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In one of the grandest and most luxurious halls, beneath chandeliers wrought from crystallized stalactites, the king and his council of elders sat around a vast basalt table. Before them lay tablets of rune-etched steel and bloodstained parchments—the latest intelligence reports brought up from the frontlines.
King Rex, his silver beard braided with chains of mithril, slammed his gauntleted fist against the table. His eyes, like burning coals, swept over the gathered nobles.
"The undead creatures have risen from the Black Lake," Rex declared in a grim voice, the words echoing in the vaulted chamber. "They march without concealment, trampling through the surrounding tribes. Their route is clear. They are coming for us."
The council stirred uneasily. The air grew heavier, as if the Underdark itself was listening.
One of the gray dwarf elders—a thin, sharp-eyed schemer with runes burned into his skull—snorted with disdain.
"Skeletons? Those brittle husks?" he sneered. "A splash of consecrated water should turn them to dust. And yet they dare to invade our kingdom—the greatest fortress the Underdark has ever known?"
Laughter rippled among some of the nobles, but the sound was uneasy, forced.
A different elder, broad-shouldered and scarred from centuries of battles against drow, illithids, and worse, slammed his tankard onto the table.
"Let them come!" the warrior roared, his tusk-like teeth flashing. "I will grind their bones into powder and feed them to my forge! No wretched undead can stand before the true-blooded children of the Deep Anvil!"
His words were cruel, yet full of pride. All around the table, gray dwarf nobles nodded, each one owning countless slaves—drow, goblins, derro, and half-blood gray dwarves alike. These slaves mined, bled, and labored to fuel the Gray Dwarves machine of war and industry. To the true-blooded gray dwarves, their own strength was absolute, their flesh as hard as stone, their will sharpened by centuries of cruelty.
Yet King Rex did not smile. His voice cut through their arrogance like a blade.
"Do not fool yourselves. These undead are not the shambling weaklings of forgotten tomes. I deployed thousands of our finest elite to Black Lake Fortress—gone. Erased in less than a day. Not to mention all the raiding parties, hundreds of thousands of half-blood conscripts. Entire legions… annihilated."
The chamber fell silent. Even the forge-fires seemed to dim.
Rex leaned forward, his iron crown catching the glow of rune-flames.
"And worse…" His voice lowered, heavy with dread. "Those who escaped—the mad frogs who fled screaming through the caverns—swore they saw dragons. True dragons. With their own eyes."
The words cracked like thunder in the hall. Several nobles stiffened. A few spat curses under their breath.
The air was thick with the musk of brimstone and sweat, a place where every word spoken was hammered into memory like steel against the anvil.
The heavy silence broke when an elder's voice rasped across the chamber.
"Dragons?!" croaked Elder Vurkind Stonevein, his throat dry as if the very word poisoned him. His hand, warped by centuries of rune-burning, trembled as it clutched his staff. "How many?"
All eyes turned to the throne at the head of the table. King Rex Ironmantle, ruler of the Gray Dwarves, leaned forward, his thick fingers curling until his knuckles shone white against the basalt. His crown was no circlet of jewels, but a band of blackened iron set with a single shard of obsidian—taken, it was said, from the skull of the last fire giant king. His voice was grave as stone.
"More than five."
A storm of voices rose like a forge-bellows loosed too fast. Elders muttered curses to the dark gods. Others whispered half-remembered lines of prophecy buried beneath the stone. The word dragon was poison here, a memory no dwarf wished to name.
"Blasphemy!" hissed Elder Mardrun Coalbrand, whose left eye had been replaced with a molten ruby that never ceased to burn. "The gods of the surface send their nightmares to plague us again!"
"No," growled Elder Thorgar Runeblood, his skin so densely scarred with glyphs it resembled cracked granite. "This is more than nightmare. This is history returned."
And history indeed weighed upon them all. In the Underdark, where no sun touched, memory was the fire that warmed the bones. Every Gray Dwarven child grew up on tales of the Age of Dragons—when scaled tyrants had once ruled the skies above and the deeps below, their shadows drowning entire kingdoms. The Time of Dragons, when the first flights of scaled monsters rose in endless war, metallic against chromatic, gods' will against gods' will. The Draco Holy Wars, when Bahamut's faithful clashed against the spawn of Tiamat until entire mountains cracked. And worst of all, the beginning of the Rage of Dragons, when madness consumed even the wisest wyrms and their empires fell in fire and ruin.
For dwarves, these were not distant myths. They were scars in the bedrock of their history. The rise and fall of dragons and giants alike had cleared the way for the dominion of elves upon the surface, and forced the dark races of the Underdark to their knees beneath wing and flame. The Gray Dwarves had endured it all.
Yet now, here, in the heart of their thousand-mile empire, another insult had come.
"Ten," said Rex at last, his voice so heavy it silenced the chamber. "Our scouts saw near ten dragons of vast size. And from their descriptions, these are no illusions. Metallic and chromatic, together. A red, a gold, a silver, a blue—and more besides. All moving as one. All… harmonious."
The silence broke into a roar.
"Preposterous!" Mardrun's ruby eye blazed. "You've lost your wits to believe such frog-brained lies! Never—never—has such a thing happened, not even in the great wars of the Flights of Dragons! Not in the Rage of Dragons, not in the Time of Dragons itself! Metallic and Chromatic beasts together? It is madness, the fantasy of a witless child!"
Elder Vurkind wheezed, shaking his head. "There are tales of exceptions—rare, singular friendships, a gold who pitied a black, a brass who travelled a blue. But a flight of them, ten strong, good and evil flying as kin? No. Such a thing should not be."
"Then what are our scouts to us, liars?" spat Thorgar. "Their scars are the truth written in blood. We cannot deny what they have seen."
"Perhaps," murmured Elder Skarn Emberforge, whose flesh gleamed faintly with veins of copper, a sign of his lifelong communion with the deep forge's molten flows, "it is trickery. An illusion. A spell to stir panic."
"Or something older," said Elder Dorrim Ashvein, stroking his beard, every strand blackened by runic fire. "A druid's curse. We know of the Dragon Transformation rite—a spell by which druids may don scales and wings as garments. It mimics breath, body, and presence so perfectly that even beast wyrms may be deceived."
Vurkind muttered, "Unbelievable, yes. But more believable than the harmony between gold and red, silver and blue."
Mardrun slammed his staff against the basalt floor, the crack echoing like a smith's hammer. "We are Gray Dwarves! We will not quake like children at shadows, nor bow to illusions!"
Yet beneath his fury was unease, and it was shared. Every dwarf in that chamber had been forged in suspicion. They trusted in steel, not dreams. And still, the word dragons had shaken them in ways even illithids and drow could not.
Rex's voice broke the tumult once more. "We may mock, but we must prepare. If this is true, we face no war of flesh alone. This is war of memory, of prophecy, of gods themselves. Arrogance will undo us. We must meet it with blood, steel, and sorcery."
Murmurs of assent rose. And with those murmurs came the pride of a kingdom that had endured when others fell.
The Gray Dwarves were not a people of fragile hearts. Their empire, rooted in the black labyrinth of the Underdark, was a machine of iron and fire that had lasted thousands of years. Where other races fractured, they endured. Where others bent, they sharpened.
Their society was layered, as precise as a forge's gears.
One by one, the elders spoke, their words striking like hammers.
Vurkind rasped, "If metallic and chromatic have joined, then the old prophecies stir. The Elegy of Ash and Fire speaks: 'When gold clasps claw of red, when silver shares sky with blue, the stone shall weep, and the world unmake anew.'"
Mardrun scoffed, though his ruby eye flickered uneasily. "Prophecies are words for the weak. The Flights of Dragons themselves never birthed such harmony. Bahamut and Tiamat are enemies eternal. Their spawn cannot share flight."
Thorgar leaned forward, his scarred flesh glowing faintly as his runes stirred. "Do not forget the Draco Holy Wars. Entire worlds were leveled when Bahamut's faithful clashed against the spawn of Tiamat. Yet even then, their kin turned on one another more than on us. If now they fly together…" He trailed off. Even his scarred lips quivered at the thought.
Skarn Emberforge added, "And in the Rage of Dragons, when madness consumed even the wise, Metallic, Farrais, Chromatic, Gem alike slaughtered each other in endless fire. Never harmony. Never."
"Unless," Dorrim Ashvein said, his voice low as grinding stone, "something older than Bahamut and Tiamat compels them. Unless they serve not their gods, but another will."
That thought left the chamber in silence.
At last, Rex rose from his throne, his presence filling the chamber. He was not the tallest of dwarves, nor the most scarred, but there was iron in his stance, iron that had never bent.
"We are the Gray Dwarves," he thundered. "We are not the slaves we were. We are not the broken. We are the forge that endures. The world above has forgotten, but we remember. Giants rose and fell. Dragons rose and fell. Elves rose and fell. But we endure still, our empire deep and unbroken, our millions beneath the earth. And should dragons dare to descend into our realm again, they will find not frightened prey, but a hammer waiting for their skulls!"
The chamber shook with the pounding of staves against stone, the roar of voices rising as one. Yet behind every voice, behind every strike of pride, there lingered the shadow of fear.
For even in their pride, the Gray Dwarves knew: if dragons—metallic and chromatic alike—had truly returned together, then the world itself trembled.
And perhaps, for the first time in an age, the Gray Dwarves trembled too.
The heated council meeting had left a lingering heaviness in the chamber, but when the discussion turned to battle strategy, an old wound resurfaced.
The mention of dragons and their return reminded several gray dwarf nobles of the Black Dragon Ball—a relic of immense power once held by the Duergar kingdom. A weapon, a symbol, and a promise of supremacy over the dragon. But it had been lost, squandered under King Rex's reign. The memory was bitter, and the sting of that loss was fresh now that true dragons were said to march again.
Several nobles turned their eyes on Rex, hard and cold, their silence more accusing than words. The king's face twisted with discomfort, but he mastered himself, forced calm back into his voice, and addressed them with iron weight.
"Elders… this is no time to reopen old wounds. The kingdom itself stands on the edge of death. Only unity will see us through. We must endure first. Revenge and blame can wait for another age."
The chamber simmered with grudging acceptance. After some muttered exchanges between the elder lords, they agreed—temporarily—to set aside grievances and focus on the immediate threat.
Rex leaned over the great stone map-table, his gauntleted finger pressing against the carved routes of the Underdark. His voice grew colder, more commanding.
"According to their march, the undead horde will reach Phoenix City, a mere half-day's march from the City of Sharp Blades, within three cycles of the cavern-light. There, we will prepare the battlefield. There, we will bleed them dry."
The plan hung in the air like the clang of a hammer.
One of the councilors nodded grimly.
"A strong position. The walls around Phoenix City are big and layered. Perfect ground for reducing the number. We can collapse the stone itself upon them. If fortune favors us, we will crush the entire horde before they ever see the gates of Sharp Blades."
"Aye," another chimed in. "It minimizes our losses. We can lure them into the choke points, trap them in fire, steel, and runes. With discipline and precision, Phoenix City will become their tomb."
For the first time since the meeting began, there was the faintest glimmer of optimism in the council. With dragons, nothing was ever certain—but against the undead? Perhaps the Gray Dwarves could still stand unbroken.
Tactical deployments were drawn in fire-runes upon the map table. Thousands of soldiers would be stationed along the cavern walls, the latest siege ballista bows hidden behind carved stone shutters, rune-forged explosives buried in choke points, and slave legions prepared as the first expendable line of defense.
An hour later, the council dispersed, their boots echoing against obsidian floors, leaving Rex alone in the cavernous throne hall. The king sat in silence for a long time, staring into the forge-fires that burned eternally in braziers of black steel. The weight of his crown pressed down harder than stone.
At last, he summoned a guard.
"Fetch General Sarath. Tell him I require his presence."
The guard bowed low, his armor clinking.
"Your Majesty, General Sarath has been in seclusion—meditating, sharpening weapons, and practicing the Way of the Deep Forge daily. Shall I disturb him?"
"Aye. He must come. The kingdom has no time for wounded pride."
The guard departed, and before long, Sarath himself strode into the chamber. He was a towering gray dwarf even by Gray Dwarven standards, his body etched with blackened rune-scars that glowed faintly with inner strength. His eyes burned like coals, and his presence carried the weight of centuries of battlefield command.
He bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty."
Rex rose immediately, moving forward to grasp his old comrade by the shoulders.
"Enough of that, Sarath. Between us, there is no need for formality. Have we not fought, bled, and triumphed together? You are more brother than subordinate."
But Sarath did not relax. His voice was hard, dutiful.
"It is still what I owe you as my king."
Rex let out a quiet sigh. He knew well the bitterness that still festered in Sarath's heart—the memory of being doubted, of having his loyalty questioned in darker days by not handing him the Black Orb of Dragon. The wound had never truly healed. Trust, once broken, was harder than mithril to reforge.
Still, Rex pressed on. He placed a packet of bloodstained parchment and steel-etched tablets into Sarath's hands.
"Look. See for yourself."
Sarath's eyes flickered over the reports. His breath slowed, then grew heavier. Line after line of grim record: legions of elite gray dwarves slaughtered, half-blood battalions reduced to ash, entire fortresses swallowed whole. And worst—Kurman, the iron-willed commander of the Black Lake defense, missing without trace.
Sarath's fists clenched until his knuckles cracked.
"That stubborn old fool… He never listened to counsel. And now, his arrogance has cost us everything."
Rex nodded grimly, then unfurled the map once more and revealed the plans for Phoenix City. His voice carried steel, but also a plea.
"This is our stand, Sarath. I need you. Your command, your discipline, your fire. Without you, the City of Sharp Blades may not endure this storm."
The general lifted his head, his eyes blazing like molten iron.
"Then I will defend it. All of it. Our people, our city, our pride. Let the caverns run red with their filth—I will not let them breach our gates."
Rex clasped his shoulder, relief and pride washing over him.
"Good. Then it is settled. After this war, Sarath, we will speak again—not as king and general, but as brothers, as we once did."
Soon after, Rex signed the command writ, pressing his seal into molten wax. Sarath accepted it with a warrior's solemnity and turned to leave the palace.
Outside, the vast cavern of the City of Sharp Blades stretched before him—a sprawling metropolis carved into the bones of the earth. Towers of black stone rose like jagged blades, forges thundered in endless rhythm, and molten rivers of lava lit the streets with a hellish glow. Slaves scurried through the lower warrens in endless chains, while half-blood gray dwarves walked proudly above them, armored in steel and contempt.
Sarath paused upon the high steps of the palace, his eyes sweeping over the kingdom he had sworn to protect. His heart, hard as iron, swelled with grim determination.
Cruel they may be, merciless to all other races, but to their own kin the Gray Dwarves were unbreakable. Their pride was forged in darkness, their loyalty bound in blood and stone.
"This peace… our peace… shall not be broken."
And with that vow burning in his chest, Sarath marched toward his destiny.