Throughout the heated debate, Aethyr remained silent, observing the rulers and their ambitions. His mind raced, piecing together their motives, weighing the consequences of their actions. He knew the Phalanx stood ready behind him, their presence a constant reminder of his power and responsibility. His grandfather, Kodlak Whitemane, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“This will be your burden, lad,” Kodlak whispered. “They’re all circling like vultures. Whatever you decide will shape the future of our world.”

Aethyr glanced at the leaders once more. Kym’s greed, Zirkan’s desire for alchemical mastery, Ravel’s pragmatic pursuit of trade, Vargath’s lust for domination, and Eliziah’s quiet but fierce determination. All wanted a piece of the dwarven legacy, but none could be trusted with its full power.

As the rulers bickered, Aethyr began to realize that the fate of the dwarven magic might not rest in the hands of kings or warlocks—but in his own.

The air in the grand hall was thick with tension. The rulers of the most powerful factions had gathered, each with their own desires. At the heart of the heated debate was the recently discovered dwarven city, now a dungeon of ancient power and danger.

Kymil, the High Elf ruler of Ashmark, opened the floor, his voice smooth but laden with arrogance. “As ruler of Ashmark, I demand that any expedition to the sunken city comes at a cost. After all, the dungeon lies within my borders. I will not grant free access to any of you without compensation. You want to plunder its secrets? Then pay the price.”

Zirkan, ruler of the Draugar Keep, slammed his fist on the table. “Greed! That’s all I hear from you, Kym! This isn't some trading post you're haggling over—it's a dungeon filled with dangers unknown! And let’s not forget that it was Aethyr who conquered it, not you!” Zirkan’s voice boomed, his son Zirk standing behind him, silently agreeing with every word.

Ravel of Vyrhall, more interested in the practical benefits, leaned forward, speaking with cold pragmatism. “We’re wasting time. My people want the weaponry and trade routes. The ancient dwarves were master blacksmiths. Their lost technology could arm nations. I’m not here for magic or gods—just the craftsmanship.”

The tension in the room grew as Vargath, ruler of Stormhaven, stood, his immense frame towering over the others. His voice was deep and commanding. “All of you are short-sighted. Power isn’t found in mere weapons or petty trade. Magic, true magic, can control the battlefield. With the dwarven relics, we can reshape the world. And I will be the one to do it.” Beside him, Merodach smirked darkly, whispering something only Vargath could hear.

Eliziah, former Queen of Lumar, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up. “If you allow Vargath to seize the power of the dwarven city, he will not stop at controlling the battlefield. He’ll seek to control everything. I’m here to prevent that—to prevent chaos from being unleashed.”

Vargath scoffed, turning his fierce gaze on her. “Chaos? I prefer to call it order,” he growled. “Your Lumar kingdom fell because it was too weak. This power could ensure that never happens again.”

Before the debate could spiral out of control, Kodlak Whitemane, Aethyr's grandfather and leader of the Phalanx, stood slowly from his chair. His presence immediately commanded the room. The hall fell silent, save for the crackling of the torches on the walls.

"Enough," Kodlak's voice was deep and firm, filled with the weight of centuries of wisdom. "The history of this city is not something any of you understand. The dwarven city was not simply abandoned—it was purged by the Phalanx at the dawn of the Second Era. My ancestor, Ystremore Whitemane, led the Phalanx to wipe out the vile creatures that plagued our people. The snallygaster... a wretched abomination. A hybrid of rat and goblin, they feasted on human flesh, and if you were a woman..." his voice trembled with restrained fury, "they did far worse."

The room grew colder as Kodlak's words sunk in. The rulers shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"The city worshipped a fire god, and when Ystremore and the Phalanx cleansed it, they paid a heavy price. The infected citizens, innocent though they were, had to be put down. The fire god claimed them, body and soul. Now, after all this time, you wish to meddle in the remains of their cursed kingdom. But mark my words—the fire god has not forgotten."

Kodlak paused, scanning the faces of the rulers before continuing. "The Phalanx does not take part in civil wars. We are neutral in your petty power struggles. Eliziah, Vargath—your conflicts are your own. We will only ensure the dungeon's condition. My grandson, Aethyr, will lead the Phalanx to investigate. We won’t take any sides, but be warned: if you think to use the Phalanx or my bloodline for your ambitions, you will find yourself facing us, not alongside us."

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A tense silence followed. The rulers sat stunned, both from the history Kodlak had revealed and the threat in his words. Merodach, however, couldn't resist a sneer. “Neutrality? Or cowardice?” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Kodlak’s eyes locked onto Merodach, unflinching. “Merodach, you of all people should remember that neutrality doesn’t mean weakness. The Phalanx fights for survival, not ambition. Test that, and you will learn the difference.”

Eliziah broke the silence next, her voice quieter but firm. “We don’t need more bloodshed. This isn’t about personal power; it’s about balance. I will stand against anyone who seeks to unearth something they cannot control. And that includes you, Vargath.”

Vargath’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Eliziah. Balance is a fragile thing.”

Master Grandir, who had remained quiet throughout the exchanges, finally spoke, his voice calm and authoritative. “This meeting is about the exploration of the sunken city and the decisions that will follow. We are here to learn, not to tear each other apart. Let us not forget that the city itself may still hold dangers far worse than any of our ambitions.”

As the rulers settled back into their seats, the tension remained palpable, but the outright hostility had cooled for the moment. The Phalanx would proceed, and soon, the ancient secrets of the dwarven city would be revealed.

Master Grandir asked, "Aethyr, let us hear your thoughts. You were the one who entered it, share with us your vision."

Aethyr nodded, standing tall yet measured. "Aye, Master," he began. "I never thought my actions would draw this much attention, but the dungeon—it's alive. It pulses, restless, like a beast that hasn't fed in centuries. You can feel it in the air; the very walls seem to breathe, whispering secrets to lure you deeper into its abyss. The power there... it's unrelenting, and it feels as though it’s waiting to burst free."

He paused, his gaze hardening as memories flooded back. "The monsters inside are unlike anything I've faced before. Creatures twisted by ancient magic, their forms barely recognizable—some more nightmare than flesh. But it’s not just them. Unnatural phenomena are happening at random. I've seen rooms where the floor suddenly shifts to sand, pulling you under, while illusions plague your senses, making it hard to trust even your own shadow. It’s not just the body that suffers in there—it’s the mind. The dungeon itself plays tricks on you, showing you things that aren’t real... or worse, it brings your deepest fears to life."

The hall grew quieter as Aethyr’s voice took on a more somber tone. "People go mad down there. The dungeon toys with them, trapping them in a maze of their own nightmares. And if they don’t lose their minds, they lose their souls. They become one with the dungeon—a part of its malevolent cycle, like ghosts doomed to wander forever. I’ve seen warriors fall to their knees, their faces twisted in terror, hearing voices no one else can hear. And when the dungeon takes them... it's like the life drains out of their eyes, and they fade, leaving nothing but empty shells."

Aethyr took a breath. "I was lucky. I’ve been raised in a perfect environment, trained by the best since I could read and write. The skills I possess are thanks to the Masters and trainers who shaped me. I won’t let their efforts be in vain. If someone must go back in, it should be me alone. I won’t risk many lives. I will begin at level 25, where I fought the giant undead. But before I return, I need time to prepare—mentally and physically. The magic there is thick, like a fog that clouds your senses. It’s full of illusions and specters that can overwhelm even the strongest of minds."

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the rulers visibly uneasy at Aethyr's chilling description of the dungeon’s depths.Aethyr’s words hung in the air, the gravity of his experience clear in his voice. As the rulers digested his harrowing account, their expressions shifted—some to fear, others to cold calculation.

The room remained silent for a long moment, the air heavy with the terror his words conjured. The dungeon, once a mystery, now loomed as a tangible threat in their minds. The rulers were not easily frightened, but Aethyr’s account had shaken even the most hardened among them.

Master Grandir nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "You speak with the wisdom of someone far older than your years, Aethyr. If this dungeon truly possesses such power... we must tread carefully."

Master Grandir leaned forward, his brows furrowed with concern. "Are you sure about this, Aethyr? You’re putting yourself in unimaginable danger by going in alone! Why choose this path, when we can send help, experienced warriors and mages at your side?"

Aethyr looked up, his expression resolute, unwavering. "I seek neither fame, nor fortune, nor nobility, Master. This dungeon... it has become part of me. Like I told you before, it recognizes me. The threat is minimal with just me, because I’ve walked its halls, fought its monsters, and survived its horrors. There's something more at play here." His eyes darkened as he spoke, haunted by the visions he couldn't shake. "Every night, I have the same dream. An eerie figure... something ancient, pulling me, urging me to face it. I can't ignore it. And if that wasn’t enough, the mountain fire cycle is about to begin. When that happens, the dungeon’s monsters will grow stronger. The mana from the eruption will fuel them, turn them berserk. If I don’t act now, the threat will be far greater."

Master Grandir regarded him for a long moment, his face unreadable. Finally, he sighed, accepting Aethyr’s conviction. "Then it shall be. We will provide you with everything you need. Weapons, potions, enchantments—whatever it takes. And in the meantime, the joined forces of the rulers will create a safe zone around the dungeon to ensure no evil escapes. This way, even if the dungeon stirs with greater power, the rest of the world will be shielded from its reach."

Kodlak, standing beside Grandir, crossed his arms, nodding in agreement. "The Phalanx will spread out and secure the surrounding areas, to minimize casualties. If anything tries to break out of the dungeon during the fire cycle, we’ll be there to stop it. But remember, Aethyr," he said, his tone grave, "you’re walking into the unknown again. You’ve survived once, but the dungeon is relentless. You must be prepared for anything."

Aethyr met his grandfather’s eyes, feeling the weight of his words. "I am prepared, and I will return. This time, with answers.