The heavy wooden door creaked open, and before Gorim could even turn his head, a booming voice filled the room. "By the stones of the Grey Mountains!"
A massive, barrel-chested dwarf stomped inside, his thick beard woven with silver rings that clinked as he moved. His gruff, weathered face split into a wide grin as his sharp eyes locked onto Gorim. "I thought my old eyes were playing tricks on me!"
Before Gorim could stand, the force of Baeric Khazul's embrace nearly crushed the air from his lungs. The elder cousin wrapped his mighty arms around Gorim, shaking him with the strength of a boulder rolling down a mountain. Dwarven culture had no patience for timid greetings—family was to be embraced, held, and known by touch as much as by name.
"Ha! Still got some strength in those bones, haven't ye?" Baeric bellowed, giving Gorim a solid pat on the back that nearly knocked him forward.
Before Gorim could even respond, a chorus of voices erupted behind him. "Uncle Gorim!"
The younger dwarves poured into the room, their excited shouts overlapping. Varnic, barely past his eightieth winter, rushed forward first, his golden-brown beard still too short to braid properly. He wrapped his arms around Gorim's waist, his youthful strength almost knocking the older dwarf off balance.
Durnhal, the stoutest of the lot, stepped forward next. "We thought ye were lost to the mountains!" He grinned wide, his missing tooth from an old forge accident making his smile all the more endearing.
Urd, the quietest, gave Gorim a firm handshake instead, though the warmth in his eyes spoke volumes.
Then came the twins—Rurik and Grumli. Identical in their fiery-red beards, they were barely past seventy winters, still young by dwarven standards. They leaped forward together, gripping Gorim's arms in unison.
"Uncle Gorim, we thought ye were just a story old Borgrim liked to tell!" Rurik laughed.
"Aye, some long-lost hero from the old days!" Grumli added, nudging his twin.
The room burst into laughter as the twins talked over each other, their boundless energy filling the space.
Gorim, overwhelmed but grinning from ear to ear, let himself be swallowed by the warmth of his kin. It had been too long—too many years lost to wandering, too many nights spent alone by dying campfires. He had thought himself forgotten, a relic of a home that no longer existed.
But here, in this cramped, fire-lit room, surrounded by rough hands gripping his shoulders, warm arms pulling him close, and voices full of joy, he realized something. He had never been forgotten.
Borgrim stood to the side, arms crossed, smirking. "Told ye, Gorim. All dwarves are cousins."
Gorim chuckled, eyes misty but heart full. "Aye, that ye did, lad. That ye did."
Baeric didn't waste a moment. The moment the laughter died down, he leaned forward, his sharp grey eyes narrowing, studying Gorim like a blacksmith inspecting a newly forged blade. "Where in the molten depths have ye been all these years, Gorim? We thought ye were swallowed by the mountains!"
The room quieted. The younger dwarves, still beaming from their reunion, now leaned in with curiosity, eager to hear the tale.
Gorim sighed, running a calloused hand through his thick beard. "It's a long tale, cousin. Longer than a dwarven winter."
Baeric scoffed, crossing his massive arms. "Bah! I got plenty of time, and I bet ye do too!" He then paused, squinting. "But ye wouldn't be here without a reason, would ye? Let me guess…" His voice dropped a bit, his tone serious now. "Yer here for the Red Steel."
Gorim nodded. No point in denying it. A low murmur rippled through the gathered dwarves. Even the youngest among them knew what that meant.
Baeric exhaled through his nose, stroking his beard. "So, the rumors are true, then. The Elder Dragon still lives."
"Aye." Gorim's voice was firm. "And it must be slain. Not just for the sake of the Grey Mountains, but for every soul who still lives under its shadow."
Borgrim, who had been listening silently, finally spoke up. "He ain't alone." He gestured to the doorway. "Got himself a company. A right stubborn lot of humans, if I do say so meself."
Baeric raised an eyebrow. "Humans? They're with ye, then? They helped ye reach Marsh Town?"
"Aye, they did." Gorim nodded. "We crossed the Grey Mountains, survived the Ashen Plains, the Sunken Marshes, and even the damned Ruins of Old Marsh Town. They fought beside me through it all. Without them, I'd be nothing but bones in a goblin's stew pot by now."
Baeric grunted, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long moment, he let out a deep chuckle. "Well, I'll be damned. A dwarf standing side by side with humans against an Elder Dragon. If that ain't something straight outta the old sagas, I don't know what is." He slapped Gorim on the shoulder so hard it nearly knocked him forward.
Then, his face grew serious again. "But if ye need Red Steel, then yer in for a battle bigger than just the dragon. That forge—what's left of it—is buried deep under Old Marsh Town. And it ain't unguarded."
Gorim frowned. "What do ye mean?"
Baeric sighed, glancing at the others. "I mean, we ain't the only ones who know about it. There's things down there. Things left behind from the days the dragon first burned this land. Curses, traps, and worse. If we're going to get that steel…" His eyes darkened. "We best be ready for a fight."
Gorim shook his head firmly, his thick brows furrowing as he leaned forward. "Nay, cousin. We found it."
Baeric and the younger dwarves froze, their eyes wide with shock. "What?" Baeric muttered.
"The Red Steel." Gorim's voice was grim. "Not in great slabs or unworked ore, but in weapons—blades and arrows, scattered like the bones of the dead. We searched the ruins, dug through the wreckage, and that's all we found. Whatever was bigger—ballistae, spears, shields—it's gone. Someone took it. And I'll wager me beard it wasn't the ghosts."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Borgrim crossed his arms, exhaling sharply. "Bandits."
Gorim nodded. "Aye. Only they could've taken it. Ghosts don't carry off weapons. Those cursed spirits do naught but fight, locked in their eternal war. Humans and dwarves, still slaughtering each other in death just as they did in life. They wouldn't think to strip the battlefield. But someone did."
The dwarves muttered among themselves. Even the younger ones understood what that meant—if the Red Steel had been taken, it was out there, in the hands of those who wouldn't part with it easily.
Borgrim sighed and rubbed his temple. "And that ain't the worst of it. I went to every smith I know this morning, asked all of 'em if they could forge Red Steel. Every single one turned me away. They don't know how."
Baeric's face darkened. "Ye mean to tell me there ain't a single smith in all of Marsh Town who knows the craft?"
"Not a one." Borgrim's voice was flat. Then, with a bitter chuckle, he added, "Save for one. The old man. Too old to lift a hammer, too blind to see the flames of a forge. He was the last to know the secret, and he retired long ago."
Gorim gritted his teeth. "So we've got two problems. The Red Steel we need is lost, taken by bandits or worse. And even if we get it back, there's no one left to forge it."
A deep, suffocating silence settled over the room. It was the worst possible situation. Without the Red Steel, they had no weapon capable of even scratching the Elder Dragon's hide. And even if they found the missing steel, no hands remained that could shape it.
Baeric leaned back, stroking his beard. His eyes were heavy, filled with the weight of their predicament. "Then tell me, Gorim. What in the seven hells do we do now?"
Durnhal cleared his throat and spoke. "If reclaiming the Grey Mountains means joy to dwarves and humans alike, then doesn't that mean humans must be involved?"
All eyes turned to him. Gorim, still lost in thought, slowly nodded. "Aye… my companions are human, but they don't have a ballista, a spear, or anything big enough. So that alone doesn't count."
Durnhal shook his head. "That's not what I mean." He leaned forward, his young face earnest. "Why not look at their records? Their history? The humans in Marsh Town fought the Elder Dragon before, didn't they? Someone had to build those weapons. The city must have blueprints, archives—something."
Borgrim snorted. "Bah! You think the mayor kept such things? The bastard's been dead for thirty years."
Durnhal grinned. "Aye, but his son lives."
The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then, all at once—Laughter erupted. Loud, deep, rolling dwarven laughter, bouncing off the stone walls like thunder. Borgrim nearly fell back in his chair, clutching his sides. Baeric let out a booming guffaw, shaking his head. Even Gorim, despite the weight of their troubles, chuckled.
"His son? HAH!" Borgrim wiped his eyes. "Aye, the lad lives, but ye think he's got his father's wits? HAH! That boy's naught but a tavern rat!"
Baeric shook his head, still grinning. "The mayor's son, a savior of dwarves? By me beard, I'd sooner trust a goblin to forge me an axe!"
More laughter followed, but Durnhal stood his ground. "Laugh all ye want!" He crossed his arms. "But if there's any chance the blueprints still exist, where else would they be? If his father had them, then they should still be in the mayor's house. And if the lad's got 'em, then we've got a reason to go knockin' on his door."
The laughter slowly died down.
Borgrim sighed, rubbing his face. "Madness."
Baeric grumbled. "Aye. Madness."
But then he stroked his beard, deep in thought.
Gorim did the same. Finally, he spoke. "Madness, aye… but what choice do we have?"
Silence fell once more. Then, Baeric exhaled through his nose. "Then it's decided." He looked around the room, his expression hardening. "We go to the mayor's son. We find the blueprints. And if they exist—we take 'em."
Borgrim nodded. "And if they don't?"
Baeric grinned. "Then we drink."