Odexes listens with serene patience, his clawed hands folding before him as Vark speaks. The echoes of flickering memories still play along the chamber walls.

"It is wise to know one’s limits," the dragonborn rumbles. "An unsteady anchor leads to a broken bridge. Your insight serves your friend better than blind bravery would."

He gestures and luminous script unfurls in the air. Scrolling diagrams and shifting glyphs manifest, as the codex whispers its secrets in harmonic pulses of thought.

"The Mirror Rite requires a space where both literal and metaphorical reflection is possible," Odexes explains. "Perhaps a circle of mirrors or polished surfaces surrounding the participants. It must be a controlled environment free from distraction or outside interference. An ambient source of arcane resonance, such as a ley line, magical font, or warding stone can also be helpful. Some perform the rite in temples, some in ruins. Wherever it happens, the place must be honest."

 "This cannot be forced," Odexes warns, tone firm. “If either half resists entry into the rite, the mirror will crack and souls do not mend cleanly after that."

He pauses, letting that settle before continuing.

"You might also consider providing a 'catalyst'. An offering of significance to each fragment. Something symbolic of the life that they shared before the split and what they wish to become after. A memento from their childhood, a token of a decision that they regret or would take back, or a piece of writing or music that both recall could all suffice. The catalyst binds the mirror to who they are, acting as a compass of sorts for the soul."

Odexes lowers his arms and the runes dim slightly.

"If you do choose to be the anchor, remember, even unstable bridges may carry weight, if they are willing to bend without breaking."

Instinctively Vark takes out a notebook to record the stream of information, surely a habit he’s picked up from Seid. Will something written down in this immaterial place transpose upon his real world memory? Only one way to find out. 

Once he feels he has the gist of the ritual he nods to Odexes. “Okay, it might have to wait til we get back to Sheercleft, but maybe we can make something work where we are. Thanks Odexes, you’re always a big help!”

With his information gathering complete, Vark closes his eyes and pushes his consciousness up and backwards and out, leaving the crystalline facets of the codex and returning to his body.

Bründir found himself pacing in his quarters. There was so much that's changed in so little time. He'd truly expected maybe a letter of good will after a century of diplomatic relationships with Karaz Kadrin, not a promotion and oath of fealty on a first meeting. He felt he had to get away, find his way back to the purpose he'd come for. There was so much to do about things long past, so that's where he'd start.

A modest provision had been given for a writing station - no doubt when hosting diplomats and the like - and Bründir took to writing everything they'd learned but had no knowledge of: The Dawn War, King Erik Spanglehelm, mentions of "Dumdrengi", "Karakalad", and "Karakadrin", and any clan in the past two centuries that struck the name "Brynja" from their records. That was a good start, he thought. He'd changed out of his armour, but kept himself ready to wander about so his note was tucked away in a pocket. A signal kept near the door would call for a servant, who would be sent with inquiry to Drakki.

"I need various records and texts on various subjects as well as a smith familiar with old craftsmanship and runs."

The bell chimes, a muted but resonant sound that carries well enough through the stone corridors. Before long, there’s a polite knock and a young dwarf in the crimson-and-steel livery of Karaz Kadrin enters, bowing respectfully.

"Yes, Lord Bründir. Your request will be delivered to Captain Runeson. He will see that it receives the proper attention."

The servant collects the written inquiry, eyes darting briefly toward the words, but showing no sign of nosiness, and slips away with brisk efficiency.

Not an hour later, there’s a second knock. This time, it isn’t a servant who steps in, but an older dwarf with a mane of silver hair woven into tight braids. His beard, shorter and ash-grey, is bound with copper rings. His robes are charcoal with red trim, the mark of a loremaster, and a heavy key-ring hangs at his belt.

He carries no books with him, but he has the look of one who knows where every scrap of knowledge is kept.

"Bründir Halfshield," he says, voice gravelly but firm, "I am Odrik Thangrimsson, Loremaster of Karaz Kadrin. Your message was forwarded to me. You cast a wide net, young man. Is this idle curiosity, or what is your agenda?”

He folds his arms, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.

"The archives of Karaz Kadrin do not open on a whim, but a purpose clear and worthy will open their doors."

Bründir shrugs and shakes his head, more to himself than the hesitation over shared knowledge. "I s'pose i cann'a be helped, then, eh? Seems I might just go'n parade myself down th' streets t'stop repeatin' myself: I'm coming 'ere dressed in hist'ry and not a grain o' sense about it."

In the guest chambers, the furnishings were soon repurposed into something akin to museum displays. Dumdrengi was unsheathed and laid on a table while Karakadrin stood leaning against the central leg underneath. A chair was pulled over to prop up Karakalad. Bründir then sat himself in a chair among it all as if to frame himself as a display piece as well. "I know there's stories in all this. These'll be easy compared t’me, though, so let’s start ‘ere.”

Bründir first took up Karakadrin. “There’s dwarven ruins under Sheercleft. A vault, you’d say, where a cult wanted t’raise up an ancient god. I got this shield from there, an’ a friend of ours took this armour fer ‘imself then later gave it t’me. Karakadrin and Karakalad. It’s plain as a mountain this isn’t fer any old guards, but I’m wonderin’ if there’s somethin’ more’n being a fancy kit?” He expected something prestigious: The arms of a royal guard, under the direct employ of the high king himself centuries ago….or something like that. The suit and shield were masterworks in their own rights, but he didn’t think they carried a legacy tied to a name so much as a station. Get through these, he thought, then we’ll start diving into the true gems.

A pair of scribes carrying slate tablets and sticks of chalk file in behind Odrik. The loremaster himself is shorter and broader than Bründir, his thick beard a thick mane streaked with iron-grey, braided and clasped with bronze filigree that jingles faintly as he moves. His eyes are sharp as chisels, the sort that measure everything for weight and worth. He surveys the improvised display with a long silence, rubbing the edge of his beard.

"You’ve brought steel, yes… but also questions. These aren’t parade gear, mercenary kit, or common soldier’s plate. Karakarin..." he gestures to the shield, "that name alone bears weight. 'Enduring shield.' It echoes the name of this very hold, but older still, back when the words meant vigil. Karakarin, then, is not merely a shield, but a warding plate issued only to those who stood watch at the deepest gates of the ancestors' vaults."

He circles to the armour, Karakalad, laying a heavy hand on its chestplate and feeling for the lines of craft.

"Karakalad is less certain. The word’s rare, but in old runic verse it shows up tied to the phrase stone unbroken. 'Armour of endurance.' This was a set commissioned for those who swore never to falter in their post, even unto death. Not the protector of a king, but of what kings swore to protect."

He straightens, nodding once.

"Your cult’s vault at Sheercleft? If they’d sought to raise up some forgotten god, then yes, these arms make sense. They once barred such doors and, if they were left behind in that place, it may mean that the gatewards never walked out."

The gravity of that statement is palpable. These aren't merely relics of prestige, but perhaps of a final stand that went unrecorded, until the Acharnost entered the ruins centuries later. Odrik’s eyes narrow and he folds his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as if weighing more than mere metal.

"Tell me, what kind of vault? Was it delved by dwarven hands, or did it bear the marks of others? Square cut stone, keystones on the arches, or was it crooked and uneven, as if men or elves had chiselled away at our works like thieves?"

He gestures to the shield again, his voice low but insistent.

"Or the cultists… what was their make? Beardless exiles? Humans dabbling in runes they don’t know? Or… did you see any hint of what god they meant to raise? A name? A symbol? Anything etched on the stone or smeared in blood?"

He leans closer to Bründir, the braids of his beard clinking faintly against Karakalad.

"Did you see bodies in that vault? Bones in place? Or was it stripped bare save for these relics? If the gatewards died there, then their tale deserves a cairn. If they didn't… then I’ve darker questions still."

The scribes keep scratching their chalk furiously across slate, capturing every word, while Odrik studies Bründir’s intently.

Bründir felt memories of the deep delving rush back, and he played them again and again in his mind as he tried to recall every detail. Finally, he pulled over a chair and sat next to the table. He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, then took Dumdrengi and cradled it as if for support. "This's a tale. Your scribes'll want t'be ready; this is one I don' care to miss any detail. You'll 'ave ev'ry word from me, true as th' stone we stand on. When we're done, I'll tell it ag'in t'yer king tomorrow, just as true." Bründir closed his eyes and told of venturing into the mines, of rooting out goblinoid invaders, making shaky alliances with kobolds, and coming to the great silvery gates beneath the mountain.

"The gate was dwarven make, fine as ye'd ever seen. It had a message: 'This door was sealed by Lord Erik Spangelhelm / in Grumbar’s name / Let he who opens it, Beware'. The key was in a series of rings with numbers. Line'em up right, and they opened wide. I don' remember what the number was, it was long, though, an' I'm sure it meant somethin'. Vark'd know. He's here with us an' figured it out. When we got past that, there was a room of rough stone, lined with ore veins. A bunch of boulders across the room, an' a fine cube on top o' one. We found a lever an' it let us pass."

"Next room's where we found all this an' more. Round room, dwarven cut, with alcoves on the sides. There's a statue of a basilisk in one, an' a statue of a dwarf in th' middle facin' it. Karakarin an' Karakald sat at the dwarf statues feet, turned t'stone, along with Rikkazarik. That's a hammer Thurston uses - he's here too. It's got all kind'a runes on it an' shoots lightnin'. Anyway, we found out if ye covered the basilisk statue's eyes, all this stuff turned back normal an' the next door opened up."

Bründir opened his eyes to glance at the scribes. They scribbled feverishly at their tablets. When one of them looked up expectantly, Bründir continued again, "Next was a room with a cauldron. It was like a trap: door slammed shut on us an' th' floor started raisin' up like it was gonna us. We foun' out if we lit a fire under that cauldron, it burned up the ceiling made of loose dirt. Last room had a water basin. When we filled it, water came out'a the walls an' filled some vases, pushed down some stands, an' opened th' last door. After that, we found a pair o' doors made of th' same stuff as this shield an' armour. Those cultists were already there, though."

The final trial was by far the most harrowing. So much had happened that Bründir never understood until later, so it was all a very surreal memory. He winced in frustration, but told it as best as he could recall. "Hobgoblins an' wizards in skull masks were tryin'a open a vault - a prison, we learned later. We got th' jump on'em, an' we found Sheercleft's governor, Quinton, was one of'em there. Vark took a stone off one of'em, and unlocked the vault for some damn reason. He lit up with red fire an' lightnin' like a demon himself. Whatever he let out is still with'im. It's - his name - is Matthew. Some kind'a ancient devil who shared our friend." Bründir bit back an emotional tirade. Get the story out, then ramble later. 

"Once we finished'em all, we found carvings of other places - we think other prisons - an' a name written over 'n over: Morgale. We think - hells we were practically told as much - these other places kept brothers of Matthew." Bründir sat back and pressed his eyes. "There's so much more, but that's the gist of it. It's probably best you hear from all of us if ye want it told proper. I left out bits about my sword in there, too, since we weren't there yet. Dumdrengi, sword of King Erik Spangelhelm." Bründir couldn't help but smile a bit, "It doesn't like Matthew, an' Matthew all but told me he's faced it before."

When Bründir utters Morgale's name aloud, the temperature in his quarters drops noticeably and all the lights flicker out for a moment. Once the lamps have been relit, Odrik doesn't move for a long while. The loremaster's hands are clasped tightly behind his back and his jaw is set, eyes fixed on Dumdrengi, as though the sword itself might rise and confirm Bründir’s words. The only sound is the relentless scratching of the scribes' styluses across slate, filling whole tablets.

At last, Odrik exhales through his nose.

"Lord Erik Spangelhelm..." the dwarf murmurs, shaking his head, his voice low and measured. "That name’s near-forgotten even in dwarven archives. He was no High King, but a leader bold enough to stand against tides that no dwarf should face alone. You say that he sealed things beneath Sheercleft in Grumbar’s name. Grumbar, 'stone eternal', that much we still sing in fragments. Still, Dumdrengi itself, in your hand... that blade is proof that you've not spun tavern tales here."

Odrik shifts, turning sharply towards Bründir.

"You said that the lock was a long number sequence? Vark remembers it? I’ll want it written. Such wards weren’t meant to be guessed by the wit of mortals. They were echoes of the 'delving numbers', the equations that our forefathers carved into the bones of the world. Each sequence is tied to a clan, vault, or purpose. If Vark cracked it, then either he’s touched by old gifts… or something older still was helping him."

The loremaster's eyes narrow.

"‘Matthew'," he muses, "you call him a devil. Spangelhelm wrote of 'the Worm of Ashen Chains', bound by storm and stone. He wrote of brothers too. The other name that you... mentioned might be one. Did you see any sign of a wyrm in that place? Did the fire or lightning twist like coils? Or was this truly a devil as men reckon it? You say that Dumdrengi bristled at him. This makes sense. Dumdrengi’s runes were carved to smite things not of this world. Things that prey on oaths and promises. If your Matthew is such, then it explains why the blade remembers."

"Mark this down as 'The Account of Sheercleft'," Odrik instructs his scribes, "'as told by Bründir Halfshield'. Bind it when done. No word is to be lost."

Once more, he fixes Bründir with a sharp, chiselling stare.

"You will tell this tale again. To the king, as you swore, and I will also need more from your companions. Especially Vark. His part may be the key. What you've spoken tonight will stir more than a few shadows, Bründir. If you've loosed one of the Ashen Brothers… then our people deserve to know the truth."

Valaith had joined the others in the guest room, wandering around looking at the furnishings when she felt a tug as her eyes slid over the various dwarven runes. A tug that she could not quite place, but she found that her eye kept getting drawn back to them and a strange feeling she did not understand. Familiar? Was that the feeling? She turns away to find the faint outline of her older brother, looking her shoulder at the runes as well. Their eyes meet and he nods. And she remembers. 

Rimehand watching Lakin chiseling runes into stone, hammering them into steel, runes that glowed with power. 

A half smile creeps up Valaith's lips and she grabs Rook before heading towards the door. "I will return." She says aloud to the others before leaving behind the guest quarters and tries to navigate the strange dwarven "roads" towards the market in hopes of finding a runesmith. 

It was Bründir's turn to listen, and now he felt as though he sat in a preliminary for a decree of execution. Every one of Odrik's questions had answers, yes, but they all woven into the larger legacy of the Acharnost's dealings. If he elaborated too much, Bründir would find himself spinning a tale for the next two days from his first step as a miner out of Sheercleft up to his first step inside the gates of Karaz Kadrin.

"Yer scribes don'ave enough room t'write all yer askin' fer. These're stories twisted inside other stories, like roots of trees. Matthew: He's free, yes, in a way. He can't just walk about, but he's showed up in different ways. One time he sent somethin' like a servant. Dumdrengi knew it straight away. He didn't like how the blade shined at 'I'm."

"In that vault, these cultists called a devil. We beat it, an' Dumdrengi had a helluva time of it. If I had'a guess, it really liked it. There was somethin' else, though. Vark unlocked that vault with a weird red stone key. After that, he was flyin' around all covered in red smoke an' light. Was it like worms? I don't think so, but I had that other devil in my face, so hard t'say."

"Now, here's a bit of a tale that'll need a whole lot more time, but it fits with all this. In that vault, there was a bunch of carvings an' drawin's of dif'rent places. We figured it was other places with vaults, prisons, or whatever ye might call'em. We left that vault headin' fer Khaz a Gungron, since they were closer, t'ask fer help. We just got invaded by an army an' our neighbors out east seemed like they were makin' it happen. On the way, we got in a nasty fight at a goblin camp. I was quite the hero, if I do say so. Two o'them bastards, though, caught me dirty an' took my eye." Bründir taps a finger to his magical prosthetic for emphasis.

"So anyway, we clear'em out an' I figured I must've gone mad, cause I wandered off t'patch up and saw the damnedest thing! I'm at our wagon, puttin' water and cloth on my bloody face when a voice BOOMS at me. I spin 'round an there's this dwarf in armour an' a crown like a king starin' me down. I reach fer Dumdrengi, but it's gone off my hip. That dwarf-king fella had it, an' pointed it at th' sky. On Stone, a beam 'a light shot down on'im so he looked bright as the sun. That's when I saw it - cause you mentioned brothers: Storm clouds in th' sky came rollin' in from all sides. They were colored, too, which was odd. They cracked an' flashed, but there was no rain. In'em, I swear I saw shadows. They looked like people, but one absolutely looked like a dragon. I could make out horns an' wings on it."

Bründir frequently remembered the dream, but never lingered on it long as it always gave a sense of overwhelming dread. Now that it was out, his insides felt exposed and raw. "Next thing I knew, I was bouncin' in our wagon, dizzy with a fever, an' only came back 'round when we got to Khaz a Gungron."

Quote from Barlow >>

It was Bründir's turn to listen, and now he felt as though he sat in a preliminary for a decree of execution. Every one of Odrik's questions had answers, yes, but they all woven into the larger legacy of the Acharnost's dealings. If he elaborated too much, Bründir would find himself spinning a tale for the next two days from his first step as a miner out of Sheercleft up to his first step inside the gates of Karaz Kadrin.

"Yer scribes don'ave enough room t'write all yer askin' fer. These're stories twisted inside other stories, like roots of trees. Matthew: He's free, yes, in a way. He can't just walk about, but he's showed up in different ways. One time he sent somethin' like a servant. Dumdrengi knew it straight away. He didn't like how the blade shined at 'I'm."

"In that vault, these cultists called a devil. We beat it, an' Dumdrengi had a helluva time of it. If I had'a guess, it really liked it. There was somethin' else, though. Vark unlocked that vault with a weird red stone key. After that, he was flyin' around all covered in red smoke an' light. Was it like worms? I don't think so, but I had that other devil in my face, so hard t'say."

"Now, here's a bit of a tale that'll need a whole lot more time, but it fits with all this. In that vault, there was a bunch of carvings an' drawin's of dif'rent places. We figured it was other places with vaults, prisons, or whatever ye might call'em. We left that vault headin' fer Khaz a Gungron, since they were closer, t'ask fer help. We just got invaded by an army an' our neighbors out east seemed like they were makin' it happen. On the way, we got in a nasty fight at a goblin camp. I was quite the hero, if I do say so. Two o'them bastards, though, caught me dirty an' took my eye." Bründir taps a finger to his magical prosthetic for emphasis.

"So anyway, we clear'em out an' I figured I must've gone mad, cause I wandered off t'patch up and saw the damnedest thing! I'm at our wagon, puttin' water and cloth on my bloody face when a voice BOOMS at me. I spin 'round an there's this dwarf in armour an' a crown like a king starin' me down. I reach fer Dumdrengi, but it's gone off my hip. That dwarf-king fella had it, an' pointed it at th' sky. On Stone, a beam 'a light shot down on'im so he looked bright as the sun. That's when I saw it - cause you mentioned brothers: Storm clouds in th' sky came rollin' in from all sides. They were colored, too, which was odd. They cracked an' flashed, but there was no rain. In'em, I swear I saw shadows. They looked like people, but one absolutely looked like a dragon. I could make out horns an' wings on it."

Bründir frequently remembered the dream, but never lingered on it long as it always gave a sense of overwhelming dread. Now that it was out, his insides felt exposed and raw. "Next thing I knew, I was bouncin' in our wagon, dizzy with a fever, an' only came back 'round when we got to Khaz a Gungron."

Bründir's tale comes to an end and Odrik leans back, the carved oak chair creaking beneath his weight. The old loremaster’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s even behind bushy brows, do not blink for a long while. His scribes have nearly run their chalk sticks flat, their heads down in a frenzy of writing, but Odrik sits still, Dumdrengi's reflection dancing in his eyes. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and heavy, like the first roll of thunder before a mountain storm.

"Bründir Halfshield… you've just given me a tale worthy of a whole saga, but it’s riddled with too many names and threads. I won't let you pass off riddles as truth without pressing further. This 'Matthew'," he asks, tapping a thick finger on the tabletop in time with each question, like a drumbeat of judgement. "If he’s a devil walking in your friend’s shadow, is he bound or unbound? Can he act without Vark’s will, or does he ride him like a beast? This dream, or vision, you claim… a crowned dwarf wielding Dumdrengi, light from the sky and storm-clouds filled with shadows. How do you know that it wasn't fever-dream gibberish? Did you see anything in it since? Any sign that it meant something more? Did you mark where the other prisons were carved to be? What lands, what halls? Or do you come here speaking of doom and demons, but without any map to trace the danger?"

Odrik leans forwards, his beard brushing the rim of the table,  and his eyes boring into Bründir’s with grim intensity.

"Last of all, Dumdrengi. You say that it knows devils, even hates them, but does it know their names? Their kin? You’d best speak plain, Halfshield, or the king will think that you’ve brought nothing but a cursed blade and a basket of madness to Karaz Kadrin’s gates."

Quote from Lyrel >>

Valaith had joined the others in the guest room, wandering around looking at the furnishings when she felt a tug as her eyes slid over the various dwarven runes. A tug that she could not quite place, but she found that her eye kept getting drawn back to them and a strange feeling she did not understand. Familiar? Was that the feeling? She turns away to find the faint outline of her older brother, looking her shoulder at the runes as well. Their eyes meet and he nods. And she remembers. 

Rimehand watching Lakin chiseling runes into stone, hammering them into steel, runes that glowed with power. 

A half smile creeps up Valaith's lips and she grabs Rook before heading towards the door. "I will return." She says aloud to the others before leaving behind the guest quarters and tries to navigate the strange dwarven "roads" towards the market in hopes of finding a runesmith. 

The market of Karaz Kadrin is a maze of stone-cut avenues and vaulted chambers, thrumming with the steady pulse of dwarven life. The air is thick with the smell of hot iron, stone dust, and spiced mead carried on the warmth of braziers set into alcoves. Lanterns of crystal glass and rune-etched bronze glow with steady, smokeless light, painting the crowds in gold and copper.

Valaith cuts a striking figure among the press of stout, broad-shouldered dwarves. Towering, shoulders brushing banners that hang from carved arches, Rook slung across her back like a slab of blackened thunder. Some dwarves look up with a mix of curiosity and respect. Giantkin are not a common sight in these halls, and the hammer that she carries is clearly no ordinary weapon.

Again and again, Valaith's eyes are drawn to the carved runes that fill the stonework around her. They coil along doorframes, blaze from smithy-signs and whisper faintly from the edges of market stalls where charms and tools hang. Each time that her gaze lingers, that tug returns. Faint but insistent, like a memory not quite her own.

The market itself is alive with clamour. Merchants bark over one another in their thick accents, selling gemstones, ingots, furs, meats and intricately wrought arms. The deeper that Valaith goes, the stronger that the feeling becomes, pulling her through twisting lanes and vaulted squares. She passes stalls where smiths hammer in the open, their anvils glowing with the fire of forges sunk directly into the rock. The sound of chisel against steel rings out, sharp and deliberate. It reminds her so much of Larkin that for a moment she expects to see him, sleeves rolled up, hammer in hand, grinning at her... and then she does. Not truly, but in the faint shimmer of his outline standing at a street corner, watching her with a patient half-smile. He lifts his chin, nodding toward a narrow lane between two ale-halls.

Following it, Valaith finds herself before a squat workshop set with a heavy door of dark ironwood, framed by runes that glow faintly blue even in the light. Above the lintel stands a simple sign of a hammer striking an anvil with a rune beneath it that she cannot read, but somehow feels. The tug within her chest sharpens, like a heartbeat in harmony with her own.

Val stares at the door for several of the synchronous heartbeats before she raps upon the ironwood door with her knuckles, perhaps a little heavier than was necessary, but that was always a struggle for Valaith. She is not entirely sure what she expects to find inside, but she hopes that perhaps she could find someone that could teach her the ways of the runes the way that Larkin had once shaped them. She waits patiently for an answer at the door while her thoughts begin to drift about everything that had happened in her life during the last several months; this felt like the first time in a very long time that she had not been driven along by some external forces. Whether that be Vark's strings being pulled by Matthew, or those bastard cultists from Breanne, or... she sighs heavily as she feels a weight upon her that she had been running from since that fateful day in the mountains where her life had effectively ended... just not in a physical sense. Her hands start to tremble as she feels a growing tightness in her throat and a burning in her eyes from the pent up emotional trauma, but she is not prepared to deal with these just yet. Too much to do. She clears her throat and swallows back the knot in her throat and bites down on her lip hard enough to cause a flare of icy rage and the tears freeze in the corners of her eyes before the can betray her. 'Much better.'  This is familiar, something she knows how to handle. The other things... that's for a different day. For days of peace. She laughs slightly to herself at the little joke. There is no peace.

The echo of Valaith's knock rolls heavy through the narrow street, the ironwood door quivering faintly under the weight of her hand. Dwarves passing by glance over, some with wary curiosity, others with the grudging acceptance that strangers bring their noise where it doesn’t belong, but no one lingers. Karaz Kadrin is a city that minds its own.

For a moment, there is nothing but the slow drip of water from some unseen pipe, the muffled clang of hammer on steel from deeper within the market and Valaith’s own ragged breath. Then, the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

Standing there is a dwarf who's beard is black streaked with iron-grey, braided close against his chest with copper clasps. His arms are thick as tree limbs, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, skin dusted with soot and burn scars alike. His eyes, a clear flinty blue, take her in at once. Her size, her weapon, the set of her jaw. There's no fear in his look, only the appraising weight of a craftsman.

The air that spills out from the workshop is hot, dry and metallic, like standing at the mouth of a furnace. Behind him, Valaith can see rows of chisels, anvils and shelves heavy with etched plates of stone and steel. The runes there burn faintly, alive with some inner rhythm.

The dwarf lifts one thick eyebrow. His voice, when it comes, is like rough-hewn granite.

"Ye strike a door like ye mean t’bring it down. If it’s work ye’re lookin’ for, speak it plain. What business brings a hammer-bearer to my hall?"

The ghostly presence of Larkin lingers faintly at Valaith's side, visible only to her. He watches the smith with a kind of approving recognition, as though some unspoken thread has pulled the giantess exactly where she needs to be.