A respectful silence follows Bründir’s bow and King Ungrim inclines his head with deliberate weight. When the king speaks again, his voice no longer holds the distance of a ruler speaking to a subject, but the gravity of a lord addressing a fellow keeper of the mountain's fate.

"Then rise, Thane Bründir Halfshield of Sheercleft. There will be time enough to speak of hardships and histories."

Ungrim steps back and gestures towards one of the captains of his hearthguard, a weathered dwarf with silver-threaded braids and one eye gone milky from some long-forgotten skirmish.

"This is Captain Drakki Runeson. He will see to your companions' lodgings and make arrangements for your council at dawn. The hall of Stonekeep will be sealed and yours, with map and parchment, steward and scribes, should you need them."

Drakki salutes with a fist to chest, then offers a stiff nod to the party.

"Follow me when you’re ready. Warm beds, warm food and no pryin’ ears."

The tension in the hearth begins to soften and muttering voices pick up once more around the long tables. Somewhere, a hammered dulcimer begins to play, ale flows and steam rises from fresh plates of chevon and mushroom, with root stew and spiced onions.

"Well that seemed to go well!"

Xej grins.

"Though Jex is screaming in my head about accepting an offer without hearing what the other parties would put on the table. If he doesn't like it, you probably did the right thing!"

He has a light, playful attitude as he slides along the bench towards Drakki, moving through his companions to the side of the room. Bowl in hand he blows away some steam.

"Captain? What can you tell us about your king? How is he seen by your people? There are many ways to rule and many great rulers who saw it differently."

Drakki lifts his brow at Xej's easy manner, but there's no hostility in it, only curiosity. The captain does not answer immediately, instead taking a slow drink from his stone tankard, eyes fixed on the half-elf with the squint of someone weighing the worth of a question more than the questioner. At last, he sets the tankard down and speaks. The dwarf's voice is low and rough, with a calm weight to it.

"King Ungrim is not a pleasant dwarf. He is not loved because he is cheerful, nor because he brings feasts and games. He is loved because he does not bend. Not to pressure, not to grief, not to gold, not even to the ghosts of his own hall."

Drakki leans back against the carved pillar behind him, arms crossed.

"Some kings win battles. Ungrim? He wins resolve. When trade dried up, he tightened our belts. When the orcs sent threats, he sent back their messenger's head in a box. When my sister died to ratfolk rot... he sent fifty warriors into the tunnels the next day and didn't sleep until every last one of them came home."

The captain drums his fingers once against the tankard.

"His only heir is fallen. Some say that the mountain itself is his bride and he will die in its arms. Others say that he's waiting for someone strong enough to take his place from him."

A moment passes and Drakki continues more quietly.

"He knows that he won't live forever. That's what makes him dangerous. Not because he fears death, but because he wants Karaz Kadrin to outlive him by ten thousand years and he won’t let weak stone or soft steel bear the weight."

The captain glances toward Bründir.

"So, if he tests you, it’s not pride. It’s just him putting stone to the hammer and listening for cracks. You didn’t ring hollow. That’s rare."

The dwarf's words hang like embers in the air. Quiet, glowing and slow to fade.

"He’d likely call you a songbird with a dagger for a beak," he mutters to Xej with a small grin. "Not sure if that’s praise or insult."

Drakki gives a short nod and turns back to his stew.

"Eat while it’s hot. Diplomacy’s best with a full belly."

Nearby, Vark quietly slurps up his own stew, listening to Drakki and eager to hear the dwarf’s opinion of the king they had just sworn fealty to. Another mention of conflict with the orcs catches his attention, and suddenly he feels a little self conscious, quickly glancing back to the Reckoning mural dripping with bloodstone. He gulps down another bite then washes it down with ale.

”Uhm, do the orcs send threats a lot? Like… recently?” he asks the captain.

Drakki looks up from his mug, one thick brow raised as he sizes up Vark for a moment. There’s no scorn in the dwarf's eyes. Just a long, appraising pause, like a smith testing the weight of an unfamiliar metal. He shifts slightly, his armour clinking as he sets his drink down with care.

"Aye. They still come down the passes now and then," the captain states plainly. "Small bands mostly. Scouts, raiders, war-seekers. Nothing like the old hordes from the days of the Red Tithe. That was a storm. What we see now are its echoes."

He pauses, letting the hearth’s crackle fill the space for a breath or two.

"They still remember though. Same as we do. They test our walls. Our resolve. Some say they’re gathering again in the west. New banners, new chieftains. I don’t know if it’s true..." Drakki's eyes narrow slightly at the thought, "but if it is, then our oaths will matter."

He leans back a touch, still studying Vark, his voice softer now.

“You ask like someone with skin in it. Your kind. Your blood. They still hold the old grudges too?”

Xej sucks down his own stew as the conversation moves on around him.

Songbird with a dagger beak? What was that supposed to mean? Did they think he was false? Was Jex's reputation ruining his own even with people they hadn't met? He runs in circles in his head until he can't take it anymore.

"Excuse me captain. But what did you mean by dagger for a beak? I think you may have me confused with someone else."

Drakki is caught mid-drink by the question. The dwarf slowly turns his head towards Xej and sets his mug down again with a sigh. The captain's expression is calm, but not indifferent.

"I meant no insult," Drakki assures the half-elf, his voice steady and low. "It’s an old saying in these halls. 'The songbird with a dagger beak sings sweet till the blood runs.' Meant for those with pretty words and sharper intentions."

The dwarf pauses, looking the former assassin in the eye. The stare isn't so much an accusation as it is the captain taking the measure of the man before him.

"You’re quick with a grin and quicker with a tongue. That’s plain. I’ve seen men like you before. Court folk, sellswords, diplomats. Some mean well. Some are dangerous. All of them dance."

There’s a brief silence and then the captain shrugs.

"You might not be one of them," he adds, "I hope you’re not. Karaz Kadrin’s seen its share of silver tongues and songs that turn sour. You travel with a Thane now; folk are watching.”

Drakki's stern demeanour eases slightly and the dwarf reaches for his bowl.

"If I thought that you were false, I’d not be speaking to you at all. Just… be mindful of where you step. In these halls, words carry weight and some echoes last longer than they should."

The captain digs into his stew once more, the sound of spoon against clay loud in the stillness that follows.

Xej falls into silence as he finishes his stew. His eyes look deep through the bowl as he clearly engaged in a discussion with himself. His eyebrows occasionally move as though making some point or another, occasionally quizzical, more often stern. Eventually he tuts, sitting back and taking a deep drink, his mind back in the room.

Vark falls quiet as Xej interjects, but as the half-elf grows  pensively silent, he chimes back in.

”Uhm, to answer your question, n-no, I don’t really have any skin in it. I come from the Galestone tribe, of Endelfjell. We were pretty isolated, didn’t really get involved with the more… aggressive tribes. Besides, personally, well… they’re only half my blood. They never let me forget that. But now my home and my people are Sheercleft.”

Drakki pauses mid-chew and leans back slightly, studying Vark with a thoughtful expression. The ruddiness in the dwarf's cheeks fades just a touch as the name Galestone settles among the gathering.

"Endelfjell," he echoes, nodding slowly. "Aye. That’s a hard land. Steep and cold and cruel in winter. Not many go that way, neither dwarf nor orc, but the Galestones… I’ve heard they make their homes high and wind-swept. Not raiders like the Skullbrands. Never saw one in battle. Folks say that they're solitary frost shamans who hold to other ways."

The captain glances into his bowl, the firelight flickering in his beard.

"They say that the Galestones watch the stars as much as they hunt elk. That they build cairns for their dead so tall that the wind forgets them." There's a hint of admiration in Drakki's voice now, or at least respect for hardship endured. "Can’t fault a folk for surviving like that."

"Half-blood or no, ye bear their weight on your shoulders," the dwarf notes, turning his eyes back on Vark. "The ache of bein’ set apart… it don’t make you less. Just different. Same as Bründir's no less for being from a town without a throne. Sometimes it's the ones from the edge who see clearest what the centre forgets."

The captain's brow furrows, his curiosity returning.

"You call Sheercleft your home now? Hm. That makes you a dwarf by choice, not birth. That’s no small thing. Some of our kind would call that bold. Others…" Drakki lets the words drift, his shoulders rising in a shrug. "Well, give ‘em time. The mountain doesn’t shift quickly, but it remembers what it shelters."

He lifts his tankard towards Vark in a quiet salute.

"To your new home, then, and to banners shared."

Vark listens with something like reverence. It’s strange hearing someone describe his own tribe from an outsider’s perspective. He’d always felt like an outsider growing up, alienated from his own culture, but now that he thinks about it, maybe his mother was wrong. He can call the sky, command frost, and much much more. His mother had worried the abilities he suddenly found himself in possession of would draw unwanted attention to the young half-orc, but maybe his abilities would actually have earned him the tribes respect. His face is solemn as he absorbs all of this, but he smiles at the idea of being a “dwarf by choice”. There’s no way to take it other than a compliment from the high ranking dwarven captain. So Vark raises his own tankard in cheers.

”To banners shared.” he echoes

Drakki's teeth flash behind his beard in a broad and honest grin. The dwarf clinks his tankard lightly against Vark’s with a dull thock of iron on iron.

"Aye, lad," he warmly agrees, "you've the right of it."

The captain leans forward slightly, lowering his voice just a touch. It's respectful rather than conspiratorial, like he's speaking to someone whose words are beginning to matter.

"Many folk think that blood makes the clan, but blood's just the start. It's the work and the choice and the honour that bind it together. You’ve chosen your place. You’ve walked the road up from the valley to a gate few outsiders ever see, let alone pass. Don’t let any old grognard with a long memory make you feel lesser for it."

"Besides," he adds more lightly, "I’ve seen enough orcs and dwarves alike who couldn’t hit the broad side of a tunnel, or who’d faint at the sight of a forge. So, I say that if the mountain’s taken you in, then maybe it knows something that we don’t."

Drakki taps a calloused finger on the edge of his tankard and raises an eyebrow at Vark. Around them, the hall hums: clattering spoons, murmured laughter, a bard beginning to tune a dulcimer in the corner. The fire flickers low in the hearths, the heat of the place settling into tired limbs and satisfied bellies.

As the evening wears on, the Hearth of Ancestry begins to settle. The great fires burn low, until the embers shift to a steady, comforting glow that casts flickering shadows across the carved stone walls. Plates are scraped clean and tankards emptied with lingering toasts and quiet chuckles. Dwarves rise heavily from benches, sharing handclasps and parting words, while servants bustle between the tables to clear dishes with efficient pride.

Drakki offers a final nod to the Acharnost and a servant approaches to escort them to their guest quarters deeper in the keep. These are a modest but comfortable set of stone-hewn rooms, warm and well-kept.

However, Vark lingers.

Bundled against the cold in his deep blue cloak, Vark steps out onto Karaz Kadrin's outer terraces. This part of the city, perched at the edge of a cliff that overlooks the deep valleys below, is designed to accommodate guests and merchants. The cold is sharp, but invigorating, and the light of evening is replaced by the glow of lanterns and enchanted sconces. Magic glimmers on the stone buildings in harmless, but eye-catching illusions of projected sigils, flickering runes, or coloured fire dancing atop signs.

The streets are broad and curved to follow the mountain's natural shape, with polished stone underfoot and sturdy parapets lining the edges. Vark moves through the bustling evening crowd of traders, pilgrims, surface dwarves and the occasional elf or human dignitary. The sound of voices, hammered metal and the occasional burst of laughter echoes up the stone.

The sorcerer passes shops with windows enchanted to sparkle and hawkers crying out in thick Khazak accents...

"Try the Beard Balm of Braegnor!"
"Charm your boots to never smell again!"
"Worry-stones blessed by the High Runepriest himself. One copper!"

He’s quickly swept up in the colourful signs and warm storefronts. Music spills from a nearby tavern where mechanical birds spin on little clockwork perches.

Eventually, drawn by a softly jingling wind-chime that plays a high, crystalline tone, Vark steps into a narrow shop tucked between two larger buildings. The air inside is thick with sweet and smoky incense, while the ceiling is strung with coloured glass lanterns enchanted to hover and rotate slowly, casting prismatic light across the cramped interior. The walls are lined with shelves stacked with oddities.

Behind a crooked counter stands a wizened dwarf with a massive monocle over one eye and a beard bound in dozens of glittering metal cuffs. He looks up as the half-orc enters and gives a slow, toothy grin.

"Ahhh… welcome, welcome," the shopkeeper greets his potential new customer with a chuckle. "Come to find a touch of wonder, have ye? Or just trying not to freeze out there with the rest of the gawkers?"

The sounds from the street outside are muffled now. Here, under the rainbow lantern-light, the atmosphere is quiet, strange and dreamlike. Vark’s breath still fogs slightly in the air and the floorboards creak just a little too much beneath his boots. Nevertheless, a few of the items glimmer invitingly and the dwarf watches him with a knowing gaze, hands folded over the counter like he has all the time in the world.

“Oh, y-yes thank you, I would love to see what you have to offer!” Vark says excitedly, not looking the dwarf in the eyes because his attention is pulled in a dozen different places, wonder clearly having found him already.

The old dwarf chuckles, the sound a creaky, pleasant rasp like worn leather and parchment.

"Aye, I thought so," he murmurs, stepping out from behind the counter with a cane that taps smartly on the stone floor. It seems more for show than for support. "You’ve got the look of someone who’s open to surprises. That’s good. That’s very good. Let’s take a wander, shall we?"

The shop is barely large enough to turn in, and yet somehow seems to unfold around Vark as the merchant guides him. Hidden drawers slide open with a touch, cases spin to reveal new trinkets and a small curtain parting in the back reveals a second cramped room where even more shelves bulge with oddities. The old dwarf points items out with theatrical flair.

"This here’s a whistle of befriending. Won’t charm a wolf, mind you, but might make a stranger think twice 'fore they spit on yer boots."

"Now this," he says, lifting a smooth stone orb that pulses gently with pale green light, "is a dream catcher. Whisper your fears to it at night and it’ll swallow the bad dreams whole. Just don’t drop it. It screams."

He reaches for a drawer and pulls out a dainty copper bracelet with a cloudy, blue gem.

"Keeps yer tea warm. Or soup, I suppose. Depends what kind of life you live."

There are shelves of items too nonsensical to catalogue. An ink pot that writes in riddles, gloves that make you clap twice when you lie and a small statue of a cat that hums when moonlight touches it.

"You won’t find much in here to kill a goblin with," the dwarf says at last, giving Vark a sidelong glance, "but magic ain’t just for killing. Sometimes it’s for remembering, or forgetting. Or just... being."

He leans on his cane, craning his neck up to hold eye contact with the half-orc.

"Tell me, lad. What are you lookin’ for? I’ll not push stock on a soul who’s still findin’ his feet."

Even though the magical trinkets on display here are far from the arcane marvels he’s come across in his travels, he is no less delighted and inspired to see them.

”These are all wonderful! But uhm…” he takes a moment to think, wondering how best to phrase his question. “Do you have anything that can help someone remember who they are? Or maybe… something that can help one part of themself beee… more at peace with another part of themself?” he pauses, realizing this is not the time to be vague. “I have a friend with a split personality.”

The old dwarf’s bushy eyebrows rise slowly and he regards Vark for a moment with a kind of gentle curiosity, like somebody watching a starling hop into a forge. Not mocking, or pitying, just surprised and quietly impressed by the earnestness behind the question.

"A friend, eh?"

The question comes with a slight twitch of a smile and the dwarf steps past a shelf, before rifling through a drawer tucked behind a curtain of bead-strung copper wires.

"That's a question not often asked by folk your age. Most are lookin’ for power, or wealth, or a way to punch twice as hard. Not peace."

He pulls out a small wooden box, lacquered black with old dwarven runes scorched faintly into the grain. Opening it releases a subtle smell: cedar and cold rain, like wet stone after a storm. Inside rests a polished disc of smoky crystal, hung on a chain of twined silver and brass.

"This here’s called a 'Whispering Mirror'," the shopkeeper explains, holding it so that the dim shop lights dance faintly inside it. "Not a real mirror, see. It don’t show faces. What it does is hold the echo of a thought. When one mind struggles to speak with another, be it two souls, or one soul with two shadows, it can carry the words. Like a bridge made of memory and will. You speak into it at night, when the world’s gone quiet, and in the mornin’ the other part may speak back. If they want."

He lets the weight of the object settle in Vark’s vision, then sets it down with care upon a patch of velvet.

"It won't cure anything. It won't fix a thing that's broken, unless both halves want it mended, but it can help them to listen and that's more than most folk ever get."

The dwarf pauses for a beat.

"Friend of yours is lucky to have somebody looking out for them. Thirty-five gorl," he adds with a gesture towards the talisman, "if it calls to you. Less if you tell me your name."

Vark’s eyes go wide.

”Wow, that’s so cool! And I think it might actually be pretty helpful. It’s been uhm… pretty difficult trying to communicate with one of the shadows. I’ll take it!” Vark begins rummaging through his satchel for the gorl. “I’m Vark by the way! Vark of Sheercleft.” he grins as he dumps the coins on the counter in front of the dwarf.

The old dwarf lets out a pleased grunt at the name, tapping one thick finger on the counter as the coins clink and scatter like miniature shields across the wood. He sweeps them up with surprising dexterity, counting in a blur of motion, then looks back up with a gleam behind his spectacles.

"Vark of Sheercleft," he repeats, as though testing the weight of the name on his tongue. "A good name. Sounds carved from stone and earned in fire. You’ll wear it well, lad."

He wraps the Whispering Mirror in a deep green cloth marked with a some faded runes of protection, probably more ceremonial than functional, and ties it with a cord. As he passes the bundle across, his fingers pause just a moment longer than necessary.

"Mind how you use it. Sometimes… listenin’ hurts more than speakin’, but it’s worth it, in the long run. Always is."

He chuckles, stepping back with a grunt.

"Mm. Overpaid by five gorl," the shopkeeper grumbles quietly. He flicks a few of the octagonal gold pieces, warm from his hand, back across the counter with a practiced motion. "A name like that’s worth a handshake price. Now go on. You’ve got the look of someone who’s itchin’ to get lost again. Just don’t trust any shops with signs that glow too bright. You’ll end up with a singing dagger that won’t shut up about wine."

With that, he gives a small wave and turns to tend to a rack of crystal beetles humming faintly in their glass cage, leaving Vark with his strange new artifact.

Vark flashes another grin and gives his thanks, taking the mirror and tucking it gently into his satchel. He steps back out into the streets and begins hurriedly making his way back to the Acharnost’s quarters in the keep, a breeze propelling his footsteps even here in this city of stone. He is eager to give this gift to Xej, and as he comes back to their resting place he looks to see if the half elf is still awake.