The Gates of Stoneheim were not merely an entrance; they were a declaration. Two colossal, interlocking mountains formed a natural arch, and within that arch, the dwarves had carved a portal a hundred feet high. The doors themselves were forged of black iron and bronze, depicting a sprawling, intricate bas-relief of dwarven history: the founding of the Holdfasts, the war with the deep-dwellers, the receiving of the Earth-Anchor from the Atherians—a scene showing a tall, luminous figure placing a small, geometric object into the hands of a bearded king. The sheer scale was meant to humble any who approached.
As they drew nearer, the Echo in Kaelen's soul changed. The free-flowing melodies of the open air were replaced by a deep, resonant, and immensely powerful chord. It was the song of the mountain itself, a billion tons of granite and iron, layered with millennia of dwarvish industry, life, and magic. It was orderly, potent, and unyielding.
Lyra halted them a stone's throw from the gates, which were shut tight. There were no guards visible, only a single, smaller door, man-height, set within the great right gate.
"Remember the plan," Lyra said, her voice low. "We are scholars from Lysterium, investigating the seismic instability in the region. We offer our expertise in exchange for audience and knowledge. We do not mention the Aegis. We do not mention the Anchor. Is that clear?"
Both Kaelen and Elara nodded. Elara had composed the story, layering it with just enough truth to be believable. Kaelen's role was to be her "sensitive," an apprentice with a unique, empathic gift for geological stresses—a cover story that skirted dangerously close to his true nature without revealing it.
Lyra approached the small door and struck it three times with the pommel of her dagger. The sound was swallowed by the immense facade.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a grinding of stone on stone, a slit opened in the door at eye level. A pair of deep-set, suspicious eyes, overshadowed by a bushy, braided brown beard, peered out.
"State your business," a gravelly voice demanded.
"I am Lyra of Lysterium," she said, her tone respectful but firm. "These are my associates, Kaelen and Elara. We are itinerant scholars. We have studied the tremors plaguing your Deep-Ways and believe we may have insights to offer King Borin Stonehand."
The eyes narrowed. "The King hears no beggars, and the mountain has no need of surface-dweller 'insights.' Be gone."
"We are not beggars," Elara stepped forward, her voice taking on the ringing, authoritative tone of the court. She pulled back her hood, revealing her face, dirt-smudged but still regal. "I am Princess Elara of Lysterium. I bring not only scholarly theory, but the goodwill of the Sun-Kingdom. To turn us away would be a diplomatic slight. We ask only for an audience to present our findings. The mountain's silence will be our answer."
The eyes widened slightly. The title 'Princess' carried weight, even here. There was a muttered conversation from the other side of the door, too low to hear. The slit slammed shut.
Kaelen held his breath. The deep, thrumming chord of the mountain seemed to press in on him. He could feel the sheer density of the Aether here, a pressurized, ancient power.
After several tense minutes, they heard the sound of heavy bolts being thrown. The small door swung inward, revealing a narrow, torch-lit tunnel. The dwarf who had spoken to them stood there, flanked by two others in full, gleaming steel plate armor, their faces hidden behind full helms adorned with steel wings. Each held a massive, double-bladed axe.
"The King will see you," the first dwarf said, his tone still gruff, but now edged with a wary formality. "I am Thrain, Gate-Thane of the Eastern Door. You will be escorted to the Hall of Ancestors. Your weapons." He held out a hand.
Lyra didn't hesitate. She unbuckled her long blade and handed it over, followed by the daggers from her boots. Thrain took them and then looked at Kaelen and Elara. Kaelen handed over his simple skinning knife. Elara had none.
Thrain grunted, then gestured for them to enter. "Mind your heads. And do not stray from the path. The mountain does not suffer fools."
They stepped through the door, and it boomed shut behind them, plunging them into the heart of the mountain. The air was cool and dry, smelling of stone dust, forge-smoke, and ozone. The tunnel was a masterwork of engineering, perfectly smooth and arched, with runes carved along the ceiling that glowed with a soft, orange light—dwarven Scriptology, simple but enduring.
Their escort marched them forward, the clank of their armor echoing in the confined space. Kaelen, unable to help himself, slipped into Aether-Sight.
The world exploded.
The orderly, powerful chord he had felt outside was now a breathtaking symphony. The very walls blazed with structured Aether, the runes were rivers of controlled fire, and the air was thick with the shimmering residue of countless spells of reinforcement and warding. He could see the deep, slow currents of the mountain's leylines, flowing like molten gold through the stone around them. It was overwhelming, almost deafening in its intensity. He saw Elara glance at him, her eyes wide with a silent question. He gave a slight, shaky nod. He was holding on, but just barely.
They passed through vast caverns where entire districts seemed to be carved, multi-leveled structures bustling with dwarves. They crossed bridges over fathomless chasms where the only light came from glowing fungi and rivers of magma far below. The scale was incomprehensible.
Finally, they arrived before another set of doors, these made of pure, polished white marble, inlaid with silver and jet. Two guards, even larger than their escorts and wearing ornate gold-inlaid armor, stood watch.
"The Hall of Ancestors," Thrain announced. "Speak only when spoken to. Bow when you approach the Throne. The King's word is law."
The marble doors swung open without a sound.
The hall within was so vast its ceiling was lost in darkness. Pillars as wide as ancient oaks marched into the gloom, each carved with the likeness of a dwarf king from ages past. On the walls, tapestries woven of mithril thread depicted scenes of dwarven glory. At the far end of the hall, on a dais of black obsidian, sat the Throne of Stoneheim. It was carved from a single, immense geode, its exterior rough granite, but its interior a glittering cavity of amethyst crystals.
And on that throne sat King Borin Stonehand.
He was old, his beard long and white, braided with rings of office and small, glowing stones. But there was no frailty in him. He was broad and thick with muscle, his eyes like chips of flint under a heavy, craggy brow. He wore a crown of simple, unadorned iron, and in his hand, he held a massive warhammer that rested on the floor beside the throne. The Aether around him was not a shimmer, but a solid, immovable aura, like a cliff face against a raging sea.
Their escorts stopped at the entrance to the throne room. Thrain led them forward alone. The walk to the dais felt like it took a year. Kaelen could feel the weight of countless royal eyes from the pillars upon them.
They stopped at the base of the dais. As rehearsed, all three of them bowed deeply.
The Hall was silent, save for the crackle of the immense braziers that lined the walls.
The King's voice, when it came, was like an avalanche starting slow and building to an irresistible force.
"Princess of Lysterium," he rumbled, his flinty eyes resting on Elara. "Your father seeks to buy my ore with your hand. And yet you stand in my hall, unannounced, with a surface-walker and a boy who smells of… lightning. Explain this discourtesy."