Inside Gezhik's mountain city-state, the "Ding-ding" of clanging steel and the clamor of taverns still resounded, yet they could not mask the grave atmosphere within the Central Council Castle.
Five stone chairs, carved with clan crests, were arranged in a circle. The granite floor reflected the orange-red glow of the wall-mounted fires, casting long shadows of the five clan elders. The air was thick with a suppressed tension.
Horgrim of the Oakwood Clan was the first to break the silence. His light green beard trembled slightly with anger, and his wooden staff struck the ground heavily with a dull thud: "Harald! You've gone too far! The Five-Member Council hadn't even made a decision, yet you unilaterally sent the Redbeard Clan's elites to attack the greenskins ! This is not just a provocation to the Council; it's a slap in the face to all of us clan leaders!"
No sooner had he finished speaking than Worgs of the Hardstone Clan immediately chimed in, stone dust clinging to his dark brown beard falling like fine powder: "Horgrim is right! We clearly agreed at the last council to first send emissaries to investigate the Blackrock Clan's true strength, but you acted on your own!
Five hundred elites, all because of your recklessness, were ambushed by a group of skaven hiding underground, losing over a dozen warriors—do you know how many years it takes the City-State to train a single dwarf warrior?"
Worgs' voice grew louder, his finger pointing directly at Harald of the Redbeard Clan, his eyes full of accusation: "Those warriors should have been guarding the mines, they should have been forging weapons, they should have been fighting for Gezhik's glory, yet they died at the claws of skaven, in a meaningless trap! Do you deserve the respect of those fallen brothers? Do you deserve the respect of the ancestors of the Redbeard Clan?"
Harald sat on the stone chair, his reddish-brown long beard hanging down his chest, silently bowing his head.
Facing the accusations from Horgrim and Worgs, he did not retort. He merely clutched the copper pipe in his hand tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.
He knew he was in the wrong.
The last council had clearly stipulated that any action against the Blackrock Clan required a unanimous decision from all five members, yet he, unable to stomach the "Greenskins occupying the trade route," had privately dispatched Kadrin to lead the expedition.
Now the operation had failed; not only did they not take the Khyprian road, but they also lost over a dozen elite warriors. This was an undeniable fact, leaving him no room for excuse.
Kras of the High-Axe Clan sat at the head of the table, his silver-white long beard braided into three strands, with small iron axes at the ends swaying gently with his breathing.
He had remained silent all this time, merely observing Harald with deep eyes, his gaze complex—containing disappointment, regret, and a hint of understanding.
As Gezhik's eldest clan leader, he understood Harald's temperament and the Redbeard Clan's emphasis on trade routes, but acting independently ultimately broke the Council's rules.
Daroth of the stone Lakecairn was also silent, his grayish-white beard falling like ripples on a lake.
He held a stone cup in his hand, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the rim, his mind replaying the intelligence Kadrin had brought back—twenty-five-meter-high green brick city walls, a moat, bastion platforms, and those tunnel-digging skaven.
He knew that the Blackrock Clan was far more complex than they had imagined. While Harald's actions were reckless, they had also made them realize a truth: the greenskins were no longer the scattered rabble of yesteryear, and Gezhik had to re-evaluate this opponent.
"I will give an account to the fallen brothers." Harald finally raised his head, his voice hoarse but firm, "For the relatives of every fallen warrior, I will personally present their Medals of Glory—bronze medals cast from their battle axes, engraved with their names and achievements. And as for compensation, my Redbeard Clan will pay three times the amount, ensuring their families live comfortably from now on."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the four clan leaders present, without the slightest hint of retreat in his eyes: "I admit this operation failed, and I am willing to bear all responsibility—if the Council wishes to punish me, Harald accepts; if the Redbeard Clan must be punished, I also accept. But I do not admit fault."
"Not admit fault?" Worgs suddenly stood up, his hammer-like fist slamming on the stone table, "You lost over a dozen men, and you still don't admit fault? Do you want to fight?!"
"True dwarves are never cowardly and hesitant!" Harald also stood up, his reddish-brown beard fluttering with agitation, "The greenskins have occupied our trade routes, stolen our interests, yet we only argue here about 'whether to investigate' or 'whether to act'! Must we wait until the greenskins build their walls to Gezhik's doorstep before we dare to pick up our axes?"
His voice grew louder and louder, echoing through the council hall: "Dwarves can lose! They can die on the battlefield, they can die on the charge, but they cannot be afraid! They cannot be afraid to draw their swords just because the opponent is strong! This time I sent Kadrin to lead the expedition, not out of recklessness, but because I did not want the dwarves of Gezhik to be unable to hold their heads high in front of the greenskins !"
"I have no regrets!" Harald said finally, his eyes full of determination, "Even if I had to do it again, I would still do the same! As long as we can reclaim the Khyprian road, as long as we can let the greenskins know Gezhik's might, even if we lose ten, or a hundred more warriors, I will accept it!"
The council hall instantly fell silent. Horgrim and Worgs opened their mouths but could not utter words of rebuttal.
Harald's words, though impulsive, struck a chord with all dwarves' deepest conviction—dwarves never feared battle; honor was far more important than life.
Kras looked at the agitated Harald, sighed softly, and finally spoke: "Harald, I understand your feelings, but the Council's rules cannot be broken. For the losses of this operation, the Redbeard Clan must bear seventy percent, and simultaneously, the Redbeard Clan's leadership over the Khyprian road trade caravan will be temporarily suspended and taken over by the Oakwood Clan."
He paused, his gaze turning to everyone: "As for the Blackrock Clan and the skaven, Daroth, you continue to send intelligence dwarves to investigate; Worgs, strengthen the city-state's defenses to prevent skaven ambushes; Horgrim, coordinate trade route adjustments, temporarily bypassing the Khyprian road. At the next council, we will discuss how to deal with the greenskins ."
The four clan leaders nodded in agreement, and Harald also had no objections—he knew this was already the lightest punishment the Council could impose.
After the council disbanded, Harald remained alone in the hall, looking at the Redbeard Clan's banner on the wall, his eyes full of complexity.
He walked to the brazier in the corner, lit his pipe, and the pungent smoke dissipated into the air, slightly easing the heaviness in his heart.
He recalled the list of fallen warriors Kadrin had brought back, and the potential grief of those warriors' families, and his heart ached as if struck by a heavy hammer.
But he had no regrets—just as he had said, dwarves could lose, but they could not be afraid.
As long as it was to fight for Gezhik's glory, as long as it was to reclaim the trade routes belonging to dwarves, all sacrifices were worth it.
Harald extinguished his pipe and turned to walk out of the council hall.
Outside, the sky had already darkened. The Blacksmith Shop's firelight was still bright, and the faint sounds of laughter from the tavern drifted over.