When the iron door of the cavern opened, Solan Helson was sitting on a straw mat, wiping a family crest—the only keepsake the guards had tacitly allowed him to retain.
Two dwarf guards entered and said fairly politely, "The clan chief wants to see you. Come with us."
He stood and brushed the dust from his robes. He had not eaten particularly well over the past two months. Of course, that was compared to his former life as a noble. In prison, he had at least been given coarse bread, stew, and clean water. Though his body had grown thinner, his sinews and bones remained strong.
When he was first detained, he had thought he would die in some lightless cavern or be tortured as a hostage until he lost his mind. But reality had been quite different.
The few dwarves guarding him were crude in speech, but they never laid a hand on him. An old veteran named Brock even came by to chat from time to time, telling him amusing stories from the mines or complaining about how heavy the orc tribute was.
Helson had remained on guard the entire time—he knew this was a common method of extracting information. Thus, he kept every conversation brief and never mentioned military affairs, the political situation, or Lakeheart Town's actual strength.
But he had also gradually realized that these dwarves were not bad at heart. They followed the rules, respected their ancestors, and did not abuse their prisoners. Had they not been on opposing sides, they could even be considered simple and honest.
At that moment, he was led into a somewhat larger stone chamber. A brazier burned in the center, while Imaer sat upon the Black Rock Throne. He wore a dark gray wool cloak, his beard braided into