Translator: CinderTL
The biting wind howled through the mountain ridge, whipping up fine snowflakes that lashed against Viscount Helsen's cloak.
He tightened the fur around his shoulders, his feet slipping on the loose scree. Each step required careful deliberation, yet Dain Ironfist, the dwarf envoy at his side, moved with the ease of a mountain goat. His thick legs planted firmly on the icy rock steps, his warhammer tapping lightly against the ground as if measuring the mountain's pulse.
They had been traversing this hidden mountain path, leading deep into the heart of the Dwarf Territory, for three long days. Towering cliffs loomed on either side, their jagged peaks resembling the spine of a colossal beast. Overhead, only a sliver of gray-white sky remained visible, and the air was thick with the scent of iron ore and flint—the ancient, unyielding aroma of the dwarves' domain.
Finally, the path opened into a vast, secluded valley cradled by towering peaks. The valley floor was covered in black scree, bisected by a bottomless chasm from which wisps of steam rose like the earth's breath.
But before they could enter the valley, dozens of dwarf soldiers surged from the shadows of the cliffs. Clad in forged steel Scale Armor and wielding double-bladed battle axes, their helmets bore the distinctive pickaxe emblem of the Stonemason Clan. A towering dwarf in the lead blocked their path, his beard braided into an iron chain, his gaze sharp as a chisel.
"Halt!" the dwarf chief barked in Dwarvish, his gaze like a hammer striking Dain Ironfist. "Are you of the Ironhammer Clan? How dare you bring a human into our holy land?"
Dain remained unruffled. He stepped forward and declared, "My name is Dain Ironfist! Guardian of the Stonemasons, and I come with the permission of the Clan Elder Council. This is Viscount Helsen, an envoy from the Aldor Kingdom, who has been ordered to accompany me to your hall."
The dwarf soldiers around them murmured in surprise and suspicion, their eyes fixed on Helsen. Humans rarely ventured into these mountains, and it was even stranger that he was being led by an envoy from another clan.
The dwarf chief narrowed his eyes, sizing up Helsen from head to toe. "The Stonemason Clan has never had dealings with humans. You may tell me your purpose here, but do not think you will take another step forward."
At that moment, Dain pulled out a bronze token from his breast pocket, engraved with crossed hammers. He raised it high, and the token glowed with an eerie light.
"This is the emblem of my clan's Clan Chief!" he declared solemnly. "I pledge my clan's honor to guarantee his safety. Viscount Helsen has come here for a matter of utmost importance—peace between our two clans."
"Absurd. We have no dealings with humans. What peace are you talking about? Are you suggesting humans intend to trespass on our forbidden grounds?"
Dain countered with a trump card: "If you have no dealings with humans, what about orcs?"
The valley fell into a brief silence, only the wind whistling through the rock crevices.
Finally, the chief slowly raised his battle axe and stepped aside to clear the path.
"Go," he said in a low voice. "But remember—every step you take is watched by the Stone Eyes."
The Stonemason Clan's hall was buried deep within the mountains' heart. Massive stone pillars supported the towering dome, while torches embedded in the rock walls illuminated the hall. Their flames danced across the polished obsidian floor, and the air was thick with the scent of cooling iron ore mixed with the ancient stillness of the rock itself.
Viscount Helsen followed the dwarf envoy, Dain Ironfist, through two rows of guards clad in forged steel scale armor. Their footsteps echoed steadily on the stone floor as they finally stopped before a raised platform.
Seated upon the platform was Imar, the Stonemason Clan's chief. He was a man of imposing stature, his beard braided into thick iron strands adorned with black stone beads symbolizing his authority. His left eye was a pale, scarred remnant of an old wound, while his right eye burned like molten iron, sharp and profound.
Dain bowed deeply in accordance with clan custom, paid his respects to Imar as an envoy, and then stepped aside.
Helsen stepped forward, removing his hooded cloak. His voice was clear and respectful. "Esteemed Clan Chief, I am Solan Helsen, special envoy of Marquis Paul Grayman of the Aldor Kingdom. By order of the Marquis, I have come to negotiate with the Stonemason Clan regarding..."
He paused. "Orc matters."
"Paul... Grayman..." Imar repeated softly, his brow furrowing slightly. This unexpected name had caused him to miss the rest of Helsen's words.
He stared at Helsen, asking slowly, "You say you were sent by Paul Grayman?"
"Indeed," Helsen nodded.
Imar fell into a brief silence, leaning back slowly. His gaze grew distant, as if piercing through the stone walls of the hall to a time long past.
Back then, he was not yet Clan Chief, but a banished exile, sheltered by the Ironhammer Clan.
One day, a human party arrived from the northern Grassland, seeking to cross the Rocky Mountains.
Imar became their guide, leading them through blizzards and treacherous cliffs back to the Northwest Bay south of the mountains.
He had met Paul Grayman in Alden Town.
At the time, he had just completed a long journey, his body and mind exhausted, yet still clinging to a sliver of hope: if he could forge an alliance with this powerful human lord who controlled a vast territory, perhaps he could leverage Grayman's strength to reclaim leadership of the Stonemason Clan.
He made his request, only to be met with a cold refusal.
The memory of that encounter remained etched in his mind like an iron nail.
Forced to seek other means, he ultimately secured the support of the Grassland Chieftain's Tent, allowing him to return to his clan and seize power through force.
How dare Paul Grayman send an envoy to see him now?
Imar slowly raised his right hand. "You say you are Grayman's envoy?" His voice was low and gravelly. "Then return to him and tell him this—"
The dwarf Clan Chief's gaze, sharp as a chisel, pierced Helsen's eyes. "The Stonemason Clan's gates open only to friends, and he has never been our friend!"
Helsen stepped forward, his voice ringing through the stone hall. "Clan Chief, please grant me a moment. I have come only to understand one thing: why did the Stonemason Clan open the mountain pass to the orcs, allowing them to traverse the treacherous Rocky Mountains and launch a surprise attack on our northern territory?"
His words echoed through the hall like a hammer striking silent stone.
"Are you questioning me?" Imar rose abruptly, his massive frame casting a huge shadow in the firelight. His voice turned icy. "How dare you enter the Stonemason Clan's hall with accusations?"
His eyes seemed veiled by the gloom before a blizzard.
"Slander!" The dwarf Clan Chief slammed a fist on the armrest of his throne. "You humans are always the same! Unable to defend your own borders, you blame the mountain folk! What passage? I, Imar, the rightful Clan Chief of the Stonemason Clan, would never open our mountain gates to a foreign race!"
He glared at Helsen, his voice like thunder rolling through the stone hall. "The Rocky Mountains have thousands of peaks and valleys, crisscrossed by deep ravines. If the orcs truly managed to cross the mountains, it's their own skill, and your incompetence! It's your weak defenses, your negligent watchtowers! Not here, defiling a dwarf Clan Chief's honor with suspicion and lies!"
His voice grew louder, laced with offended dignity and a subtle tremor of unease. "The Stonemason Clan has never aided the orcs!"
The air in the hall thickened, the crackling of torches sounding unusually sharp.
Dain, the Ironhammer Clan's envoy who had been listening quietly, frowned. He had already sensed something amiss—beneath Imar's fury lay a tremor of guilt.
The Stonemason Clan's involvement in the orc invasion of Aldor was likely more than just a coincidence.
(End of the Chapter)
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