"Are they strong?" I asked.
Astrid didn't hesitate.
"Individually, they should be as strong as two normal human." She cut another piece of steak, lifted it to her mouth, and chewed. "But an army of them? Sieg will even have a hard time dealing them all."
I exhaled sharply.
"Shit." I ran a hand through my hair. "Does that mean I have no chance, then?"
She swallowed her bite, then glanced up at me.
"You may."
That answer wasn't exactly reassuring.
Astrid rested her elbow on the table, her fork idly tapping against the wood.
"You see, they're not the brutish savages we assume them to be." She paused, watching me. "They're intelligent. Tactical. They know when a battle isn't worth fighting."
I furrowed my brows. "And that helps me how?"
She leaned in slightly.
"You can avoid genocide by challenging their strongest."
I blinked. "What?"
She nodded.
"Skarnhaal respect strength above all else. If you kill their greatest warrior—their champion—their leader may see that as enough. Just bring the King their strongest head, and I'm sure he'll be satisfied."
I sat back in my chair, thinking.
One kill instead of thousands.
A single battle instead of an entire war.
That was something I could work with.
"And, easier for you," Astrid added, taking another slow bite. "While they're as smart as hell, being half-orc means they won't turn down a duel offer."
That caught my interest.
"So they'll fight one-on-one?"
She nodded. "Always. It's in their nature. A challenge to their strongest is something they can't refuse."
I exhaled, leaning back.
"Okay, cool. At least we have some sort of plan." I rubbed a hand over my face. "But how come you know so much about this?"
Astrid's fork paused against the plate for just a second.
Then, quietly, she said, "Mom wrote a lot about them in her journal. I read them every day as a kid."
I stared at her for a moment, but she didn't say anything else.
Didn't elaborate.
Just kept eating.
I decided not to push it.
Instead, I refocused.
"Alright. So where are they?"
Astrid swallowed her bite, then lifted a single finger—
And pointed straight down.
"You heard the King."
Her voice was calm, steady.
"Right under our feet."
After Astrid finished her meal, we left Hagen's Hearth and made our way through the city streets—except this time, we weren't heading for another tavern or inn.
We were heading down.
Beneath the glorious stone-paved streets of Drakenburg, beneath the polished boots of nobles and the towering walls of the palace, lay the forgotten underbelly of the city.
The sewers.
The moment we stepped inside, the stench hit me like a war hammer.
Rotting waste. Stagnant water. Mildew clinging to the walls like a disease.
I grimaced. "You sure we're not just going to drown in shit down here?"
Astrid didn't even react.
She walked ahead, leading us deeper, until we reached a wide stone well in the center of the tunnel. The air was thicker here, heavier, like something ancient was waiting below.
Astrid climbed onto the well's edge.
Then, without hesitation—she jumped.
I stepped forward just in time to hear her voice echo up from the abyss.
"It's okay. You won't die."
I exhaled sharply.
Then I jumped.
The air rushed past me, cold and damp, before I landed on solid ground.
Except—it wasn't stone.
It was metal.
I looked down, my boots planted firmly on a massive platform of dark steel.
Then, I looked up—and saw the Skarnhaal's city.
The first thing I noticed was the sheer scale.
I had expected something crude, barbaric—stone tunnels and makeshift homes carved into the walls like rats hiding in burrows.
But this?
This was a fortress.
Massive stone pillars, thick as castle towers, stretched from the floor to the cavern ceiling, holding up iron walkways that spiraled down toward the city below. Bridges of dark metal and chain connected structures of obsidian and steel, their surfaces etched with glowing runes.
The buildings themselves were tall, brutalist in design, built with function over beauty. Some were engraved with strange symbols, others with weapons mounted on their walls—spears, axes, swords—all sharpened and ready for war.
The cavern stretched so far, I couldn't see where it ended—only the faint glimmer of molten rivers in the distance, their light flickering against the cold, unfeeling steel of the city.
And then—the people.
The Skarnhaal.
They moved through the streets with purpose. Larger than humans, stronger than elves, their bodies built for war. Some wore simple armor, others carried weapons openly, resting them on their shoulders as they walked.
And every single one of them looked like they knew how to kill.
Astrid stepped forward, completely unfazed.
I stayed where I was, taking it all in.
The King had sent me here to wipe them out.
But standing here now, looking at the size of this city—
This wasn't just a tribe of savages.
This was an empire.
We walked through the streets of the buried city, the air thick with the scent of metal, stone, and something deeper—earth that had never seen the sun.
The more I looked, the more I realized how wrong my assumptions had been.
This wasn't some cave full of brutes.
This was a city. A real one.
Built on layers of iron walkways and stone bridges stretching over deep chasms, where the glow of molten rivers pulsed like veins through the cavern walls.
Buildings, massive and angular, lined the streets—some etched with old symbols, others bearing rows of sharpened weapons displayed openly, as if war was never far from their minds.
But it wasn't just warriors I saw.
There were merchants, exchanging goods with sharp, calculated words. Smiths, hammering weapons that gleamed under the cavern's dim torchlight. Mothers, children, workers—living, thriving, surviving.
I had expected savages.
What I found was a civilization.
Beside me, Astrid walked in silence, her crimson eyes scanning everything with an unreadable expression.
For once, she didn't look like the quiet, controlled woman I had met back in Drakenburg.
She looked… curious.
"First time seeing it?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
She nodded.
"Yeah." Her tone wasn't as guarded as usual. If anything, it almost sounded… awed.
"Everything I knew about this place, I got from my mother's journals."
She glanced up at a massive stone archway, its edges carved with Skarnhaal script.
"Reading about it and actually being here are two very different things."
"Everything I knew about this place, I got from my mother's journals."
She glanced up at a massive stone archway, its edges carved with Skarnhaal script.
"Reading about it and actually being here are two very different things."
I didn't doubt it.
She had spent years reading about the Skarnhaal, about their history, their way of life. But now, for the first time, she was walking through it.
I glanced at her again, watching the way she moved—deliberate, precise, yet… strangely at ease here.
Maybe more at ease than she should be.
But that thought barely lingered before I pushed it away.
Because this place wasn't meant to be admired.
It was a target.
And soon, one of them was going to die.
We kept walking, the underground streets stretching before us in a maze of stone paths and metal walkways.
Then, we reached an iron bridge spanning a deep ravine, the glow of molten rock far below casting eerie shadows against the cavern walls.
And that's when they stepped in front of us.
Three Skarnhaal.
They weren't dressed like the others—no proper armor, no insignias, no weapons sheathed in ceremonial belts.
These ones were rough, feral.
The first stood taller than me by at least a head, his shoulders broad enough to block half the bridge. His skin was a deep slate gray, scars running across his bare chest in thick, jagged lines. His arms were wrapped in leather bands, his hands gripping the handles of two wicked-looking short axes strapped to his belt.
The second was leaner, sharper. His ears were longer than the others I had seen, his hair braided back tightly. His fingers twitched by his side, where a curved dagger rested against his thigh. Unlike the first, he wasn't flexing his strength—he was studying us. Calculating.
The third was the one who moved first.
A hulking figure with ashen-white skin and dark, sunken eyes. His face was marked with old war paint, long since faded but still visible in the dim torchlight. He stepped forward, sniffing the air once—
Then his eyes snapped straight to me.
"You smell… familiar."