Cedric departed the outpost under the pale cloak of pre-dawn, riding a sturdy mountain pony. Steven and the garrison maintained the façade of a broken, barely functional operation, ensuring Lord Verian saw only rationing, low morale, and the meticulously arranged piles of useless bear hide. The true prize—the Drake Mother's pristine materials—remained hidden in a sub-level cellar, guarded by the few trusted men who would follow Cedric into the abyss.
Cedric rode north for six hours, following Lysandra's faint, carefully marked trail of coded stone placements. His Cryo-Mage abilities felt like a constant, silent companion. The bitter cold that would ordinarily sap the strength from a rider was instead a source of cold clarity, subtly sharpening his senses.
He finally reached the designated rendezvous point: a high, wind-scoured shelf overlooking the Black Scar—a vast, natural quarry where veins of rare ore glittered even in the weak afternoon sun. Lysandra was already there, hunkered down behind a curtain of frozen juniper, utterly invisible until he was almost upon her.
"Commander," she greeted him, rising in a single, fluid movement that betrayed no fatigue. She pointed toward the valley floor below. "The Barbarian skirmish confirmed. Small band, costly retreat. They were pushing south, which means they won't trouble us for days. But look."
She pointed not at the valley, but at a sheer, black wall of rock on the opposing side of the Scar. There, nearly invisible due to masterful camouflage, were signs of recent, deliberate activity.
"They are not using the main trails. They've tunneled through a collapsed seam near the lower quarry entrance. I estimate their main camp is within that rock face. I found three discarded cutting chisels—Dwarven standard, hardened with Tungsten Carbide. They aren't just passing through; they've set up."
Cedric nodded, pulling out his own map. "Good. You've confirmed their location faster than I anticipated. Now, the presentation."
He opened his pack and carefully unrolled the oiled canvas containing the best pieces of the Drake Mother's scale—a section of iridescent hide the size of a shield, still perfectly preserved in its chilling brine pouch. The material seemed to drink the light.
"This is what we offer," Cedric stated. "A material they cannot harvest themselves, far superior to anything known in the surface world, and a direct challenge to their mastery. We offer them the prestige of the impossible craft."
"How do we approach without alerting them to an invasion force?" Lysandra asked, ever the realist. "If they sense an army, they will seal themselves in forever."
"We don't send an army, Captain. We send a singular, highly skilled supplicant. You stay here, remain hidden, and observe the exit points. I will proceed alone. If I do not return by the next twilight, you return to the outpost and inform Steven that the negotiation failed violently."
Cedric slung the pouch containing the hide material across his back, making sure the weight was manageable, and began his descent toward the quarry floor. His heart rate remained perfectly steady. He was not feeling the adrenaline of a warrior, but the focused precision of an engineer beginning a delicate construction project.
The entrance to the Dwarven encampment was less a door and more a deliberate scar on the mountain face, reinforced with thick, curved slabs of expertly worked dark iron. A small, unnervingly powerful torch, fueled by some colorless gas, burned steadily above the lintel, throwing an intense, white light that seemed to consume shadows.
Cedric walked directly toward the entrance, his steps loud and deliberate on the stone floor. He stopped a dozen paces from the gate, planted his staff firmly in the ground, and raised his voice. He did not shout, but projected with the power of his new, enhanced Intelligence, ensuring his voice carried clearly without sounding aggressive.
"I am Lord Cedric of Veridia, administrator of the Northern Outpost. I bring an offering worthy of the Iron Clans!"
Silence. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal, coal dust, and a faint, almost spicy aroma—the Dwarven equivalent of incense. He waited, counting slowly to sixty, knowing their innate suspicion would keep them hidden until they determined his threat level.
Suddenly, the iron door did not open; it retracted into the stone wall with a nearly silent grinding sound. Standing in the threshold were two Dwarves. They were shorter and broader than the legends suggested, their limbs thick and corded with muscle, their beards intricately braided and interwoven with metal clasps. They wore leather vests reinforced with internal metal plating, and each carried a short, wickedly sharp hammer that looked too heavy for any man to wield effectively.
The Dwarf on the left, whose beard was threaded with fine copper wire, spoke first. His voice was like gravel tumbling down a mine shaft.
"Lord of the Frozen Wastes. We detected no alarm signatures from your paltry settlement. Why do you bring an offering to the Stone?"
"Because your craftsmanship deserves a material that does not rot in the cold," Cedric replied evenly. "I have secured a part of a Drake Mother killed in this region. The hide is impervious to natural decay and is stronger than any known alloy we currently possess in the surface kingdom. I offer it to your Master Smith for the challenge of working it."
The two Dwarves exchanged a look of profound disbelief, the one with the copper beard making a sharp, guttural sound that Cedric's System immediately translated.
[Dwarven Speech Detected: Translation Protocol Active]
[Translation: 'A talking surface-ape claims to have slain a child of the First Race? Impossible. He lies.']
Cedric kept his expression neutral, refusing to react to the insult. He knew his words were meaningless without proof.
He reached back, carefully removing the brine-soaked pouch. He pulled out the slab of scale and held it up so the intense light from the forge entrance caught its surface. The material shimmered with impossible blues and greens, the texture like polished obsidian layered over living muscle.
The Dwarf with the copper beard stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the scale. The second Dwarf raised his hammer slightly, ready to strike if Cedric made a sudden move.
"It is real," the first Dwarf whispered, abandoning the formal address. He reached out a heavy finger, pausing just before touching the edge. "The structure… it defies the known laws of crystalline binding. How could surface-dwellers have acquired this?"
"By ending its hunt," Cedric stated simply. "It was a threat to my meager holding. I require the services of your master artisan. In exchange for the full bounty of this material—the hide, the bone, the marrow—I offer exclusivity. No other surface-dweller will see a single flake of this material. Your clan alone will possess the knowledge of how to forge it."
The Dwarf looked back toward the darkness of the tunnel, then back at Cedric, his expression shifting from disbelief to calculating interest.
"This is a matter for the Forge-Speaker, Lord Cedric. You have brought a treasure beyond measure to our doorstep. Wait here. Do not move. Do not breathe too loudly. If you attempt subterfuge, the mountain itself will crush you before you leave this threshold."
The two guards melted back into the darkness, the heavy iron door grinding shut with a sound of absolute finality. Cedric stood alone in the silence, the cold radiating from the scale in his hand a stark contrast to the intense, trapped heat emanating from the iron door. He had made his gambit. Now, the true negotiation—the one that would determine the fate of the North—was about to begin.