The flames of the undead wyrm had barely died in the skies of Elarion when Kael Valari found himself once more on the move—this time deeper into the heart of the world, beneath mountains carved by time and dwarven will.
Queen Seralyth had agreed, at last, to a tenuous alliance with the High King, but only if Kael continued his journey. She believed that the dwarves—secretive and skeptical—might hold knowledge long buried beneath stone and silence. Knowledge of the Relics, and of Varethul the Hollow.
So now Kael rode east, into the teeth of winter, into the mountain kingdom of Khaz'Thundar.
The Iron Gate
The approach to Khaz'Thundar was a climb through snow-choked cliffs and wind that howled like ghosts. Even the elven escort, despite their grace and discipline, moved slower here. The land was brutal, ancient, carved by fire and ice.
At last, they reached the Iron Gate—an impossibly large wall of blackened steel built into the side of a mountain. Runes glowed faintly along its edge, pulsing with deep, thrumming power.
Kael looked up.
No banners. No guards.
Then the gate rumbled.
A seam split down its center.
Out stepped General Thrain Stonefist, commander of the dwarven armies.
Thick as a tree trunk, his beard braided in gold, his eyes like burning coals, Thrain moved with the weight of command.
"I smell elf," he growled, eyes on Kael's companions.
"They come in peace," Kael said.
"Peace is a lie people tell to avoid dying with courage."
Thrain's eyes shifted to Kael.
"You're the one they whisper about."
"Depends who's whispering."
Thrain grunted. "You'll do."
Then he turned and walked back through the gate.
Khaz'Thundar
Inside the mountain was a city built on scale and defiance.
Vast bridges spanned glowing chasms. Halls were lit by lava flowing through carved canals. Stonework told tales of battles lost and won, kings buried beneath anvils, and beasts slain by hammer and axe.
But beneath the grandeur was a tension—unspoken but palpable.
Dwarves moved faster. Guards doubled their watch. And somewhere in the depths of the mountain, something groaned.
Thrain led Kael into the Hall of Ancients, where thirteen stone thrones stood in a ring, each occupied by a lord of one of the Great Houses.
Only ten were filled.
Three sat empty, shrouded in black.
Thrain stood before them and nodded to Kael.
"This is the fireborn bastard the elves send to us. The one with dreams of prophecy and frost."
The lords murmured.
Kael stepped forward.
"I've seen what's coming," he said. "The undead are rising. The elves believe the old relics may stop them."
"Relics," one dwarf snorted. "Children's tales."
"Then why are your mines trembling?" Kael shot back.
The room fell silent.
Thrain raised a hand.
"We did feel something," he said grimly. "Deep in the Forge Shaft. Rumbles. Cracks. And last week, three miners vanished. No blood. No signs."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Kael stepped closer. "Let me go down there."
"You?" scoffed a lord with iron-threaded beard. "What do you know of stone and darkness?"
Kael unsheathed his sword.
Its edge shimmered faintly—not with steel, but with flickers of flame.
"I know when something old is waking up," he said.
Into the Deep
The next morning, Kael descended into the Forge Shaft.
Only Thrain came with him.
The shaft was a mile deep—a scar carved through the heart of the mountain. They rode a cage-winch down, the light dimming as the stone swallowed the world above.
Below, the temperature dropped.
The tunnels were quiet. Too quiet.
Thrain lit a rune-stone and handed it to Kael. "Touch nothing. Speak little. If you hear whispering, run."
Kael frowned. "Whispering?"
But the dwarf said no more.
They entered the deep veins—forgotten tunnels beneath even the dwarves' knowledge.
There, they found the mark.
A scorched circle in the stone. No soot. No ash. Just heat burned into rock.
And bones.
Kael knelt beside one. Human? No—dwarf. The ribcage was crushed from the inside.
"Something came up," Kael whispered.
"No," said Thrain. "Something came through."
Then the whispering began.
The Echoes
It wasn't words. Not at first.
It was a hum.
A vibration in the teeth, in the chest. Like something massive and far below was moving—awakening.
Kael turned, his hand reaching for his blade.
From the darkness crawled a shape.
Not undead. Not beast.
Something between.
Its limbs were long and jointed backward, its mouth split into three jaws, and in its eyes burned not frost—but hunger.
Thrain roared and hurled his axe, cleaving the thing's jaw. It screeched and fled, trailing black ichor.
Kael gave chase.
The tunnels spiraled, twisted. He lost sight of Thrain.
And then, Kael stumbled into a chamber that should not exist.
The Relic of Flame
The walls glowed with old runes, circles upon circles, humming with barely restrained power.
At the center stood a pedestal of obsidian.
And resting on it—
—a flame, suspended in air.
Kael stepped forward.
It called to him.
He reached out.
The second his fingers touched it, the chamber exploded with light.
Memories that weren't his surged through his mind: Dragons soaring over scorched cities. A crowned man screaming in the snow. A sword of fire plunged into a sea of shadows.
He fell to his knees, screaming—
Then silence.
The flame was gone.
In its place, clutched in his palm, was a shard of glowing ember.
The first Relic.
And behind him, in the dark—
The whispering returned.
Return to Stone
Thrain found Kael stumbling back through the tunnel, his eyes wild.
"What did you see?" the dwarf asked.
Kael opened his hand.
The ember glowed faintly.
"The first piece," he said. "Of what I have to become."
Thrain's face hardened. "Then we've no more time."
"Why?"
The dwarf looked behind him.
"Because the tremors aren't tremors anymore."
The Beast Beneath the Mountain
As they ascended back toward the city, the walls began to shake.
Dwarves ran through halls. Alarm bells rang.
And from the deepest forge-chamber rose something massive.
Not dragon.
Not undead.
Something worse.
A creature forged of metal and molten stone, its heart a fire of unmaking—a Molgaroth, a forgotten weapon from the last war of the gods.
Kael turned to Thrain.
"Did you know this was down here?"
"No," the dwarf growled. "But it woke up when you touched the relic."
The Molgaroth screamed, and the mountain itself roared with it.
Khaz'Thundar was no longer safe.
And Kael's journey had just begun.