The lower district of Tharvaldur pulsed with a different kind of heat at night. Mana-lamps hanging from the cavern ceiling glowed warmer than during the day, their light reflecting off steel beams and polished stone like fire caught in glass. Forges still burned in open workshops, orange and gold bleeding into the dark. Deep dwarven drums echoed somewhere beyond the bridges, steady and heavy, accompanied by bursts of laughter and the sharp clash of tankards meeting in celebration.
Steam rose in slow spirals between suspended walkways, drifting like breath from the mountain itself.
They were nowhere near the noble quarter.
This was the worker's district.
Balthor wore simple trousers and a dark tunic, sleeves rolled just enough to hide the royal embroidery stitched along the inner seams. No crown. No insignia. No polished armor. Just a broad-shouldered dwarf blending—imperfectly—into his own city.
