Gribnox rushed to the mine without hesitation, not even taking the time to properly dress or gather supplies beyond throwing on clothes and grabbing his staff. He knew logically there was a chance his son was simply in his head, that the vivid nightmare was just a dream born from the boy's unusual development and overactive imagination. Children had nightmares all the time—it was natural, expected, nothing to panic over.
But it couldn't be a coincidence. Not with how specific Grimgor had been, not with the absolute certainty in those golden eyes, not with the way his small body had trembled with conviction rather than confusion. The details were too precise—white and cold, magic holding him, something dark approaching. Those weren't the vague terrors of normal childhood dreams but specific imagery that suggested genuine vision.
