The cold wind howled between the ridges, whipping up fine snow that pelted the Helson Viscount's cloak.
He tightened the fur around his shoulders as the loose stones beneath his feet kept slipping, forcing him to tread carefully. Beside him, the dwarf envoy Dain Ironpalm walked as though on level ground, his sturdy legs firmly crossing the ice-covered stone steps while the warhammer in his hand lightly tapped the ground, as if measuring the mountain's pulse.
They had spent three full days trekking along this hidden mountain path leading into the depths. The cliffs on either side rose high, jagged as the backbone of a Giant Beast, while only a sliver of gray-white sky remained overhead. The air was thick with the scent of iron ore and flint—the smell of dwarf territory, ancient and unyielding.
At last, the path opened up before them, revealing a deep valley surrounded by mountains. Black gravel covered the valley floor, and a bottomless rift split the center. Steam drifted up from the cracks like the breathing of the earth.
Yet before they could enter the valley, dozens of dwarf soldiers suddenly surged from the shadows between the cliffs. They wore forged-steel scale armor and carried double-bladed battle axes, while the pickaxe emblem unique to the Stonemason Clan was set into their helmets. A tall dwarf at the head blocked the way, his beard braided into iron chains and his eyes as sharp as chisels.
"Stop!" he barked in Dwarven, his gaze striking Dain Ironpalm like a hammer. "Are you one of the Iron Hammer Clan? How dare you bring a human into our sacred land?"
Dain calmly stepped forward and said, "My name is Dain Ironpalm! Guardian of the Stonemason Clan, I have come with the permission of the clan elders. This is the