The sun had not yet crested the jagged peaks of the Silent Mountains, but Captain Lysandra was already a shadow in motion. Her deployment was a matter of extreme secrecy and speed. While the soldiers at the Northern Outpost labored through the night, struggling to hack and salt the massive, frozen hide of the Drake Mother, Lysandra moved like a phantom across the snow-dusted earth.
She carried only what was essential: a lightweight pack containing dried rations, a small flint-and-steel kit, a specially treated leather map impervious to moisture, and her trusted pair of silvered throwing knives. Her clothing—layers of dark, durable leather and thick wool—was designed for maximum camouflage against the gray-brown hues of the northern foothills.
Cedric's instructions were burned into her memory: Locate, Track, Return. Do Not Engage. He had tasked her with the most promising route—the ancient, weathered game trails that wound through the treacherous scree fields leading toward the high-altitude quarry known as the Black Scar. This was the route most likely to be favored by the Wandering Dwarves, as it was riddled with veins of low-grade but highly sought-after metamorphic rock.
Lysandra's natural Cunning stat, enhanced by years of clandestine service in the capital, was her true weapon. It wasn't just the ability to lie or hide; it was the ability to read a terrain, anticipate an enemy's move, and understand the psychology of the quarry—whether that quarry was a political rival or an isolationist race of master smiths.
She kept her movements fluid, placing her feet only on firm rock or compacted snow, leaving a trail so subtle only a veteran tracker would notice it, and even then, they would be questioning what they saw. The silence of the morning was immense, broken only by the crunch of her own boots and the occasional high-pitched shriek of an unseen mountain raptor.
This place is hungry, she thought. It wants to swallow sound, light, and warmth.
By midday, she was deep into the foothills. The environment was unforgiving, a tapestry of sharp, frost-shattered stones and thickets of stunted, ice-coated pines. She paused on a low ridge overlooking a frozen riverbed, glassing the terrain with a small, brass spyglass. Nothing. No smoke, no unnatural movement, no signs of the robust, heavy-footed race she was hunting.
She used the downtime to check her own rear trail, an ingrained habit. She settled the spyglass on the ridge line behind her. It was clean. Too clean. The sheer, empty vastness of the landscape provided a false sense of security, which was exactly the kind of trap that killed careless scouts.
She ate a hard biscuit and a piece of dried venison, conserving her water, and then began her ascent toward the Black Scar, choosing a route that took her along the sheltered side of a long, serpentine ridge. It was slower, but it provided superior cover.
As she moved, she began to find things. Not Dwarf signs, but something else.
First, it was a shattered arrow shaft half-buried beneath a small drift of snow. It wasn't the standardized, machine-cut arrow of the Veridian army. This was crudely fletched with dark hawk feathers, the wood thick and uneven. It was a Barbarian design, meant for sheer force, not range or precision. It had been snapped clean, as if hit by something immensely heavy.
Lysandra's Cunning kicked in, processing the forensic data instantly. The snap was old, perhaps a few days. The wood was stiff, typical of the mountain tribes who used whatever materials were at hand. But the location—it was nearly two days' march south of where the main Barbarian hunting grounds were rumored to be. It suggested a small, aggressive scouting party was already encroaching on the territory near the outpost.
They are getting closer than Cedric anticipated, she realized. They're testing the boundaries, hunting the big game that draws them down from the tundra.
She carefully pocketed the largest piece of the shaft and pressed on, her caution intensifying from a professional habit to a survival instinct.
An hour later, her instincts flared again. She smelled it before she saw it: the metallic, coppery scent of old blood, now mixed with the pungent, almost sickly-sweet smell of cured smoke.
Around the bend of a large granite outcropping, she found the remains of a Barbarian campsite. It wasn't a casual break; it was a hasty retreat. There was a ring of fire-blackened stones, a few scattered bones—clearly from a wild mountain goat—and a large, frozen pool of dark blood.
This time, the scene told a much more complicated story. The blood pool was massive, indicating a severe injury or death. But the tracks leading away from the site—boot-prints large and shallow—indicated the Barbarians had moved in two directions. A few tracks led north, deeper into the mountains. The majority, however, led back south, toward the traditional Barbarian lands. It looked like a retreat after a costly encounter.
Lysandra knelt, examining the fire pit. The coals were long dead, cold to the touch. But embedded in the gray ash, she found the second piece of the puzzle: a small, almost microscopic metal shaving. It wasn't iron. It was a dull silver, heavier than it looked, and stubbornly resistant to tarnish.
She knew immediately what it was. This was the tell-tale sign of the Dwarves. No human blacksmith used this alloy for general tooling; this was a specialized remnant from a Dwarven forge or, more likely, a broken piece of a high-quality axe blade that had been roughly filed down in the field.
The scene reconstructed itself in her mind with terrifying clarity, powered by her elevated Intelligence and Cunning.
A small Barbarian scouting party camped here. They were tracked—or stumbled upon—by a traveling band of Dwarves. The Barbarians likely attempted a raid, either for supplies or captives. The Dwarves, armed with superior, high-density weaponry, turned the ambush into a slaughter. The Barbarians retreated, taking their wounded and leaving the dead—or the body was entirely vaporized by a magical attack.
And the key detail: The Barbarians were heading back south. This meant that whatever happened, it was enough to deter a further advance for the immediate future. The Barbarians had encountered something hard, disciplined, and lethally armed.
Lysandra looked up at the towering, silent mountains, a grim satisfaction settling in her gut. She had found the Dwarves' trail—and confirmation that they were not just wandering tinkers, but a heavily armed and organized force. Better yet, the Dwarves had unwittingly provided a brief, bloody shield for the Northern Outpost.
She followed the subtle, almost invisible trail of the Dwarves—a chipped stone here, a faint scent of oil and iron there—heading deeper and higher into the mountain pass. The Dwarves, with their natural ability to move through stone and snow, were masters of leaving no trace, but Lysandra's focus was absolute. She maintained her speed, determined to close the distance. She could not afford to lose this lead. Her mission was to track them, but her strategic mind told her Cedric would need more than just a vague location. He needed an opportunity for a meeting.
Just as the last vestiges of daylight began to bleed away, she found the unmistakable proof: a small, almost hidden adze mark carved into the face of a granite boulder—a subtle directional marker used by traveling clans. The Dwarves were not far now. They were heading toward the highest, most mineral-rich areas of the Silent Peak.
She pulled out her personal communication slate, a small, magically protected piece of dark obsidian given to her by Cedric. She was too deep in the mountains for a direct signal to the outpost, but she could record the details now, ready to send the moment she found a suitable high-altitude position.
[Lysandra Log Entry 7-1. Barbarian skirmish confirmed in Sector Beta-Nine. Enemy sustained heavy casualties and are temporarily retreating South. Source: Wandering Dwarves.]
[Tracking Dwarves now. Heading toward Black Scar Pass. Estimated contact window: 24 hours. The situation is stable but time-sensitive. Awaiting contact window for transmission.]
Lysandra pocketed the slate, her eyes sweeping the shadowed landscape. The danger was not over; it had merely shifted. She was about to enter the stronghold of a paranoid, powerful race that despised outsiders. She had to find a place to rest, concealed and warm, before making the final, most crucial move of her mission.