Our tale begins as so many often do. In a world saddled with strife. Uthil'Tal, a divided continent. Drawn by rising mountain spines that carve through jungle and tundra alike. Rivers that act as the life blood of many a civilization. And the sword, crimson bled and white knuckle handled. 

Dividing the Plain Lands of Avierno and the Blood Teeth Valley of Galicia are the dreary Three Peaks Mountains. Home to the cyclops, powerful in stature and vengeful of man's grip on the world. The dragon, worshipped by many, feared by more. And the dwarves of the east. Their expansive kingdom, as glorious as it is secluded, remains an envy of the world.

As the conflicts grows, consuming all in its path, desperation grows in its shadow. Galicia seeks allies; weapons for the war front, bodies for the crush, and trade to ensure that the coffers do not empty. In the foothills of the Three Peaks Thaig, the capital of the Dwarf Kingdom East, a rather important dwarf carries a rather important missive. One that will usher great change. 

The late summer breeze toyed with the smoke radiating off the Campfire, whirling amid drooping trees under a gold dripped sun. Yellow warmed the horizon behind clouds so close they threatened to smother the lake afront of Three Peaks Thaig. With a puff from his long stem pipe, Khadrin Kazzad soaked in his home. He had returned.

Khadrin was a surly looking fellow, with a grim expression always close at hand, a mask he hid behind, sewn into his very being. He was a rich tan hue, deeper still thanks to the kiss of the sun from spending so much time above the crust of the world. His onyx braids interwove above his shoulders, traditional displays one would find in the trendy elite caste that oversaw the dwarven kingdom. They connected to a bouncy moustache that covered his entire mouth, and proud of it he was, sitting at home under his plump nose.

It smelled of earthy scented oil given to him from the wealthy trading families of northern Galicia, where he had spent the last year of his life. It was clamped and netted, as was proper, and rubbed with fine gem dust; that was proper too. Between pipe suckles, he mimicked the birds. They didn't have birds under the stone; only bats. Among other animals, domesticated and feral both. He learned to love the birds. The humans had a weird history with them. Some they called omen. Dire and like to reach into the fabric of fate and tear it for the worse. Others they felt were blessings and messenger from the God of the earth. A proper god. Not like the one Galician's most liked to worship; Betatune, the demi goddess of peace and war. That and most other things really. Her father was the earth. Her mother was the ocean. Or so the stories go. But the way they elevated Her, she got all the rest of creation. 

A Morningstar and shield combo laid comfortably beside the camp. They were ornate, deadly, and historied. He liked to think he was  the same. No wonder he had such a fondness for them. While he was out on the road, he chose to wear his armor out of an abundance of caution. Especially so close to the frontline of the, seemingly endless, border dispute between Galicia and Avierno. His eyes were always on the look out for a war band coming down from the mountain range.

His filigree encased armor was not the most comfortable of choices to wear on the road but rather an impenetrable fortress than an easily killed thing. Khadrin was stubborn about not wanting to be the latter. After the long journey home, he had grown accustom to the discomfort. He may not have been warden caste but he was made of steel just the same. Or at least, that's what he told himself when he woke up with an achy back and a sore butt. 

“Khadrin.” A voice spoke from the tree line. A dwarf maid leaned on a double sided war ax. The war ax was wrapped with a ruby dyed guard and was sharpened to a wicked edge that cut through bone as if it were nothing but sand. She let out a sharp sigh and said “I had hoped to find you cooking dinner.” Brunhild Signe. A Shield Hand. Warden Caste promised to an individual in a pledge of honor and protection. For that reason, the dwarf maid would be by his side until he was entombed with his ancestors. 

He shrugged. “There is coffee in the pot.” He pointed to a piping hot kettle sitting just beyond the fire’s touch. “Not as good as the humans make it but it will have to do until we return, Brunhild.”

She threw her axe over her shoulders with a huff and marched to the fire, staring absently into its blaze. Brunhild had a pale complexion, reddened by the sun and the heat both. She wore long braids of grey and brown that dangled like fingers on her back and nearly touched her knees. Thick stubble coated her angular face. Rounded emerald green eyes reflected the fire.

"I'm eager to lay my head under stone.” She remarked. “Been too long.” She let the axe fall with one hand and unfurled a stale biscuit from its paper covering. Mindlessly she chewed through another mediocre meal. 

“I look forward to supping with Matron Signe.” Khadrin remarked. 

Brunhild let out a snort. “You can have her. We can trade mothers.”

“I like my mum.” He replied with a smile. 

“Typical.” She said, “No one ever trades mothers with me.”

“Maybe hold off on the trade until our business is done.” He said. “Doubtful my mother will be pleased with what we are doing here.”

“My mother’s never pleased. At least you get some reprieve from it.” She said with a defeated expression. “Still. You may be right. Tis grim words we carry.”

“Shall we get on with it then?” He asked. She nodded and pointed towards the road leading up the mountain. In the distance they could see specks along the trail. Trade caravans, mercenaries, journeymen. Those who lived above the crust were making the most of the final light of the day. Khadrin surmised that there was only an hour left of twilight before nightfall.

The pair took a few moments to gather their belongings and double check their travel packs. He secured his morning star on his indigo colored sash, a gift from his cousin in the royal household. He gave it to Khadrin when he departed for the surface all those years ago and it had been his stalwart companion ever since.

Khadrin and Brunhild plodded along the trail, carved to mimic the natural contours of the range while still pointing true towards the grand doorways of the thaig. Tonight, the moons hid behind a veil of stars as if they were blushing brides, leaving only the promise of light amid heavy darkness. It took a few moments for Khadrin’s eyes to adjust to the near total black of their journey but his dwarven heritage allowed him to see in the caverns below where only fungi and lava veins glowed. As far as he was concerned, this wasn’t even an inconvenience.

Two hours went by in relative silence. An occasional joke or passing comment on something they saw or hoped to see soon was all that was said. Largely, the pair enjoyed the rhythmic nature of the march. There was joy in feeling the strain of their muscles and the relief that came with cool air against their sweating brows.

Eventually the road joined them with a traveling caravan of human traders from Galicia. Tired eyes from on high registered their coming with little interest. Two lone dwarves on the outskirts of the capital city road wasn’t anything to concern themselves with. They wore head scarves to protect from the heat and half masks as was the fashion statement of the time. Three wagons laden with wares and donkeys carrying an assortment of bags clogged the road. Ten armed mercenaries spread among the group. Seven humans, two dwarves, and an ork.

The pair of dwarves approached Khadrin and Brunhild, hailing them in their native dwarf tongue. “Hirgrim, God of the road, guide your steps.” The older of the pair, a dwarf maid with short cropped hair and a lavishly braided moustache said. She carried a human sword and a small buckler on her back. The younger of the pair, what was likely a family member given their resemblance to one another, eyed them up and down, hand on his sword belt.

“Stone keep you, dwarfmaid.” Brunhild remarked. “Where are you traveling from?” She eyed the caravan behind them.

“We came up the Crab River from Teruel.” She said warmly.

Brunhild nodded. “Any news?”

The dwarf maid scratched at her stubbly chin. “The wall is awash with mercenaries now that war has broken out in the Shimmering Isles again. I feel like I can scarcely breathe in that city now. The Theocracy is insistent on keeping the trade route with the Bara Bara open despite whose on the other side of them.”

“Caravan jobs must be a reprieve from the looming war across the channel.” Brunhild remarked.

The dwarf maid agreed. “Aye. They pay more too. Most hired hands are either supplementing the military or patrolling the border.” She smiled wickedly. “I get to name the price now and I ain’t cheap.” She looked at Khadrin, who had been silent. “And speaking of, who do I have the pleasure of sharing Hirgrim’s blessings with?”

Brunhild crossed her arms and glanced at Khadrin. He had been examining the pair closely. Their tabards were well kept and their weapons polished and clean. Their travel clothes, while dirty, were not patchy or stained with old gore. The young dwarf had a bald head with a geometric tattoo over it and a beard that only covered his chin. He had shifty eyes. Eager for a fight. The dwarf maid on the other hand, was cold and steady.

Ultimately they looked like they were simple mercenaries from a rough city such as Teruel but they didn’t seem like bandits who’d string them up for the promise of gold. Likely the pair were exiles, or born of exiled clan. Who knows how long they lived above the crust. Mayhap they never even been under it. He glanced over to Brunhild and gave her the look. Brunhild took a single step forward and put her hands on her hips. The older dwarf maid's expression changed. She knew the significance of a herald. 

“You travel with a member of the fourth house of Clan Kazzad.” Brunhild said boldly. The young dwarf looked taken aback. Some of the human companions dawdling nearby stared in their direction; curious at the display. The older dwarf maid closed her fist on her forehead and bowed slightly. “Forgive my lack of decorum.” She raised her head and gestured inward. “I am Toreka UnderRiver and this is my son, Torik.” Torik, the young dwarf, mimicked his mother with a little less grace. Importantly to Khadrin, Torik's hand did not return to his sword belt. A welcome change. Toreka continued “We would be honored to share some of our provisions with you.”

Brunhild waited for Khadrin's nod before she answered, “We accept your hospitality, exile.” If the label upset Toreka, she hid it well. While Brunhild stated it matter of fact, the exiled moniker was a sore subject to most. The offer accepted, Toreka stood taller, looking a more dignified dwarf maid. She gestured for them to follow her back to her wagon.

She whispered something to Torik and he hopped into a full speed run towards the caravan. He carried on an excited conversation out of earshot until the caravan leader shouted for the group to halt. Toreka walked over to the nearest wagon and pulled down a step ladder. Atop the lip of the cart, she undid the binding cord around the canvas sheet and disappeared inside. Brunhild and Khadrin waited in silence until an excited looking human man returned with Torik.

He wore a long brimmed hat to cover his olive tan skin and had a thin line mustache just above a thick upper lip. Humans were tall but this one seemed to tower over them. He rubbed the fronts of supple burgundy colored clothes, not normally worn during travel. “Hirgrim, the dwarven god of travel, grants his many blessings upon me.” The man had a grandiose voice, exuberant and eager. “Please, allow me the honor of sharing my name with you of clan Kazzad.” He said it in a practiced yet stilted dwarf language. 

Brunhild nodded. “You may.” She replied in the common tongue.

At the sound of common speech, he let out a sigh. "I am Guillermo Josean Silla of Teruel.” He offered the same fist to forehead bow gesture as Toreka. “My caravan has some of the finest wine from Santiago’s vineyards and the robust tobacco Valencia is known for. If it pleases you, It would be a great honor to indulge in these luxuries with you.”

Khadrin thought about the coffee he had a few hours earlier. He was accustomed to the human drink and sorely missed a human’s touch at making it. Brunhild stared at him with subtle excitement behind her eyes. Khadrin finally spoke. He spoke in the Galician tongue as naturally as any human of their country with education might. Although his language was influenced by the northern dialect of the Hornwood region as opposed to the southeastern Crab River region.

“Hail, Senior Silla. I am Ambassador Khadrin of the fourth house of Clan Kazzad. It would please me to break bread with you and share in the richness of your homeland.” At that, the man smiled with glee and as if on cue the back of the wagon opened to reveal a small but lavish display of hospitality. Four wine goblets were placed on a raised table placed at the center of the staging area. The benches had been stowed into the wall and four supple cushions circled their dinner. Slices of ham and cuts of cheese were arranged amongst picked cherries and oranges. Toreka stood alongside a young woman who looked scarcely older than thirteen. She wore simple serving clothes and an apron.

Guillermo, Toreka, Brunhild, and Khadrin took their places one by one around the table and waited for the wine to be poured before leisurely partaking in their meal. Khadrin made no effort to hide his pleasure. He had grown accustomed to the fine foods of the capital city in Cuenca. While this was no extravagant festival fare, it was leaps and bounds better than the trail rations he and Brunhild had been scarfing down. 

"So, If I may be so bold as to inquire, Senior Dwarf, The human said before taking a sip of wine, "Are you returning home from your ambassadorship in the capital city?"

Brunhild tipped her goblet high but eyed the dwarf nervously. He noted her concern. But sooner or later, all the world was bound to know his news. For his kind gesture of hospitality, Senior Silla the traveling merchant was about to become a privileged individual, burdened with knowledge very few knew. 

"I'm afraid I come bearing the most dire of news." Khadrin began...  

A marvel of engineering. A bold statement of artistry. A realization of a centuries of hard earned practice in the craft. All things he would like to think people say about him. But alas, they were speaking about the entranceway to Three Peaks Thaig.

The dwarf warden standing guard at his post was more moustache than dwarf. His squat eyes barely peeked through his overhanging helmet visor and when he spoke, only his facial hair bristled, sounds coming from his general direction the only way you knew he was talking. He was armed with a long pole ax that had a knife blade etched into a dragon's claw. His midnight black armor had trace amounts of bronze highlighting its edges and mimicking a horse mane over his head.

"Alright, My lord Ambassador." The dwarf handed the credential papers back to Brunhild. "Glad you made it when you did. Reports of wyvern spawn hunting just over the mountain," He pointed behind his shoulder. "has everyone on edge."

"Hirgrim be praised, He saw fit not to throw those wretched beasts upon our path." Brunhild said, looking at Khadrin with a melting grimace. She took the papers and gently placed them in a pocket sown inside her bag hidden from all the rest.

The Warden Captain took a small chisel and rhythmically tapped onto a circular extension of the door. Like a coiled snake waking from its slumber, the geometric patterns cast at the center of the massive entrance silently slithered every which way. Khadrin didn’t even hear the lock. It opened wide enough to accommodate siege engines within its gem riveted frame. Just letting their caravan inside made it seem comically impractical. Mesmerizing though. He couldn't tear his eyes away. 

A singular tunnel revealed itself. The passageway seconded as a stone chiseled history of Three Peaks Thaig, and in essence, the greater Dwarven Kingdom of the East. Stone stories carved masters of the masters had begun after the death of the first king and was complete only after the death of the second. It was a triumph centuries in the making.

It displayed the birth of the mountain gods. The sealing of the Unnamable One, an anathema be upon any who dare speak it. The tragedy of Durrighan, the God of artistry. The sorrow of Hirgrim that created the tear soaked valleys. The chronicle of Gungborg and her chosen champions, in the eternal Veil War.  Sheer grit and determination shaped this place into a sacred song of his people. 

The sound of the wagon wheels echo seemed profane against the silence. The caravan was illuminated by iridescent fungi, cultivated by generations of careful oversight. An eye pleasing bloom of colors warmed the dark chambers. Even though Dwarves could see in the limitless black of the under crust; they still had the desire to please Durrighan through art. A holy offering imprinted deep in the psych.

Brunhild Signe surveyed the work of thousands upon thousands of hours with a content sigh. Incense plates burned in alcoves built into the columns. A handful of prayers were being offered by fellow travelers. Thanks rose into the stuffy, recirculated air and seeped into the stone. The mountain had welcomed them in a tender embrace that betrayed a harsh exterior.

Brunhild stopped and lit a candle from a long stemmed reed that glowed red at the tip. “I’m home.” Was all she said. 

Someone was watching him. Khadrin thumbed his belt, years of practice inside the Catedral De Cuenca, where the most prominent politicians of the country waged a war of words with one another, had beaten the discomfort of prying eyes out of him.  Waiting around corners and listening for leverage. It wasn’t dissimilar to Three Peaks politics. Granted, there was less bloodshed. A lot less bloodshed. Down the mountain strongholds, the pen was seldom mightier than the ax. 

Mercenary Captain Toreka had her eyes on him but was tactful enough to leave them be amongst the donkey led tide. No doubt orders from her opportunistic employer. Guillermo’s trading caravan filled the hall around them. He would have to be as dull as unpolished stone to turn away the possible payout of having trade connections with a Kazzad. No, the man wasn't letting Khadrin out of sight. 

A walking tract hugged where the walls touched the ceiling. Warden caste peered from behind iron visors. Crossbows trained down on their location. If Khadrin was not mistaken, there were more of them than when he left. The growing conflicts above the stone ceiling had put the Warden Commander on edge. Another siege was not entirely out of the question. Khadrin’s jaw clenched. In fact, it’s more likely than the Warden Commander assumed.

A secondary interior door loomed ahead. A mirrored companion to the entrance door above. The artisanship was similar and functioned identically. A series of fortifications braced the ceiling surrounding the doorframe. Crossbow bolt heads poked out of kill holes. Goldwyrms hung their weapons over the battlements; dragon mouthed tubes of metal that belched fire over surprisingly long distances, propelled by a mixture of black powder and gas. A delegate of the dwarves waited patiently at the door. He was flanked on both sides by stoneborne. Rock hewn golems brought to life by the glowing runes etched into their form. They were three times the size of the tallest of the group. Their unchanging expressions showcased a perpetual state of rage. 

“State your business.” The gatekeeper said firmly. 

“We seek an audience with the High Queen Paragon.” She went about listing the official titles of Khadrin. It was the same process that they went through to enter the first gate. But what were titles if not built upon useless formalities. So the gatekeeper did his job and patiently waited his turn.

“Clan Kazzad has been made aware of your arrival.” He finally stated. The long corridor wasn’t just a history lesson. Everyone who needed to know of Khadrin’s coming was already briefed by envoys. 

“Thank you, kin.” Brunhild remarked.  

A moment passed before the gatekeeper inquired about the Silla caravan. “Are the upper crusters with you?” 

Brunhild shook her head. “No. But they have the commendation of Clan Kazzad. If they pass their inspection and their credentials are valid, then provide them with a trade voucher for our pyramid.”

“As you request, esteemed ambassador.” The gatekeeper looked at Khadrin even though it was his second who had been speaking. Khadrin acknowledged him with a slight nod. The Gatekeeper, Short even for a dwarf, pale white of skin, and red of eyes,  tapped the door in the same manner as his predecessor.

Once inside, the doors closed behind them with nary a thud. The entire cavern was washed in vibrant glows of every color thanks to the cultivated fungi. The spired dome ceiling was held aloft by massive carvings of gods Hirgrim, Durrighan, and Gungborg. Inverted pyramid style clan housing circled the central stairwell bottoming out to the HammerGold district’s pool of lava. 

Three Peaks' only sanctioned place for outsiders was an open air bazaar that sat on a loft overlooking the city in all its splendor. That was where the tunnel led. The hubbub was near overwhelming. Traders from all over Uthil’tal hawked their wares; rather, what wares were not claimed by the High Queen Paragon’s clan.

Performers from the Shimmering Isles danced with fire sticks in thin wound grass skirts and flowing caramel colored linen shirts. Some of the women were adorned with red rings of tattoos on their arms and the men had intricate black linework on their chests. They had ruddy brown skin tones and smelled of the ocean. They spun tall tales of fire gods and the dreaded manangal. They sold spicy fruits not found anywhere else, rare woods deep from the islands, and sea glass made trinkets that sparkled turquoise. 

The Wyrmfolk from Vung Tao shouted from unfurled rugs of wholesale supplies. Their dragon fire jewelry was highly coveted for its living metal like appearance and ever since The Dragon Throne gifted a fine necklace to the High Queen Paragon, they have become increasingly rare. The people of Vung Tao wore floor length rose satin gowns that hugged their shape; trimmed by wheat thread and cuffed with rich hues of lily. They hid their faces with wide brimmed hats made of tightly wound straw. Some were humans but most were of the sizable reptilian race that gave their country its moniker; Wrymlings.

The Goliath giant kin from Avierno shouted from hastily constructed stalls. Their stone skin grey hues were accented by crimson colored skirts and egg white stockings. Long sleeve blouses, beautifully embroidered with flowers, were a trademark of their kind. Their women wore matching veils while the men wore onyx colored vests and flat square capped hats that drooped over their heads. They sold bundles of grain, wool, and fish. They offered expert carpentry services to any who could afford them. Their sturdy lumber was used in many war axes and hammer hilts.

The reclusive Dunelves of Tamim Sand Dunes stood behind carved statues of near immaculate recreations that one might think were genuinely alive. While they did a smattering of expected wares, most of what they bothered to lug out of the desert was their world renown sandstone art. Khadrin couldn’t think of anyone else who had garnered the respect of the guild crafters like the Dunelves. Lithe figures of dark shades of skin. They hid their mouths behind thin kerchiefs and draped jewelry down their rabbit-like ears. They wore flowing pants made of breathable linen and oversized shirts that kept the sand off them. The humans of Tamim wore similar garb but instead of pants they wore dresses and bundled their long hair up in turbans.

And of course, there were the vibrant people of Galicia. Humans near to the last with the occasional exiled dwarf. Vats of dye pigment running the color spectrum made their stalls a popular shopping stop. Their well bred draft and war horses were penned and closely guarded. People bought their baked pastries by the dozen and ran off to spoil their children with. They wore puffy multi striped pants and had quaffs on their necks and shoulders. Their bulbous caps were topped with jingling jewels and every single one wore some type of ceramic mask as that was the latest fashion.

Khadrin took a deep breath and tried not to get side tracked. He wanted to settle into his clan pyramid before seeing his royal cousin. The pair walked through the myriad of merchants and made their way down the central stairwell. Leaving behind the sounds of the foreigners, the familiar song of Three Peaks began.  He had been gone for too long but it all came rushing back to him. From the distant hammer falls and the bubbling lava to the hems and haws of the labor oxen. The deep throated, guttural language of his people flowing out of open doorways and windows, like a warm hug against his weary soul. The rhythmic hum of life under the mountain.

He was home.

High Queen Paragon Ambrri Voran looked comfortable in opulence. As if she was born with a crown on her head. She had ruled for nearly a century, currying the favor of her people with a firm but benevolent reign. Like centuries past, the dwarves persevered by clinging to tradition. It was their beacon in the dark. Ambrri Voran was more than a dwarf maid. She was tradition. The past made flesh and bone. A living symbol. She carried that weight with gravitas.

Her onyx colored skin was draped in thin mesh veils that sparkled a thousand times over. She wore a long robe of lavender and gold thread that draped down the Throne of the Ancestors. The Crown of Gungborg shone in abundance, rare gems of rainbow shades atop long braids of black hair. Trinkets banded a lush braided beard that extended past her waist. Thick lips pursed tight under deep set eyes of bronze. 

She sat up straight as an arrow, eyeing Khadrin with a degree of amusement. The Paragon Scepter, gold plated, rune engraved, and topped with a red beryl oiled and shined to perfection, stood at attention in her grasp. The red beryl itself was constantly rotating, turned by internal mechanisms. Long strips of satin tied around the golden shaft, hanging a colorful assortment of gem carved emblems.

If one was enamored by the regal nature of the queen, then the hearing chamber itself dwarfed the dwarf by comparison. Behind the throne was a relief painting the size of the entire back wall; Three Peaks Mountain immaculately recreated.  The room glittered with a dozen chandelier reflections utilizing a series of tiny tunnels and mirrors that vented up to the surface. This architectural feat allowed sunlight to bleed through stained glass ceilings, resulting in a cacophony of color. 

The sizable chamber was quiet, only a sparse collection of dwarves had gathered. An ancient looking scribe with a balding mop of white and a dragging beard stood at the bottom of the elevated platform the Throne of the Ancestors resided on. He carried a massive book, possibly older than he was, and an exaggeratingly large quill. 

The throne bearers known as Emeraldguard stood watch. These elite wardens were the queen’s ever present shadow, ready to defend at a moment’s notice. Their glowing rune armor was tinted green and their helmet visors were encrusted with emeralds. They had a matching set of warhammers and shields passed down from generation to generation.

The unspoken oppression of leadership cowed everyone there to speak only when spoken to. Khadrin waited patiently alongside his second, Brunhild. They had changed out of their travel clothes, bathed in the salt pits, and spritzed themselves with perfume. Their hair had been oiled to perfection and they wore the colors of Clan Kazzad, black and burgundy. Brunhild kept staring at the Emeraldguard with jealousy. Khadrin paid her little mind. 

Finally, the High Queen Paragon Ambrri Voran, A distant cousin of his, spoke in a motherly tone. “Cousin Ambassador. It has been many years since you have graced us with your presence. It is good to see you well. You look strong.” She gripped her fist. “And healthy. The Skylands have kept you full.”

“Stone blessing be upon you, High Queen Paragon.” Khadrin replied. “The humans have been generous with their hospitality.”

“Good.” She smiled. “For not only do you represent your clan, Ambassador, but all of dwarfdom. They must respect you, for if they do not…” She let the statement hang.  

“The Theocracy, for all its faults, is still a crown jewel up above the crust. They are adept politicians even with their love of the spear.” 

“Yes. I've had each of your reports read to me.” She said in a serious tone. “Warmongers and zealots. But they're rich in gold and manners. And, more importantly, they covet what we provide. The bounties of the mountain.”

Khadrin felt pressure growing inside his chest. “I'm afraid that's not all they wish of us.”

He hesitated. The change in the air was palpable. Ambrri waited for him to continue. If he had to pin down the sensation, it would be as if he was drowning in mud. He swallowed hard and croaked. “They have invoked the old treaties.”

The faint scribblings of the busy scribe halted. He looked up with a curious arched brow. Ambrri stared down hard. She mused over the simple statement. Six words. A lifetime of consequences. The grip on her scepter white knuckled. Khadrin procured a tube from his satchel. He unscrewed the lid and slid out a rolled up piece of parchment. It was sealed by a wax stamp of the flaming horse and spear. The emblem of the Theocratic Government of Galicia. 

“The Treaty of Alesund.” She proclaimed. 

“The very same.” He said. 

The EmeraldGuard exchanged glances. 

“Come forth.” Ambrri said. Khadrin slowly stepped towards her. The EmeraldGuard all shifted as one. Their boots echoed like war drums. Khadrin kneeled before her. She took the paper and popped the seal. He took a step back and waited with baited breath. Ambrri read the missive and then let her arm fall onto her lap. She closed her eyes, yet behind them were the  rapid skittering of distressed thoughts. “Khadrin,” she said without opening them. She chewed on the end of her mustache before finally breaking the silence. “How desperate is the Papacy?”

Khadrin mulled it over. Turning every word in his head as if it were a diamond in need of cutting. “They fear the Merchant Lords of Borden’Lau will formally join the war. The Theocracy is about to suspend trade papers and declare all ships sailing under the Borden’lau flag hostile in response to the Merchant Lords selling warships to the Aviernishi.”

Ambrri grumbled. “Borden’Lau has defence treaties with Spoleto.” 

Khadrin nodded affirmatively. “They’re in the throes of civil war though. They may not answer the call.”

“But if they do…” Ambrri remarked slowly. “Is the Theocracy invoking any other treaties?”

He cleared his throat. “Kilab is eager to expand into Paratay. The Sultanate has already sent their emissaries to the capital city of Cuenca to discuss an alliance. There are whispers of a southern assault, supplemented by mercenaries from the coast. As for their other neighbors; Tamim has never been one for war, my Liege. The Dunelves are content to play in the sand and sculpt pretty things for their sunken gods. And the Dragon Prince of Vung Tao turns his animosity north towards Odishma.” He rubbed his chin. “Lastly, The Shimmering Isles. The colony chaff under their new master's thumb. Many still remember a time before Galician rule.”

Ambrri sank into the throne, deep in thought. The sagging weight of world affairs is burdensome. Once more she closed her eyes. “You're to join the Council as we discuss this further.”

“Of course, kin. It is an honor to serve.” He said. 

“We are slow to muster. I will send a message to you when we're ready. Until then, do not stray far from me.”

“It shall be done,” He said. 

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. 

He stepped down the marbled stairs. 

“Cousin.” The Queen’s voice echoed. 

Khadrin turned around and waited for her to continue. 

“When the horns of war bellow under the mountain, will you stand beside the Throne of Ancestors?”

The dwarf blinked in confusion. Ambrri stared at him with deep, contemplative eyes. They burned like hot bronze against his psyche. 

“Cousin…” He stammered

“High Queen Paragon.” She corrected him.

“High Queen Paragon,” He said, “My loyalty is as strong as dragon forged steel. I live amongst humans but I am not them. I am yours to command.”

“You have served me faithfully all these years at the behest of the first house of Clan Kazzad.” She stopped. Khadrin squinted his eyes, waiting for more. Another sentence that did not come. Instead she waved him away from the throne with one hand. Khadrin stepped down onto the floor and marched out without looking back.

“What was that?” Brunhild whispered nervously upon approach.

Khadrin stared at his boots. “I don’t know.”

Brunhild put a hand on his shoulder. He stopped short. Her grasp slid down to hold his hand. She smiled warmly at him. He looked at their hands. He hadn’t realized that he had been shaking. He took a deep breath and steadied his resolve. She let go of his hand and gave him a nod. He returned the gesture. 

“You think she means to break the treaty with Galica?” She whispered.

He shrugged. “Why else would she question my loyalty if not for a possible war of retribution with the Theocracy?” He hesitated. “Unless…someone is feeding her lies.”

“Falsehoods?” She spat. “Someone seeks to usurp you?”

Khadrin mused the thought over. Tradition is the foundation of dwarven leadership. To question it, to challenge it, is seen as dishonorable to the ancestors. And honor is paramount. Under the mountain, an unspoken game was played; a game of life and death. Played with vials of poison and daggers in the dark. 

Khadrin had stumbled into a spider’s web. He felt it stick underneath his heel. He felt the spider looming in the dark, silently waiting. Eager for a meal. Why now, he wondered. Who would benefit from feeding his cousin a lie? He couldn’t help but tug on the web. It was his life, after all. Was he the target, or was he a stepping stone to someone grander? Just how complex a web had been woven? He heard the bristling hair. The groan of the web under the pressing weight of a spider he knew was there but could not see.

Was he cunning enough to escape the trap? Or was he prey, unknowingly resting in the shade of a much larger predator?