The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick smog of Ironforge, casting a bruised, purple light over the sleeping city.
The streets, usually thundering with the sound of pistons and marching boots, were dead silent.
The only sound was the collective, rhythmic snoring of a hundred thousand dwarves recovering from the greatest party in their history.
Piles of empty kegs lined the gutters. Soldiers slept arm-in-arm with smiths in the middle of the road.
Even the Golems seemed to be moving at half-speed, their mana-cores dimmed to conserve energy.
At the Western Gate, however, a small group was wide awake.
Damien stood by the exit, adjusting his gloves. Beside him, Isabelle was checking their supplies, looking remarkably fresh for someone who had eaten her weight in food the night before.
Lyra was polishing her mana bow, her eyes scanning the horizon. Leona was stretching, her joints popping loud enough to echo off the walls.
