Date: Year 0060 of the Firmament Era
Location: Tharnhold Gate, Southern Deepwatch Bastion of Kael'Drunn**
Main Cast:
– Beldra Stormvein, Thane-Judge of Kael'Drunn
– Durrik Flamefist, Deepguard Captain of the Iron Southern Road
– Kargrim Runesoul, Loremaster of Clan Orhûn
– Vaelith, Ashmarked Envoy, Rememberer of Breath
1. Silence in the Watchhall
It began with silence.
Durrik Flamefist stood at the threshold of Tharnhold Gate, his fingers wrapped around the haft of his warhammer, knuckles white with tension. Behind him, the wind moaned low through the outer tunnels of the southern Deeproad. But here… the air was wrong.
The Watchhall was empty. No guards. No torches lit. And yet no sign of battle either. The hearth-fire was cold, but unextinguished. Plates still sat on the table, as if dinner had been interrupted—not by violence, but by vanishment.
Durrik stepped forward, iron boots crunching over loose pebbles and faint lines of ash.
"Torvak?!" he called. "Danril? By stone and steel, where are ye?"
No answer.
A stone cup rolled slowly across the flagstone floor, spinning to a halt at his feet. Durrik squatted and picked it up. Blood still clung to the rim—but it hadn't spilled. It had been drunk.
Behind him, one of his Deepguard muttered.
"They're gone… All nine. No breach. No sign o' flight."
Another voice, sharper:
"That wall. Captain… look."
The southern interior wall of the watchhall bore a strange new mark—freshly etched, carved deep into the stone like a wound that hadn't yet stopped bleeding.
A downward spiral.
At its center, a sun split in half. Black ink, still glistening.
"The Ashmarked," Durrik whispered. "They've left us a message."
2. Fire in the Council Hall
It took four days for the full report to reach Kael'Drunn, capital of the dwarven Underkingdoms.
Thane-Judge Beldra Stormvein convened the Council of Clans in the Hall of the Twelve Hammers, a vaulted chamber built over a river of slow-burning magma. The twelve clan-lords sat on seats carved from ironwood and rune-bone, flanked by their scribes and forge-priests.
Beldra stood, still armored from the march—black plate etched with gold veins and a crimson cloak trailing behind her boots. Her presence, as always, was quiet—but it weighed.
"The Watch is gone," she said, voice clipped. "No blood. No bodies. No breach."
"And the mark?" asked High Lord Grumbal of Clan Dûmmrak, a red-faced smith whose fists were scarred from centuries of stone-cutting.
"Confirmed. Etched with corruption-blood. It hums."
From the far end of the chamber, Kargrim Runesoul, ancient Loremaster of Clan Orhûn, stepped forward, staff thudding against the stone with each slow step.
"There are spells that whisper on surfaces," Kargrim said. "This one… speaks in dreams."
"Dreams?" Beldra frowned.
"My apprentice touched it," Kargrim said. "She didn't sleep. She screamed. Her blood turned grey and her lungs filled with ash. She's sealed in a stone-tomb now. Still breathing. Still weeping."
A hush fell.
Then Durrik stepped forward, slamming his warhammer into the stone.
"They've declared war, even if they haven't said the word."
"No," said Beldra. "This isn't war. Not yet."
She turned to the fire-rune scribe beside her.
"Send word to Virek's Hollow. Let's see if the Ashmarked have the courage to speak in person."
3. Vaelith Arrives
Three days passed.
On the dawn of the fourth, a summoning bell tolled from the southern tunnel gate.
An envoy had come.
The dwarves watched from the battlements of Stonewatch Keep as three figures approached down the Deeproad—hooded in grey robes that did not stir with motion, their bare feet leaving no prints upon the dust.
The central figure stopped ten paces from the gate and lifted his head.
He had no hair. His eyes were impossibly dark—like pits where light went to die. And when he smiled, his teeth were too straight.
"I am Vaelith, Rememberer of Breath," he said. "Speaker for Malek, First of the Ashmarked. I come not to threaten—but to offer choice."
Beldra stood atop the gate parapet, flanked by Durrik and Kargrim.
"You're late," she said.
"Truth walks slow," Vaelith replied, bowing slightly. "Lies rush."
"You speak of truth," Durrik growled, "but you carve corpses into stone and leave their souls to rot."
"Corpses?" Vaelith tilted his head. "You assume your Watch is dead. That is interesting."
Beldra's eyes narrowed.
"If they yet live, bring them. Now."
"In time," Vaelith said. "Perhaps. If you listen."
4. The Conversation
In the antechamber of Stonewatch Keep, beneath hanging rune-banners, Beldra and Vaelith sat across a stone table shaped like a war-map. Only Kargrim stood near, silent. Durrik waited just outside, pacing like a caged wolf.
"Speak," Beldra said. "Plainly. I tire of words that twist like worms."
"We do not come to claim," Vaelith said. "We come to share. The world is changing. Vorthar does not rise as a tyrant. He rises as a mirror—a reflection of the rot you bury under gold."
"Gold doesn't rot," Kargrim muttered.
"You're wrong," Vaelith said, smiling. "It does. When it becomes more important than the soul that held it."
Beldra leaned forward, both gauntlets resting on the table.
"Get to it."
"Malek offers a pact. One Deeproad passage. Freedom for trade. Shared access to the ruins beneath Dur'ghûl. In return, you receive ashsteel. Healing salts. Flamebound stone that glows without forge. Our knowledge—for your tunnels."
Kargrim's face darkened.
"Dur'ghûl is cursed. Even the Stone-Flame won't touch it."
"Curses are only memories no one finishes," Vaelith said. "We remember differently."
Silence hung thick for a moment.
Then Beldra rose.
"I will give you your answer. A word older than your bloodline. Older than your master."
She turned and whispered to her scribe. A moment later, a ceremonial forge-shield was brought in—round, black, etched with the Stone Crown and the sigils of the Twelve Clans.
Beldra took her chisel and slowly, methodically, carved one word into the front in the Old Tongue:
Grolmar.
"It means 'No,'" she said. "But not the way your tongue uses it. It means: 'Not now. Not ever. Not in memory. Not in fire.'"
She handed it to Vaelith.
"Carry this back to your godling."
Vaelith stared at the shield. His smile was gone.
"You should have said yes."
"Should I?" she asked.
"We offered mercy. You returned us memory. Memory does not protect you from what is coming."
"Neither does mercy, if it wears a mask."
Vaelith turned. His escorts followed.
"We will not send another envoy."
"Good," Beldra said.
5. The War Beneath the Mountain
That night, Beldra stood with Kargrim at the edge of the Stoneforge Balcony, staring down into the molten veins of the Great Forge.
"He lied," Kargrim said. "The Watch is dead."
"No," Beldra murmured. "They're not."
"Then where?"
"Someplace worse."
Kargrim looked at her.
"You think war is coming?"
"No," she said. "I think it's already here. We just haven't heard the first scream yet."
She turned, her eyes hard as obsidian.
"Ready the Rootguard. Seal Dur'ghûl. And send word to Clan Dûmmrak."
"What word?"
"We mine downward."