The gates of Krag’Dun loomed ahead like the jaws of some ancient beast, carved from the mountain itself and set with veins of black iron that caught the light in cold flashes. The air outside was thin and biting, but the air spilling from within was warm with the breath of forges and the faint scent of oil and stone-dust — the lifeblood of the dwarven stronghold.
With a grinding of ancient gearwork, the twin doors began to open. Massive stone teeth slid apart with a sound like thunder muffled by centuries. The carved faces of forgotten kings stared down from the archway, their eyes deep and shadowed.
The returning company approached in two lines, their pace steady but lacking the proud rhythm of a victorious march. The survivors of the expedition bore their armor dented and scored, streaked with soot and dust. Boots scuffed on the stone, and the clink of chainmail was muted beneath the heavy silence that had grown between them on the road back.
At their center, the idol was carried in plain view. Even swathed in a length of dark cloth, its shape was unmistakable — the proportions of a dwarven head, carved in the ancient style. The cloth did nothing to dull the strange pull it seemed to have; eyes turned to it as if by instinct.
The causeway just inside the gates was lined with workers and merchants who had stopped to watch. Smiths stepped back from their anvils, wiping blackened hands on leather aprons. Apprentices paused mid-strike, hammers held in the air. The murmur of voices rolled through the gathered crowd, a deep, layered sound that echoed off the vaulted walls.
“Ancient work, that,” an old smith whispered to the boy beside him, his beard streaked white with age and ash. His eyes were narrowed, as though he meant to commit every line of the relic’s outline to memory.
“A blessing, maybe,” the boy said, stretching on his toes to see over the heads of the crowd.
“Or an omen,” the smith muttered, his tone carrying the weight of someone who had seen omens before.
A small shape broke free from the edge of the onlookers — a young dwarf, hardly twenty years of age, rushing forward with eyes fixed on the bundle. His small hands reached out as though he meant to touch it. The bearer shifted sharply, turning his whole body to shield the relic from the boy’s grasp. The movement was quick, almost too quick, and his shoulders hunched over the object as if expecting a blow.
“Back!” the boy’s mother hissed, her voice sharp with fear. She snatched him away by the collar, pulling him into the safety of the crowd. She cast one last glance at the wrapped idol, muttered something under her breath that Tharik couldn’t catch, and turned her back on it.
Tharik walked at the head of the column, helm tucked under one arm. His gaze swept the gathered dwarves without lingering on any one face, but his attention kept returning to the bearer. The man’s fingers were white-knuckled on the bundle, pressing hard enough to crease the cloth. And as they passed under the shadow of the great arch, Tharik saw his lips move — a whisper so faint that the mountain itself might not have heard it.
They marched on, through the main artery of Krag’Dun. Overhead, the ceiling rose into darkness, supported by colossal columns etched with the names of kings and queens long dead. Torchlight shimmered off the polished basalt walls, throwing fleeting shadows that seemed to turn and watch them pass.
The sound of their boots on the stone was slow, deliberate. It echoed through the hallways like a summons. The people parted to let them through, some bowing slightly, others simply staring. No one touched the relic.
They were headed for the Hall of Ancestral Stone, and for the judgment of the High Council.
The Hall of Ancestral Stone was not built for comfort — it was built to remind all who entered that they stood in the heart of dwarven history.
The chamber stretched high into the dark, its vaulted ceiling supported by twelve columns carved into the likenesses of the First Kings. Between them, great braziers burned with smokeless flame, casting a golden-red light over the runes inlaid into the floor. Each rune marked a victory or tragedy in Krag’Dun’s long history — names of battles fought in lightless halls, oaths sworn and broken, lines of kings who had risen and fallen.
At the far end, three steps of polished granite rose to the Council dais, where the thrones of the High Elders were cut from single blocks of black basalt. They loomed as much a part of the mountain as the pillars themselves.
The three eldest councilors sat in a half-circle.
- Rorik Deephammer sat on the left, his body still broad despite the years. His armor, though ceremonial, bore the scars of a hundred battles, and his left eye was milk-white, the mark of an old wound. His right eye burned like coal under his heavy brow, watching Tharik with the sharpness of a man who had buried more friends than enemies.
- Thaldir Goldpick occupied the center throne, his thick beard braided with golden rings, his neck heavy with chains and amulets — some won by trade, some by diplomacy, and some, it was said, by political maneuver. His smile could be warm as the forge or cold as the deep stone.
- Velgor Emberflame, seated to the right, was all precision and severity. His armor was spotless, his beard trimmed to a sharp point, streaked grey and ash. He had once commanded legions before age and politics drew him to the council. Now his voice carried the weight of command without the need to raise it.
Tharik stepped into the circle of light before them, helm tucked beneath his arm. The double doors behind him shut with a heavy boom, sealing the room and silencing the faint murmurs of those gathered along the walls.
He gave his report without embellishment: the march through the Deep Roads, the skirmishes with goblin patrols, the growing madness in his men, the infiltration of the goblin nest, the black pit in its heart. He told them of Dorrin, the youngest of their company, who had thrown himself into the blackness and risen as something monstrous.
When he spoke of the dragon, the air in the room changed. A ripple of murmurs spread among the lesser councilors and the advisors seated along the periphery.
Velgor was the first to cut in, his voice clipped and cold.
“A black dragon, seen once, with no remains or trail? Not a scale or bone to prove it? You bring us nothing but a tale of shadow and fire.”
“It was no tale,” Tharik answered, his voice low but firm. “I’ve walked the Deep Roads for decades. I know a trick of the dark when I see it — and I know when something in that dark is alive and watching. That dragon is real. And the pit… was not the master of what we saw. It was only a servant.”
Rorik shifted forward in his seat, leaning on the head of his cane.
“Captain Ironstone, the nest is gone. The pit destroyed. Whatever remains — if it remains — lies beyond our reach. Our people are weary, our stores are not as they once were, and our enemies press us on other fronts. And yet you bring back something of great worth to our people’s past. That should be our focus.”
Thaldir’s voice slid in smoothly, almost soothing.
“Indeed. The idol is a gift from the mountain itself, perhaps returned to us in our time of need. It will be preserved in the Hall of Relics and studied by the Loremasters. Let this be the victory we give our people — not more fear of the deep.”
“It is not fear I bring,” Tharik said sharply, “it is warning. I have seen movement in those tunnels — orcs and goblins fighting together. Not in chaos, not in desperation, but with discipline. That kind of unity does not happen without a will driving it.”
Velgor’s hand came up, silencing him.
“Enough. You’ve done what was asked and more. But we will not commit lives and steel on your ‘gut feeling.’”
The words hit harder than Tharik expected. He took a breath, but Rorik was already speaking again.
“Captain Tharik Ironstone — for your service, for the lives brought home, and for returning this relic to its rightful place — you will be honored before the people. Your post in the Death Legion is restored, with full honors and privileges.”
The braziers hissed softly in the quiet before the applause came. It rolled through the chamber, warm and final, a sound meant to close the matter.
Tharik stood in the center of it, the noise washing over him without sinking in. In his mind, he could still see the unnatural stillness in the Deep Roads, feel the memory of the whispers curling at the edge of his hearing. The council might consider the matter finished. He knew it wasn’t.
The honors felt hollow.
They’d draped the black-and-gold cloak of the Death Legion over his shoulders in the Hall of Ancestral Stone, the gold thread catching the braziers’ light like fire in the weave. Rorik Deephammer himself had clasped Tharik’s forearm and called him “Ironstone” in the old way, the name that had once meant strength and certainty. The assembled warriors and council members had applauded, voices echoing in the great hall.
Tharik had stood through it, his face steady, but the sound seemed distant — like hearing the clang of a hammer through thick stone.
That night, in the stillness of his quarters, the weight of the cloak felt more like a chain than an honor. He sat on the edge of his bed, still in his undershirt, staring at the folded colors draped over the chair. The runes carved into the wall above him cast faint shadows from the lantern’s light.
When sleep finally took him, it was no relief.
He dreamed of the Deep Roads again, though the torchlight was gone. He walked in vast, vaulted caverns where the shadows themselves breathed. The black pit seethed ahead of him, its surface splitting to reveal Dorrin’s face — pale, scaled, and smiling with teeth too sharp to be his own.
From the depths beneath, something stirred. A shape so vast it made the cavern seem small shifted and coiled, its skin black as polished obsidian. Two molten eyes opened, and in that moment Tharik knew he had been seen.
He woke with a sharp breath, staring at the ceiling. The whispers from the dream clung to the edges of the room, fading only as he sat up. His palm was damp with sweat where it gripped the bedframe.
Morning brought no reprieve. The Death Legion wasted no time returning him to duty — caravans missing, miners unaccounted for, patrols finding signs of goblin activity in the west. Tharik led his unit without hesitation, but found himself glancing into shadows more often than before, listening for whispers that didn’t come.
One mission took them into the fractured southern tunnels to retrieve a trapped group of miners. To get there, they had to break through a skirmish that stopped Tharik cold in the middle of it — orcs and goblins fighting side by side.
It wasn’t the usual chaos. The orcs didn’t charge in a blind rage; the goblins didn’t scatter in all directions. They covered each other’s flanks, shifted in small units, and even withdrew in formation when pressed.
It was wrong. Coordinated.
When the last of them fell, Tharik stood over the body of an orc, noting the strange series of cuts carved into its armor — deliberate patterns, not battle damage. They reminded him of the erratic yet purposeful behavior of the creatures in the goblin nest.
On the march back, one of his soldiers, a scarred veteran with a voice like gravel, glanced over with a grin.
“Feels good to have the old Ironstone back at the front again, sir.”
Tharik gave a curt nod but said nothing. His mind was still on the enemy’s movements, and on the pit’s black surface rippling in his dreams.
They were still within sight of Krag’Dun’s gates when the gate sergeant approached, his pace brisk but his expression guarded. He saluted sharply, but there was a weight behind his eyes that told Tharik this wasn’t a routine report.
“Captain Ironstone,” the sergeant began, lowering his voice, “there’s a matter you’ll want to hear before you head to the barracks.”
Tharik slowed, signaling his men to continue ahead without him. “Go on.”
“A prisoner. Half-orc. Found standing alone outside the outer wall this morning. The patrol challenged him, ordered him back. He refused.” The sergeant hesitated, his jaw flexing as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase the next part. “Instead… he invoked the Korr Vathruk.”
Tharik stopped in his tracks. “The duel of honor?”
The sergeant nodded once. “Not in broken words, either. Perfect phrasing. Old dialect. Like someone raised in our halls.”
Tharik’s brow furrowed. “The guard accepted?”
“He did. They fought. Wasn’t a long bout, but it wasn’t one-sided. The half-orc fought clean — technical, precise. He won.”
Tharik’s eyes narrowed. “And the guard?”
“Alive. The half-orc disarmed him, forced him to one knee… then recited the Varrun-Koth.”
That made Tharik’s chest tighten. The Varrun-Koth was not just an old custom — it was a ritual recitation only taught to dwarves who had passed the warrior’s trial, a rite so sacred many of the younger generation had never even heard it in full. That a half-orc could speak it perfectly was… impossible.
“He claimed his victory,” the sergeant continued, “but honored the guard as a worthy opponent and warrior. By the old words, the guard’s name remains unstained.”
“And the council?” Tharik asked.
“They don’t know what to make of him. Some say spy, some say deserter from an orc warband who learned too much. Others think he’s mad. For now, they’ve locked him in the lower cells until a decision’s made.” The sergeant paused, then added, “He gave a name — Durok.”
The name settled in Tharik’s mind like a dropped stone, sending slow ripples outward. He thought of the southern tunnels, of orcs and goblins fighting as one. He thought of the discipline he’d seen, the strange coordination, the deliberate patterns in their movements.
“I want to speak to him,” Tharik said, his voice steady but edged with iron. “Now.”
The sergeant didn’t argue. He simply turned and led the way toward the dungeon stair.
The stone steps spiraled downward, each echo of their boots swallowed by the cool, stale air of the lower levels. Torches guttered in wall brackets, their flames bending as though reluctant to light the path. Somewhere ahead, behind iron bars and thick doors, waited the half-orc who had fought like a dwarf, spoken like a dwarf, and known words that had not been heard in the open for generations.
Tharik’s hand tightened on the haft of his axe as they descended. Whatever Durok was, he was no ordinary prisoner. And if Tharik’s instincts were right, this meeting would bring answers… but not the kind that set a man’s mind at ease.
Chronicles of Astravara 
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