Night had claimed the dwarven capital.
The sun had long slipped behind the mountain's spine, leaving the arena bathed only in the glow of fire—soft in places, violent in others. The forges beneath the coliseum still breathed, rumbling like sleeping giants; molten veins snaked through the cracks in the arena floor, and the air shimmered with fading heat.
The stands were empty now—no cheers, no drums, no stomping boots. Just stone… and the lingering echo of history forged only hours ago.
High above it all, on the elevated platform carved of obsidian and rune-etched steel, the Seven Dwarven Elders remained. Their silhouettes were tall and immovable against the burning sky, cloaks fluttering in a faint updraft of heat that made every shadow dance like fire spirits bowing at their feet.
Elder Brokk cracked his neck loudly—the sound echoing like snapping boulders—as he leaned against his hammer.
