Aeternus cools in my grip. The blade's runes dim after channeling Atropos's power.

Water drains from the stage , leaving broken slabs where Lormenos fell.

The hush that follows feels of relief and lingering sorrow.

I stand at the edge, wreathed in flickering torchlight that seeps through newly opened arches.

The iron mask lies in fragments near a toppled pillar.

I stoop, gathering each shard of dented metal, once worn to hide from mortal eyes deathless monster that I am

The iron that once concealed my nature holds no purpose now. Yet as I touch each shard, borrowed memories stir , Commander Ikkert's bones recognize their daughter's presence.

My ribcage splits open.. Carida's remains come forth from metal fragments and find their place within newly formed protective cage of ancient bone. Not to join this form, her father's fragments forbid it, but to rest secure against my core.

No other pieces stir to resist. The greatest fragment cows them.

I turn, wolf-skull pivoting to survey what lies behind and them before.

The Lantern that led me appears, it flickers once, then winks out like a snuffed candle. Divine architecture dissolves around me, leaving bare stone where Lormenos's domain once stood. The proving path vanishes beneath my claws, replaced by rough-hewn rock that bears no trace of corruption.

Water drips from the ceiling in steady rhythm. Each drop echoes through three intersecting tunnels that stretch into absolute black. My transformed legs shift, scraping against stone worked by ancient hands. Tool marks scar the walls - precise cuts from dwarven picks and chisels.

No preserved corpses here. No runes illuminate these depths.

The power that sustained Lormenos's realm has retreated completely, leaving only natural darkness.

The tunnels await, their depths promising only deeper dark.

I choose the center passage, the one that slopes steadily downward. My transformed legs click against dwarven stonework as I move deeper into the corridor their wards once sealed before proving path moved me forward.

Water trickles in thin rivulets along the walls. The drops collect in carved channels that parallel my path, engineering that has endured centuries untouched.

My wolf-skull scrapes the ceiling as I duck beneath a lowered arch. The passage narrows, forcing me to shift and compress borrowed bones.

Tool marks grow more intricate as I descend.

What began as rough cuts becomes precisely beveled edges, right angles that speak of master craftsmanship. The dwarves took pride in their work, even this deep.

A draft stirs, carrying the scent of aged metal and coal dust. The air grows warmer, heat rising from below where forges once burned.

Or perhaps still burn.

The channel-water beside me runs faster now, gathering speed

I pause at an intersection where three smaller tunnels branch from the main passage.

Ancient glyphs mark each path, their edges softened by centuries of dripping water. Though the language is foreign, borrowed memories stir, fragments of soldiers who once walked these roads when alliances still held.

The center path bears the mark of the forge. The right speaks of mines. The left promises deeper roads and war forts of the dwarves.

I take the center path.

The heat grows stronger.

The dwarven road unfolds before me, honest stonework shaped by sturdy hands that carved the earth.

Columns flank my path and load bearing beams.

Rune patterns half visible through layers of grime, telling stories I cannot read.

Above, rusted hooks still grasp fragments of lantern glass, their protective light long extinguished.

My frame moves.

No other undead move in this halls, and no monsters that I can see. The dwarves built these passages expecting threats, they built for vigilance.

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Stone latticework adorns each arch, showcasing lost craftsmanship.

My hollow gaze sees carved pickaxes and hammered ore.

The silent witnesses of lost dwarves make no judgment of my passage.

The water-slicked floor gives way to thick dust as I progress deeper. My claws leave clear trails through the powder, evidence of old cave-ins and crumbling ceilings above.

A locked iron gate guards one path that angles sharply left and down. Another route climbs via cart-wide steps. I maintain course along the main passage, trusting dwarven efficiency to lead toward significant locations. My movement stirs the dust.

I find broken signpost bears weathered dwarven script that I can read.

> STONEHEART CROSSING ... to the Foundry

Though most letters remain foreign, enough survive to suggest direction. Whether the Foundry stands or lies in ruins awaits discovery.

I continue forward. Subtle movement of air touches my bones, not the heavy stillness of sealed tunnels, but air in motion. Perhaps the dwarves' ventilation endures.

A sound breaks the silence.

I move towards it.

I enter a vaulted foyer.

Against the far wall, a door hangs askew. Wooden splinters jut from beneath fallen stone blocks that pin it partially open.

Clang.

The sound echoes through the chamber - steady, metronomic. Metal striking metal or stone. My borrowed bones tense at each impact.

I move forward, adjusting my transformed legs so claws make minimal contact with stone. Through gaps in the broken door, only darkness shows. Yet warm air seeps out, carrying traces of oil and heated metal.

A rib extends from my chest, sharpened to a needle point. I probe the door's weathered surface. Wood groans as blocks shift, sending a shower of dust and pebbles pattering across the floor.

Something moves in the darkness beyond. The rhythmic clanging quickens, bouncing off close walls. I press against the door, easing it wider as rubble tumbles aside.

The revealed chamber is small, cluttered with broken storage crates and rusted mining equipment. Ancient harnesses hang from hooks, leather long rotted away. Runic lamps cast a dim red glow across the walls.

In the center stands a dwarven figure, its movements jerky and constrained. Steam-driven armor covers its frame, a mix of skilled metallurgy and mechanical innovation. Two massive forging hammers are locked to its gauntlets - weapons that could shatter bone and steel alike. One hammer strikes the floor repeatedly: clang.

The helm turns toward me. Through a gear-shaped visor, something peers out. Steam hisses from a broken valve in its shoulder joint.

Neither of us moves. I keep Aeternus lowered, though my frame remains coiled for defense. The figure could be living dwarf in powered armor or an ancient automaton left to guard these halls.

It attempts speech - a grinding mechanical squeal mixed with garbled dwarven words. Steam spurts from its joints as it struggles to communicate.

The figure limps forward on unsteady legs, raising both hammers in a defensive stance. Whatever it is, it clearly sees me as a threat.

I step back, raising a free claw in a gesture of caution. Carida's presence calms me, reminding to show no monstrous aggression.

The dwarf sentinel halts. Its posture remains defensive, uncertain. It taps the hammer on the stone again, a question or warning.

We stand in watery gloom and dust.

No illusions, no war. Just two watchers, each broken in their own way.

I take one slow step. The sentinel's battered armor whirs, as though mustering strength. Its chest plate glows faintly, some dwarven runic signature trying to power a final strike or final words.

But it stumbles, dropping to a knee. Hammers clang against stone. A ragged cough escapes the helm's vent, sign enough of actual breath behind mechanical plating.

A living dwarf then, sealed away who knows how long. Its body battered beyond measure. Trapped behind that door. No wonder the repeated clang.

I move forward, each step measured. It tries to swing a hammer, but the motion falters. Exhaustion or injury claims it.

The sentinel's armor whirs weakly, gears grinding to a halt. Their frame pitches forward as consciousness fades. Steam vents sputter and die.

Hammer in hand drops.

The sentinel's armor whirs weakly. Gears grind to silence. Their frame pitches forward.

I catch them before steel meets stone. Their weight settles against transformed bone - mechanical plate and failing flesh.

My wolf-skull tilts, studying the helm's intricate visor.

Shallow breaths echo within, growing fainter. They survived alone in these depths, half-merged with dwarven war-craft, until exhaustion claimed them.

I lower to one knee, supporting their unconscious form. The wolf muzzle parts slightly, displaying no threat of fangs or savage intent. My free claw rises in a gesture of peace - no words needed, only the ancient promise to do no harm.

The sentinel's chest plate rises and falls beneath scored metal. Runic patterns flicker weakly across their gauntlets where massive forge hammers remain locked in place. One hammer scrapes stone as their arm goes slack.

A dwarf lies within failing armor. Brass gears protrude through leather and steel. One arm ends in a fused forge hammer.

The other pure machine, pistons and hydraulics replacing flesh. Through the helm's gear-shaped visor, scarred flesh and closed eyes.

Blood-flecked breath fogs metal.

Steam vents from damaged joints.

Desperate survival is what I see.

Mechanical limbs and reinforced bones speak of injuries too severe for natural healing. They adapted, replacing failing parts with dwarven engineering until more machine than flesh remained.

I look closer, studying the intricate mechanisms. Brass tubes feed directly into their spine, pumping unknown fluids. Their remaining organic hand has been reinforced with metal strips bolted into bone. The helm itself seems permanently grafted to their skull, its breathing apparatus essential for life.

My transformed frame kneels beside them.

The wolf-skull tilts, assessing their condition. Their armor sparks weakly, power failing in crucial systems. The unconscious dwarf's weight settles against my chest as I carefully lift them.

We remain thus, a skeletal guardian and fallen dwarf sharing share no words. Haven's walls loom somewhere far above, its people clinging to hope. Beyond these tunnels, corruption spreads its endless taint. But here, now, I witness the survival of one dwarven guard, their body fused with mechanical aid.

Blood rattles through steam vents. Internal damage speaks through mechanical joints.

My frame adjusts to support failing systems. Through armor gaps, crude surgical scars show where brass meets flesh. The helm tilts back. Scarred face beneath visor. Blood flecks metal.

Ancient memories stir. Field medics who saved lives. Soldiers who carried fallen. Their knowledge surfaces through borrowed bone.

The dwarf's condition worsens with each labored breath.

He coughs.

Blood stains brass.

These bones remember saving lives.