I enter Jaemes' chamber, making sure to shut the door tightly behind me. It’s illuminated very brightly by his lantern, which sits on a large desk in the room's center. Behind it sits Jaemes with a spotted gray quill in one hand. His other hand is holding open a book, one page of which is two-thirds filled with tight scribbles, and its opposite blank. His bright blue eyes bore into mine. Some dribble is leaking onto his white beard, and he wipes it onto his sleeve.

“Apologies for the raucous laughter,” he says. “I’d invite you to sit down, but there’s only one chair. I don’t get many visitors.”

“I’ll stand for now,” I say, and approach his desk. With him seated, I’m looking down on him, but only just. “I get the feeling that you’re busy, anyhow.”

“I’m always busy. Always writing. That’s a scholar’s job, you see—writing books. I’ve heard you dwarves have scholars too, though I’ve never seen one.”

“Neither have I. Though there must be a few, because we have plenty of books.”

“Do you? Up where you’re from maybe—there’s precious few down here.”

“Really?”

He rubs the tip of his quill dry on a wad of blotting cotton then sets it down beside his book. “Really. No light to read by. Most of their forging is passed down through word of mouth, although the Runethane has a few treatises. Five, in fact. He let me read them all.”

“You must be on good terms with him.”

“Well, I was,” he chuckles. “He’s grown a little cold to me lately. Thinks I’m outstaying my welcome, and he’s hardly wrong.”

“Ten years is a very long time,” I say. “At least to me. I thought the dwarves here don’t care for time, though? Is the Runethane different?”

“No, not really. Runethane Yurok has spent nearly his whole life down here just like the rest of them. But they do measure time—just not like you or I measure it.”

“How, then?”

“By events. Achievements. Successful hunts and incursions driven back. Books written, in my case.”

“But they don’t worry about how long it takes between them?”

“Exactly. You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” I say, remembering all the terrible mistakes I’ve made in my life so far.

“No need to be modest. It’s not a virtue, contrary to popular belief. Anyway, as for what you’re here for, just let me get it.”

He stands up and opens the drawer of his bedside table.

“But I haven’t—” I begin.

He takes a clock out and wiggles it in front of my face triumphantly. “I’m a scholar,” he says. “That means I’m smart. Not that you’d have to be that smart to figure out what you came here for. A way of keeping track of time.”

Now that he’s standing up, I realize how tall he truly is. Nearly as big as Dwatrall. He looms over me with his strange bronze face and bright blue eyes which sparkle with pleasure at his own triumph. I can understand why the dwarves down here are reluctant to talk to him.

“You seem a very forward fellow,” he continues. “But I don’t think you’re rude enough to ask me to give it to you.”

“No,” I say hurriedly. “I just thought if you had some way of keeping track of the days, you might be happy to share information.”

“Oh, well, as a scholar, I’m always happy to share information,” he laughs. “Have a seat on the bed.”

I sit down, and he drags his chair around so it faces me. He sits back down and holds the clock face out toward me. It's a simple, solid oak cube with two iron hands, and it reads ten minutes past four.

“Is it morning or evening?” I ask.

“Should be evening. Though I warn you that I’ve probably got it wrong a few times in the past, so it might be morning. Still, I can keep track of time approximately with this.”

“Do you have a calendar too?”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Not as such. Just a piece of paper with the days marked off. So I know that it’s been more or less three thousand, eight hundred and forty-six days since I arrived here.”

“More than ten years then,” I sigh. “Not to mention your journey down.”

“Oh, that only took a few months.”

“I wish I’d found such a direct route,” I say.

“Yes. It’s best not to wander off the main roads when you're underground.”

“I didn't have much of a choice.”

“Chased by a dragon, eh?”

“Something like that. Has there really been no news from Thanerzak’s realm? Even about the war between him and Broderick?”

“Well, Ulrike has a lot of Runethanes under him. And news takes a while to filter down here, unfortunately, and no one cares about what goes on above anyway. This place really is cut off—you have no idea by how much. No one remembers us.”

“But your Runethane Yurok is a subject of Runeking Ulrike, isn’t he?”

“Politically speaking, yes. Practically speaking, we’re left to ourselves down here. A tiny backwater realm. Our Yurok is nowhere near as dramatic as your Thanerzak is, either.”

“Was,” I say. “Here’s some news for you: Runethane Thanerzak is dead. Beheaded by Broderick.”

Jaemes leans back a little and grimaces. “Another victim of you dwarves’ petty power struggles, I see. Not that us humans don't have the same issues.”

“You really haven’t heard about it?”

“No. Yurok might have, possibly. He probably doesn’t care though. Like I said, no one cares much about what goes on above.”

“I see. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not really. I don’t care much either, not even about my own people’s wars. That’s why I came down here.”

“You’re here to study the deep darkness, right?”

“I am now. Originally I came down to study the effect of near-constant lightlessness on dwarf physiology. But the deep darkness is just so... Fascinating.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard it described that way. It sounds terrifying to me.”

“That too. But also fascinating.”

He stares wistfully at the wall, where a window would be if we were in a building rather than a chamber hollowed out of solid stone.

“Do you like it here?” I ask.

“Yes, surprisingly. It’s nicer than being back up in the university. No backstabbing. Everyone’s very honest, even if they don’t like me much. But I wasn’t liked very much at the university either,” he laughs. “So there’s no difference there. Here I can study in peace. Though I am a little starved for intelligent conversation.”

“We dwarves prefer to forge than talk. Though we’re plenty intelligent.”

“You are, in your own way.”

“I’ve never met a human before. Are you really so different? You just seem like tall dwarves to my eyes.”

“Oh, there are many differences.” He grins widely. “I’m an expert, you know. Take the dwarvish skeleton, for instance...”

He proceeds to launch into a long lecture about the differences between dwarf and human physiology. I learn a great deal of fascinating and rather useless information. For instance, I find out that dwarf bones are nearly fifty percent thicker and sixty percent denser than those of humans. Our pupils are a third greater in circumference. We have far more stamina, but our running speed is on average barely half of a what a human can manage. Certain regions of the dwarvish brain, which have been determined through grisly experiments to control fine motor movements, are more developed than the equivalent in humans, though those which deal with facial recognition and social relationships are smaller.

Apparently our beards are of particular interest to the human scholars like Jaemes who make us their field of study. They are made from incredibly strong fibers, resistant to burning, and never stop growing. Not normal hair at all. Yes, the secrets of the evolution of the dwarvish beard are a subject of much debate.

When he finally stops talking, I see on his clock that more than forty minutes have passed.

“Ah,” he laughs. “I see that I’m the one who’s ended up keeping you.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. “It’s been a while since I listened to a lecture. I used to go to a lot about metallurgy.”

“Well, having an old man bore you is a small price to pay for getting your sense of time back. Don’t you worry about losing your temporal bearing. I’ll keep you updated on how many days have passed.”

I stand up and bow deeply. “Thank you. I’ll try not to bother you too often.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Bother me as often as you like. Like I said, I’m starved for intelligent conversation. And writing is an awfully boring business.”

“Very well. I’ll try to humor you.”

“Splendid.”

“By the way,” I say nervously. “How many days have passed since I arrived here?”

“Two weeks and three days.”

I breath a sigh of relief. “Not too long then.”

“Not long at all.”

I promise him I’ll come again soon, and make my way four doors back down the corridor to my room. When I lie down on my bed, I can’t help but smile. My first human! And to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t hard to talk to at all. I guess him doing most of the talking made it easy.

And now I have a way to keep track of the days!

Wharoth was right: most of those you meet are a good sort. People you can trust, be they dwarves or humans. Of course I’ll be expected to earn my keep down here, they won’t help me out for nothing in return, but with such kindness around me, I’m only happy to work hard.

I shut my eyes, still smiling. This fortress against the darkness, Gholaz-Dwoth, seems to me at this moment like a perfect haven of trust and brotherhood. Of a single focused goal, to protect those above from the darkness below, and no time for petty squabbles or individual ambition.

I’m rather looking forward to a year or two or reprieve here. I have a feeling it's going to be quite peaceful.