THORVAK (DWARF)

Elda throws me a look full of relief. The human, the one whose name strangely resembles hers, has finally ordered his men to retreat. I can sense their frustration in their heavy movements and scowling faces, but they obey. Part of me savors this moment; the other knows it’s only a temporary reprieve.

Around me, in the shadow of the massive trees, my men loosen their tense muscles, their hands slowly releasing the grips of their axes and crossbows. Yet no one truly moves. Every breath feels measured, every motion restrained. It would be foolish to let them realize now we’re not even fifty strong, that a confrontation could have easily turned in their favor if their leader had decided otherwise. But our bluff has spared us a bloodbath today.

I take a deep breath, my chest filling with the icy, damp air of the undergrowth. We’ll have to act quickly. These humans haven’t found what they’re looking for, but that won’t stop them from coming back. And we neither have the luxury of time nor the resources to fend off repeated offensives. We need to inform King Durmar immediately.

And that’s not a prospect I relish. I can already hear the protests of the old sages echoing in my head, their shrill voices rising to denounce my supposed recklessness. Durgil the Wise will be the first to cry scandal. Always eager to preach caution while the world crumbles around us. "Why leave the tunnels?" they’ll say. "Why risk our safety? The rock has always been our refuge." But they refuse to see the truth. They don’t see that the very earth is changing, that the forest is forcing us to act. They cling to their traditions, to their sanctuary beneath the mountain, as if the past could shield us from the present. They’d rather remain hidden, waiting for the rocks above us to crumble and doom our people to eternal darkness.

We must be the agents of change, taking the lead. The crisis shaking the surface is an opportunity, a turning point in dwarven history. If we remain passive, if we cling to our old certainties like a smith to his rusty anvil, we’ll be swept away, forgotten.

I know, however, that such a message won’t sit well with King Durmar. He, too, is a traditionalist, bound by the fragile balance of dwarven politics, and his centuries rotting on his throne. Sending forces to the surface risks alienating not only factions within the kingdom but also the humans of Elbak—not to mention the Inquisition. That’s a terrifying prospect. These mages and fanatics wield a power we don’t fully understand, and can’t afford to ignore.

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But I refuse to be a spectator to this catastrophe. We must seize this chaos to strengthen ourselves, to redefine our place in the world. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about power. Runes aren’t meant to languish on forgotten galleries. They are weapons, tools, and it’s time to bring them back into action.

The stress builds as I think about descending, about being summoned before the council, facing those old, decrepit dwarves. Elda approaches me as the humans continue their retreat, the column slowly moving north. She places a hand on my shoulder, her runic hammer still faintly glowing, though her rage has subsided.

"They’re leaving, Thorvak. We’ve avoided the worst."

I nod, but I can’t help murmuring, almost to myself:

"For how long, Elda?"

She grips my shoulder firmly, her piercing gaze meeting mine. "I don’t know... Hopefully, Hilda will arrive soon."

I watch the silhouettes of the humans slowly disappear. These long-legs, as Bran calls them, leave grudgingly. Their faces bore marks of exhaustion, perhaps even a hint of disappointment. They expected to find something here—treasures, answers, maybe even the dragon itself. And they leave with... nothing. Part of me delights in seeing their greed frustrated. Still, I have no doubt they’ll return soon enough to scavenge whatever they can from the debris.

Bran, ever himself, growls as he pounds his axe against the ground, the electricity from its runes sending small sparks skittering across the grass. "If only they knew how close they came to death..." he mutters, almost amused.

I don’t respond. He’s not wrong. If our group had been complete, if Hilda and her warriors had reached the surface in time, this encounter would have ended very differently. Those humans would now lie scattered in the clearing, their blood staining the ground. But had our bluff failed, it would be us, the rotting corpse under their sole.

Yes, as my wife says, Hilda and the rest of our band can’t arrive soon enough.

"Torlin, take your men and make sure the humans leave the area. Once they’ve crossed the debris fields, return. We'll go back to the dragon"

The dwarves begin emerging from the trees and bushes. The human army—because that’s how I’ll describe them to the king—is no longer visible. I hear murmurs from some of the harder-headed among us—a polite way of saying the stupider ones: "Those long-legs should have tasted our axes today. They’ll come back, and when they do, this forest will be a battlefield."

I grumble. It’s in our genes—we always thirst for the blood of others. But for now, we need to return to camp, contact Hilda’s group, who must be exhausted from climbing kilometers of stairs to reach the surface. And for me, it’s time to descend and report to the king.

I lift my hammer, its runes shining with determined brilliance, and address my men:

"We’ve bought time today. Our bluff, our boldness, have earned us a reprieve. Prepare yourselves, brothers, for once I’ve informed the king and Hilda arrives, this forest will truly be ours!"

A murmur of approval ripples through my warriors, their weapons glinting softly in the fading light. We still have much to do.