Borin Stonehand led the way, his heavy tread echoing the frantic, desperate hammering of his own heart. He pushed open a massive, rune-etched iron door, revealing a chamber that was a stark contrast to the fire and fury of the forge.
Grymla's sickroom was a place of deep, silent sorrow. The stone walls were hung with heavy, dark tapestries depicting ancient dwarven legends, their vibrant colors muted by the dim, sorrowful light filtering through a single, high window. The air was cool and still, thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the faint, metallic tang of the curse itself.
