Following the faint, mysterious tracks southwest across the glacier felt like chasing ghosts. The prints were shallow, expertly placed to take advantage of harder ice patches and wind-scoured rock outcrops, suggesting the makers were skilled in navigating this treacherous terrain, moving with purpose and care. They were booted prints, smaller than the Ashfang's heavy tread, more deliberate than the silent hunters' efficient stride. There were perhaps two or three individuals, Kaelith estimated, moving quickly but cautiously. Who were they? Survivors of the Frostmane retainers? Unlikely, given the direction and skill. Another unknown faction? Or something else entirely?
Every step was an agony for Lunrik. Eryndor remained a leaden weight on his shoulder, pulling at his bruised ribs, while his twisted ankle sent jolts of pain up his leg with each awkward placement on the slick ice. The unfamiliar energy rifle slung across his back felt heavy and useless, banging against him with every movement. Kaelith stayed close, her gaze constantly sweeping their surroundings, watching their back trail, listening intently over the relentless howl of the wind. The vast, empty expanse of the glacier offered no cover, making them feel terribly exposed under the cold, distant moon.
The immediate threats seemed to have receded, but the absence of pursuit was almost more unnerving than active danger. Had the damaged automaton given up, retreated back into its hidden alcove? Unlikely; Dwarven constructs were notoriously persistent. Was it slowly grinding its way out of the cave, preparing to track them with relentless mechanical patience? Or had the two fleeing hunters simply vanished, perhaps rendezvousing elsewhere, or had they fallen victim to the glacier's hidden dangers? The lack of certainty left Lunrik's nerves frayed, expecting an attack from any direction, from any shadow.
The tracks led them steadily towards the towering cliffs that formed the southwestern edge of the glacier basin. These weren't gentle slopes, but sheer walls of dark, forbidding rock, streaked with veins of ice and snow, rising thousands of feet towards jagged peaks shrouded in mist. It looked like an impassable barrier, a dead end. Why would anyone head directly towards it?
As they drew closer, the wind seemed to funnel between the glacier and the cliff face, creating localized blizzards of stinging ice particles that reduced visibility to near zero at times. Kaelith pulled her hood lower, shielding her face, relying more on her sense of smell and hearing. Lunrik gritted his teeth against the biting cold and the pain, focusing solely on placing one foot in front of the other, following Kaelith's shadowy form.
He glanced down at Eryndor. The Frostmane heir hadn't stirred, his face pale and slack, framed by ice-matted white fur lining his hood. Was he succumbing to the cold? Or just lost in shock? Keeping him alive was becoming increasingly difficult, another weight on Lunrik's already burdened conscience.
The tracks led them right up to the base of the immense cliff face, disappearing onto a narrow ledge barely wide enough for two people abreast, swept partially clear of snow by the constant wind. The cliff soared vertically above them, offering no obvious handholds, no discernible path upwards. Below, the glacier fell away into shadowed depths. It felt like the edge of the world.
"Dead end?" Lunrik gasped, leaning heavily against the rock wall, shifting Eryndor's weight. "Did they climb this?" He looked up despairingly at the sheer precipice. Impossible, surely, especially in these conditions.
Kaelith didn't answer immediately. She moved slowly along the ledge, examining the rock face intently, running her gloved hands over the cold stone, sniffing the air near the cliff base. The wind howled, plucking at their cloaks.
"No," she said finally, her voice tight with surprise and something else – perhaps awe. "Not a dead end. Look."
She pointed to a section of the cliff face slightly further along the ledge. At first glance, it looked identical to the rest of the dark, imposing rock. But as Lunrik squinted through the swirling ice particles, following her gesture, he saw subtle anomalies. Faint, almost invisible seams in the rock, forming a rectangular outline nearly ten feet high. And set into the center of this outline, almost perfectly camouflaged against the dark stone, was a large, circular metallic emblem.
It wasn't the geometric patterns of the Dwarven carvings in the cave. This was different. It depicted a complex arrangement of interlocking gears surrounding a stylized, mountain-shaped anvil struck by a bolt of lightning. Beneath it, etched in sharp, angular runes he didn't recognize but which felt distinctly Dwarven, was likely an inscription.
"Fenrivar's teeth…" Lunrik breathed. It was a door. A massive, perfectly concealed door built directly into the cliff face, disguised as natural rock. A dwarven gate.
The tracks they had followed led directly to this spot and vanished, as if the makers had simply walked through solid stone.
Suddenly, Eryndor stirred on Lunrik's shoulder, letting out a low moan. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, blinking against the biting wind. He looked weakly at the cliff face, at the circular emblem. A flicker of confused recognition crossed his features.
"The… Cog… Gate…" he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse and cracked. "Grandmother's maps… legends… said… sealed…"
The Cog Gate. A Dwarven entrance. Sealed, according to Frostmane legend, yet the tracks led directly to it. Had the makers of the tracks found a way to open it? Were they dwarves themselves, returning to a forgotten outpost? Or had someone else – perhaps Magdra's agents, or the silent hunters – already found a way in?
Before Lunrik or Kaelith could process this revelation, a low, grinding sound echoed from behind the massive stone door, startlingly loud over the wind. It was deeper, heavier than the sounds the automaton had made – the sound of colossal gears beginning to turn, of immense locking mechanisms disengaging within the mountain itself.
A thin line of yellow light appeared around the rectangular outline of the door. Steam hissed from hidden vents near the emblem. The entire section of the cliff face began to vibrate faintly.
Someone was opening the Cog Gate. From the inside.
Lunrik and Kaelith instinctively flattened themselves against the rock wall on either side of the sealed entrance, pulling the still-dazed Eryndor down between them. Were they about to meet the dwarves of Grimfang Deep? Would they be perceived as intruders, allies, or insignificant surface-dwellers to be ignored or eliminated? The whispers of the legendary Cog City beneath the mountains suddenly felt terrifyingly real, and they were standing directly on its threshold, caught between the hostile surface world and the unknown, potentially even more dangerous, depths below. The gate groaned, preparing to reveal whatever, or whoever, lay within.