Druvadir did not sleep.
It hammered.
The forges bellowed with life, roaring louder than any dragon's breath. Anvils sang the hymn of war. Sparks danced like fireflies across the stone halls, and the scent of molten steel clung to the air like sweat to skin.
The mountain was alive.
Not in joy — but in fury.
In preparation.
Deepguard smiths moved like ants through the veins of the hold, hauling plate and mail from vaults unopened in a hundred winters. Rune-etched warhammers were drawn from sacred walls. Old relics were polished, unburied. The halls echoed with the rhythm of fear wrapped in purpose.
Durik stood at the center of it all, laughing through soot and sweat.
"This," he grunted, slamming a gauntlet onto a breastplate, "is what a dwarf calls music."
Nearby, Rei watched a smith struggle to strap leather and mail together, the pieces foreign to his frame. He wore only a padded tunic for now, the rest laid out before him like a puzzle of iron and regret.
Durik approached, dragging a chest half his size.
"Thought you might need something better than that flimsy desert cloth, eh?"
Rei raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you brought anything… lighter?"
Durik smirked and flung the lid open. Inside was a half-set of dwarven plate — blackened steel with a silver sheen, forged from ores deep in the Throneforge.
"Fitted it myself," Durik declared proudly. "Used my knee as the mold. Might be a bit roomy."
Rei laughed — until he tried the chest piece.
It hung like a tower bell on his shoulders.
Kaia, sitting nearby, snorted. "You look like a child playing war."
"Shut up," Rei muttered, shifting uncomfortably.
"Here," Durik said, tightening the straps and thumping the metal. "There. Not perfect, but it'll hold against steel and claw."
Rei looked down at himself. "I feel like I'm wearing a house."
"Good," Durik grinned. "Means it'll take one to break you."
Across the forge halls, the Deepguard lined up before the armorers. Hammers rang. Shields slammed. Grizzled veterans inspected their runes. Even the youngbloods bore grim faces — not of fear, but of duty.
This was no feast. No ceremony.
This was the breath before battle.
Kaia leaned against the stone wall, her blade laid across her knees, her eyes not watching the forge but the man struggling to stand straight in dwarven plate.
"You're not built for that," she said gently.
"Not yet," Rei replied, voice quieter.
She walked over, touched his shoulder.
"You said something to me once," Kaia said, voice soft as snow. "Back in Blackstone. When we thought we wouldn't survive the mines. Remember?"
Rei met her gaze.
"You said: 'Whatever comes, we face it together.'"
He swallowed. "I remember."
She smiled, small and tired.
"Now it's my turn."
She stepped close, eyes flicking down to his clumsy armor.
"I don't care what the Rift is. Or what you're becoming. I'm not leaving."
Rei's throat tightened. He managed a smirk. "Even if I lose control?"
"Then I'll knock you out and drag you back," she said. "Simple."
He chuckled — then leaned forward.
Their foreheads touched — just for a moment.
Not passion. Not hunger.
But the calm that comes before a storm — when two warriors know they might not see the next dawn, but choose to stand anyway.
Durik cleared his throat loudly.
"If you two are done… bonding, I've got real weapons to pass out."
Kaia stepped back with a smile. Rei's face burned.
"Come on, lover boy," Durik grinned. "We've got an army to meet."
The warband was forming.
Druvadir's halls, once echoing with chants of lineage and fire, now rang with marching boots and barked orders. War horns sounded in intervals. Runepriests scrawled protections into the stone. Iron banners were lifted — not with pride, but with weight.
The Wildguard were first to arrive — cloaked in forest-stones, eyes sharp, blades like fangs. Then came the Frostborne — warriors who'd trained in the ice-veins of the mountain's underbelly, faces covered in soot and stone-dust. A scattering of Runepriests joined them, their voices like gravel grinding in ritual.
In the center, the Riftborn stood.
Rei. In oversized armor, sword slung low — the black blade Durik had forged from fragments of Skarnveil. Bread Cutter.
It shimmered with quiet malice — not because it was cursed, but because it remembered.
Kaia at his side. Silent. Ready.
Durik and Burik behind them, flanking like wolves.
One with fury, one with calm.
The gate horns blared once more — and the warband began to move.
But not in haste.
In purpose.
Through the carved gates of Druvadir, into the winding tunnels of the outer reach, into the dark where flame and fear met — they marched.
And behind them, the forge did not roar.
It waited.
Because even the Wyrm, deep in the mountain's belly, knew:
The storm was coming. And war was the only answer.