian swung the sword, its blade slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. But Thrain parried the strike with ease, the clang of metal ringing through the hall. "Again! Put your weight behind it. Not strength—resolve. As said, your weapon is an extension of yourself. Do not rely on the sword's power alone. With perfect timing, I can deflect your attacks without even trying."

  They moved in rhythm, a dance of blade and shield. Thrain’s attacks were relentless, testing Cassian's endurance and forcing him to adapt. Each block and parry sparked embers from their weapons, the runes flashing brighter with every clash. Cassian’s arms ached, sweat dripping down his brow, but he pressed on.

  "You feel it, boy?" Thrain asked, stepping back. "The way the blade feels weaker? It senses weakness. The shield hungers for impact. These weapons are alive with old magic. They’ll fight with you, but only if you earn their trust."

  Cassian caught his breath, nodding. "How do I do that?"

  Thrain grinned, showing teeth. "You bleed for them. You struggle. Only through trial will they awaken."

  Without warning, Thrain attacked again, faster, his strikes a blur of strength. Cassian barely kept up, his shield vibrating with each blow. A misstep sent him sprawling, the shield clattering to the stone floor. He groaned, rolling onto his back.

  Thrain stood over him, offering a hand. "You’ll fall. You'll fail. But you’ll rise. You must always rise. That is the first lesson."

  Cassian gripped Thrain’s hand and hauled himself up. His muscles screamed, but determination burned in his chest. He would master these weapons, not just for himself but for Wyatt—for the friends and soldiers who depended on him.

  "Again," Cassian said, squaring his stance. "I won’t fall next time."

  Thrain’s grin widened. "That’s the spirit, human. Again."

  And they fought. Again and again, until Cassian's arms were lead, until the weapons felt like extensions of his will. Until the runes glowed steady, no longer flickering with uncertainty but burning with purpose.

  By nightfall, Cassian stood alone in the hall, staring at his reflection in the polished surface of the shield. His face was bruised, his body battered, but his eyes held a glint of resolve. He could feel it now—the bond forging between man and weapon, the first step toward mastering the power entrusted to him.

  Thrain approached, nodding with approval. "You've done well, lad. There's fire in you yet. But training doesn't end with the blade. Come, it's time you understood why you fight."

  Curious, Cassian followed Thrain through winding corridors carved from the mountain’s heart. They passed ancient carvings and glimmering veins of ore until they returned to the massive hall where Cassian first rested his head upon arriving—the Grand Hearth. The warmth of the grand fire welcomed them, its golden flames casting light over the resting soldiers and survivors within. Stone benches lined the walls, and hearty meals were shared among dwarves and survivors alike.

  At the far end of the hall, inside a private chamber, resting upon a thick bed of pelts laid Wyatt. His face, though pale, held a steady rise and fall of breath, comforted by the hearth's heat.

  Thrain guided Cassian to a nearby bench in the halls. "Rest here," he said. "You've earned it. Your friend is in good hands."

  Cassian sat, eyes lingering on Wyatt, relief softening his features. "Do you think he'll make it?"

  "Of course. He's the son of the Ironclad. He has to." Thrain replied. "Also, the warmth of the hearth aids his recovery. The lad is stronger than he looks."

  Cassian nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "And the hearth? It's more than just fire, isn't it?"

  Thrain chuckled. "Aye, it is the heart of our home. It is where stories are shared, where strength is rekindled. Here, warriors find respite and courage alike. And here, you may reflect on your path."

  Cassian stared into the flames, feeling their warmth seep into his weary bones. "I understand. Thank you, Thrain."

  The dwarf clasped his shoulder firmly. "Rest well, Cassian. Tomorrow is a new day. For tonight, rest. If you ever find yourself unable to sleep, you're welcome to take the watch as well."

  Cassian nodded, leaning back as the golden light of the Grand Hearth bathed him in comfort. He watched the flicker of fire, thinking of his journey and the battles yet to come. But for now, in the heart of Ghor Nheram, he allowed himself a moment of peace.

  ***

  The morning light filtered through the carved stone windows of the Grand Hearth, casting golden hues over the long table where the gathering took place. The warmth of the fire still lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread. Kings Sindras and Vargas sat at the head, their expressions grave but composed. Beside them, the emissary Khandem sipped from a stone cup, his eyes sharp as he listened. Uriel, standing tall with his arms crossed, exuded a calm intensity, his mind clearly turning over the strategies discussed.

  Around them, members of the royal guard sat in quiet contemplation, eating but alert. Maps were unfurled across the table, weighted down by iron tankards, marked with small figures representing defensive lines and potential threats. The conversation was measured but urgent.

  "The western pass is the most vulnerable," Sindras said, his voice low but firm. "We’ll need more scouts positioned there by dusk."

  Vargas nodded, his fingers drumming the table. "And the rations? How long can we hold if the attacks tighten?"

  Khandem responded, his tone clipped. "We have stores enough for a fortnight, less if the lower tunnels are breached. We must consider the deeper reserves."

  Uriel's eyes narrowed. "Then we prepare. And if the darkness comes, we hold until the last flame dies."

  A silence settled briefly, heavy and resolute, until it was broken by a groan. All eyes turned as Wyatt stirred from his place near the Grand Hearth, his form wrapped in thick woolen blankets. His hair was tousled, his face pale but alive. Slowly, he entered the room, squinting against the light.

  Cassian was the first to rise, relief washing over his face. "Wyatt?"

  Wyatt blinked, his voice rough from disuse. "Where... where am I?"

  Thrain chuckled, stepping forward. "Among friends, lad. And about time you woke. We were beginning to think you'd sleep through the next war."

  A faint, dry smile touched Wyatt's lips. "Wouldn’t be the worst thing. Better than getting beat up, I guess."

  The tension in the hall eased slightly, a ripple of quiet relief passing through the gathered company. Cassian moved closer, crouching by his friend's side. "You’re safe. Rest easy, but... you woke at the right time. We have plans to make."

  Wyatt's gaze wandered to the table, the maps, the figures gathered. His eyes met Uriel's, who gave a silent, approving nod.

  "Then let’s hear them," Wyatt said, his voice gaining strength. "I'm ready."

  And with that, the company knew they were whole again, the morning's light a little brighter, their resolve a little stronger.