The Golden Mountains, which took their name from the setting sun painting their barren peaks crimson, were a majestic and impassable wall. On the maps the elves were just beginning to draw, these mountains, which separated the scorching deserts of Solendora from the mysterious southern continent they would later name Serenia like a sharp knife, were far more than a geographical boundary; they were the end of the known world.
These desert mountains were perhaps not high enough for snow to fall on their peaks, but their sheer cliffs and canyons, carved by wind over thousands of years, were a fortress for a wild and brutal life forgotten by civilization. Their steep passes, bottomless ravines, and scorched foothills were the teeming nests of countless orc and ogre tribes. These tribes saw every inch of the mountains as their own hunting grounds and perceived any stranger who dared enter these ruthless lands, no matter how well-armed, as either a threat or prey. Therefore, crossing south to Serenia by land, even if Solendora's hellish deserts could somehow be traversed, was considered a suicide mission and impossible.
However, at the northwestern tip of this massive, bloody, and chaotic mountain range, where the desert winds of Solendora met the first foothills, a strange anomaly existed that broke this rule. A safe zone, isolated as if protected by an invisible border, which orcs and ogres did not dare to enter for some unknown reason.
And in the heart of this region, carved into the granite face of the mountain, was the fortified fortress-city—the unmapped place Valtherion's spies had discovered—the city of the Golden Axe clan.
The fortress-city was perched on the slope of the mountain rising in the middle of the scorching desert, like an ant colony that looked deceptively small from the outside. This comparison stemmed less from its size and more from the feverish activity it displayed. Three gates carved into the mountain's surface, one larger than the others, looked like the entrances to the colony's nest, and dwarves carrying ore, processed metals, and provisions flowed in and out of these gates in a never-ceasing stream. One could only guess how deep and vast the "main city" inside was.
Just outside this main gate, a complex outer settlement stretched out, resembling a small city in itself. This settlement was protected by large, thick stone walls that reflected the crude but unshakeable strength of dwarven craftsmanship. This was where the mountain's riches met the world. Every corner of the outer city echoed with the noise of dwarves haggling fiercely with desert folk, halfling caravaneers, and merchants of other races. The air was a mixture of metal, spice, cheap beer, and sweat. Inns and taverns overflowed with merchants recovering from the fatigue of weeks-long desert journeys. The heavily armored guards at the rampart gates, as the keepers of this chaotic order, controlled the incessant flow of caravans, inspecting the cargo of newcomers and eyeing every new face with suspicion.
Thaerion Veridian, Lord Valtherion Dravakar's most trusted captain, had seen this unexpected city of prosperity on the horizon after several days of scorching desert travel. Although this bustling spot nestled on the mountainside seemed like a mirage in the middle of the desert, its reality became all the more overwhelming as they approached. The ten-elf delegation, mounted on their horses, glided like swans through this dusty crowd, their tall stature and shining armor immediately drawing attention.
"We are the envoys of Lord Valtherion from House Dravakar. We have brought a message to your city lord on a sacred mission."
The bearded dwarf guard at the gate leaned on the shaft of his spear and eyed Thaerion from head to toe with a dismissive look. He turned to his companion and let out a loud laugh. "Envoys, eh?" he said in a mocking tone. "Who in the blazes is Dravakar? We see ten 'lord' envoys like you here every day, longshanks. They all come either to sell something or steal something."
The guards, outright rejecting their status as envoys, added, "If you want to enter the city, pay the gate tax and find a better lie."
Thaerion's hand instantly went white on the hilt of his sword. His jaw clenched. The arrogance of these stout creatures was a direct insult to the pride of an elven noble. He cursed them inwardly. However, he was not an impulsive commander; he was here as a representative of House Dravakar. He could not taint his lord's plan, built on patience and knowledge, with his own anger. He had to remain calm.
"We are not here to listen to your insults," he said through gritted teeth, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Our message is important and is for your lord's ears only."
The guards were bored with this formal demeanor. "We've heard enough," said the first one, prodding Thaerion's horse in the chest with the tip of his spear. "Now be gone, or we'll bury that arrogant face of yours in the desert sand."
Just as the guards moved to forcibly push the elves back, a gruff, gravelly voice roared at the guards from behind them, from within the walls.
"What is going on down there!"
This loud and authoritative voice cut through the tension at the gate like a knife. Thaerion looked in the direction of the voice, at a senior, thickly bearded dwarf standing on the rampart above, wearing more elaborate armor than the others. This, unlike the rabble from moments ago, was a real commander.
Thaerion saw the opportunity instantly. No longer bothering with the guards, he raised his head and called out in a loud voice directly to the guard commander: "We are the envoys of House Dravakar! We have brought an urgent message for your lord!"
The guard commander rested his hand on the crenellation of the wall and studied the ten elven warriors below. He inspected their shining armor, their proud posture, and their unbroken discipline despite their tension. "Envoys?" he asked, maintaining the same gruff voice, in a serious tone. There was not a trace of the other guards' mockery in his voice; only a weighing, assessing inquiry.
The commander's gaze lingered on the elves for a few more seconds. These longshanks didn't look like the usual caravan robbers or adventure-seeking fops. They looked like they had come on serious business.
The commander turned to his men below and gave a short, decisive order:
"Let them in."
The commander descended the stone stairs with the sound of his heavy boots and stopped in front of the envoys. First, he shot his impudent men at the gate an icy glare that silenced them, then turned his face back to the elves. As Thaerion braced for a new insult or interrogation, he was shaken when the commander removed his helmet and apologized.
"I am Guard Commander Thrain Morgrin. On behalf of my subordinates, I apologize for the behavior just now," the commander said, his voice as deep and taut as if coming from the bottom of a barrel. "Gate duty frays the nerves of even the best, but that is no excuse."
Thaerion experienced a slight shock at this unexpected professionalism. He had let his guard down. So this stout folk was not just composed of boorish gate guards. He inwardly decided to reconsider his quick judgment of them. There must have been a reason for his Lord Valtherion's diplomatic move. He too cloaked himself in his own elven courtesy, replying in a melodic and calm tone: "It is not important, do not trouble yourself. We are merely..."
Hearing Thaerion's tone and polite words, Thrain's face, showing no trace of its previous anger, was now filled with pure astonishment. He paused for a moment, his eyes darting from Thaerion's elegant features to his armor and back to his face, as if trying to reconcile what he was hearing with what he was seeing. Then, as if correcting a mistake, he adopted an even more respectful demeanor.
"Still, what my subordinates did was wrong," he said, his voice softer this time. "I should have disciplined them better. Please, forgive our rudeness. I apologize, My Lady."
The words "My Lady" hung in the noisy gateway for a moment. Thaerion's face froze. This had cut deeper than the guards' crude insults. His centuries of elven pride and male identity had been shattered in an unexpected moment, and with an apology no less. All his diplomatic composure evaporated.
"I AM A MAN!" he shouted. His voice, in panic and embarrassment, came out much higher and sharper than usual; it would be more accurate to call it a shriek.
Everyone nearby who heard Thaerion's sudden and high-pitched "shriek" first paused. The guards at the gate, trying to understand what was happening, couldn't help themselves when they saw their commander's astonished face and the elf's crimson-red visage. First one giggled, then another burst into loud laughter. Soon, the surrounding merchants, other dwarves, and even the caravaneers began to laugh at this bizarre scene. Worst of all for Thaerion, he could see even his own elven guards standing behind him, their shoulders shaking slightly, struggling to hold back their laughter beneath that perfect elven discipline.
Thrain experienced a second wave of shock at the elf's reaction and the laughter that followed. Understanding the gravity of the situation, he too turned bright red. He waved his hand clumsily, trying to silence his subordinates.
"I apologize! I apologize... My Lord!" he said, trying to correct the title. "But... your tone and your choice of words... In our culture, it resembles how women speak." Thrain cleared his throat, trying to return his voice to that serious, military tone. "Please... to avoid misunderstanding in the presence of our lord, speak more... deeply." He paused and added: "Go to the 'Mountain's Heart' tavern up ahead. I will inform our lord of your arrival. If he agrees to see you, you may meet with him."
Thaerion, trying to hide the mortal embarrassment he had just experienced, nodded curtly, ignoring the redness in his face. He answered, forcing his voice to be deeper and shorter, contrary to its natural melody:
"Very well. We will... await... your news."
Without saying another word, he turned his horse and led his men toward the tavern, through the crowd's suppressed giggles.
Thrain left the chaotic noise and dusty marketplaces of the outer city behind and advanced toward the gates of the inner city. This was the path to the heart of the mountain; the center of orderly, protected, and unshakeable power. He entered through the large central gate, which was adorned with reliefs depicting the clan's power and wealth, and headed directly for the lord's hall.
The Great Hall, carved into the heart of the mountain, its high ceiling supported by massive stone pillars, was as echoing and crowded as ever. Today's court session had just ended, and a noisy crowd was dispersing in the hall; the clan's prominent figures, guild masters, and wealthy merchants continued to discuss the day's matters among themselves.
Thrain, in his practical outer-wall armor, strode decisively through the ornately dressed or heavily armored dwarves in the hall. His presence caused the whispers to cease for a moment; the commander of the outer gates would not interrupt the lord's court for a trivial matter.
When he was close enough to Lord Dainor, who was seated on his throne, Thrain knelt on one knee and removed his helmet.
Lord Dainor was a dwarf who projected unshakeable power in every aspect. He had a stance as solid as the mountain itself, and his thick hair and braided beard were only just beginning to turn gray; as if showing he was at the very peak of his strength. When he saw Commander Thrain, the commander of the outer walls, come all the way to his side, his relaxed expression instantly turned serious. He understood this was important business.
"Lord Dainor, Your Excellency," Thrain said, his voice not drowning out the hall's din but clear enough for the lord to hear. "Some envoys have arrived. They wish to see you."
Lord Dainor was used to hearing the word "envoys" in this bustling city. In a not-too-surprised tone, he stroked his beard and asked: "Envoys? From whom?"
"They say they come from House Dravakar, my lord," Thrain replied, his head still bowed.
"Dravakar... House?" Lord Dainor asked, having never heard the name before. He frowned and turned to his advisor beside him.
The lord's advisor was a wise dwarf, his hair and beard as white as snow, but his eyes sharp with keen intellect. Unlike everyone else in the hall, he wore not armor or jewels, but modest robes embroidered with the clan's ancient runes.
"Not a house we know or have in our records, my lord," the advisor said in a calm voice. Then he turned to Thrain and added: "But I am sure that if Commander Thrain has come to you personally after court to deliver this news, this is no ordinary visit."
The commander, emboldened by the advisor's words, continued to speak from his kneeling position. "Yes, my lord. These do not look like ordinary envoys. It is the first time I have seen such a race. Moreover, their appearance and behavior are nothing like the human merchants who come from the Sunlight Coast."
This statement piqued the advisor's interest. He leaned forward. "A race we have not seen before?" he asked curiously.
"Yes," said Thrain. "They are tall and just as slender. Their armor looks elegant but sturdy. And... they have long, pointed ears, like knives."
The whispers of the last dwarves remaining in the hall were cut off by this strange description. Lord Dainor stopped stroking his beard. An unknown race. An unknown house. This meant either a new trade opportunity or a new threat.
"Hmm," Lord Dainor murmured. "Summon these envoys. They have piqued my curiosity."
"As you command, my lord," said Thrain. He stood up, put his helmet back on, and left the hall with the same decisive steps he had entered with.
As soon as Commander Thrain left the hall, Lord Dainor raised his hand. His voice thundered in the hall like an echo from the mountain's depths: "The court is dismissed! Everyone in the hall, out immediately!"
The last dwarves from the meeting startled at their lord's sudden and absolute command. A wave of whispers rose; they now understood better just how important these unknown "pointy-eared" envoys were. Lord Dainor would receive these unknown guests, this potential threat or unexpected ally, only with his most trusted inner circle: his old advisor and his personal honor guard. The hall emptied quickly, leaving behind only a silent expectation around the throne.
Meanwhile, in the Mountain's Heart Tavern, amidst the noisy chaos of the outer city, the elven envoys sat at a table, patiently waiting for the commander's return. The air in the tavern was a heavy mix of roasted meat, spilled beer, and sweat. Laughter, heated bartering, and the clinking of tankards rose from every corner. In the midst of this noise, the group of ten elves stood out like snowflakes in a forest; silent, elegant, and utterly alien. Thaerion Veridian still hadn't shaken off the "My Lady" humiliation he'd suffered at the gate. He stared into his cup, trying to cope with the tension of possibly bringing failure to his lord.
Suddenly, the tavern's double doors flew open with a bang, and Commander Thrain entered. His presence was more effective than the bright desert light that flooded the room; all the noise in the tavern was cut as if by a knife. All eyes turned to this armored figure of authority standing in the doorway.
Thrain ignored the stout tavern owner, who was rushing toward him to take an order, with a wave of his hand. His eyes scanned the room and found the elven table in the corner. With no expression on his face, he headed toward the elves' table with heavy steps.
Seeing the commander approaching them, Thaerion and his men immediately stood up. All their hopes depended on the few words that would fall from this dwarf's lips.
Thrain stopped in front of the table. He looked the elves up and down, studying them as if seeing them for the first time. "Lord Dainor has accepted you into his presence," he said, in that serious, military tone. "Follow me."
Thaerion slowly released the breath he had been holding. They had at least succeeded in the first step. He gave the commander a short nod, turned to his men, and they followed Thrain under the tavern's curious gazes.
As they moved from the crowd of the outer city toward the gates of the inner city, the air began to change. The number of merchants and caravaneers from other races gradually decreased, replaced only by serious-faced, armored dwarves going about their business or on patrol. At the same time, the number of curious stares fixed on them also increased.
Finally, they headed for the massive central gate. The sight almost took the elves' breath away. The gate itself was a massive granite block that looked as if it had been carved from a piece of the mountain. The reliefs on it were pure gold. The size and weight of the gate proclaimed the power and wealth of a race without needing words.
When they passed through the gate and entered the city proper, their shock turned into a feeling mixed with awe and dread. Unlike the chaotic marketplace outside, this was the inside of a mountain. There was no sky. The ceiling, dozens of meters high, was supported by massive, carved pillars. The ceiling itself seemed to swallow the light, despite the light of thousands of crystals and skillfully placed torches; above was pitch darkness. Around them were arched stone bridges crossing seemingly bottomless canyons, buildings carved into different levels, and cranes hanging in the air. The temperature of the air had risen, and the rhythmic sound of thousands of hammers and the roar of massive bellows from afar filled their ears.
The elves, children of the forest and the open sky, had entered such a massive, enclosed, and completely artificial structure for the first time in their lives. They began to look around, starting from the top, at this engineering marvel, this heart of a living mountain.
Following Commander Thrain through the massive corridors carved into the heart of the mountain, they finally came to a stone bridge built over a wide chasm. The bridge crossed the bottomless darkness below with a single, brave arch. Thaerion instinctively approached the edge of the bridge and looked down. His breath was taken away again by the sight.
This was not a city; it was a world growing down into the earth. Below, layers illuminated by torches and giant forges continued down into an unseen depth. Each district was connected, like a spider's web, by stone bridges, spiral staircases, and crane systems. At the very bottom, he could see the orange glow of molten metal and hear the rhythmic roar of massive bellows.
This engineering marvel, this vertical metropolis, possessed a grandeur that would put even the largest elven city in Qualar to shame. Their elegant structures, harmonious with nature, seemed like mere children's toys next to this industrial giant.
"Incredible..." Thaerion whispered, his breath short and his astonishment freezing him in place.
Hearing his whisper, Commander Thrain slowed his steps. He had a proud expression on his face, pleased to see this reaction. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said. "The result of generations of work, of labor that broke the mountain's stubbornness."
Thaerion tore his eyes away from the bottomless view with difficulty. Trying to clear the amazement from his voice, he replied with forced composure: "Truly... impressive."
"My advice to you is to commit every detail you see to memory," Thrain continued in that proud tone. "Normally, no one just waltzes into the Inner City, the heart of the mountain, like this. Now, let's continue. It wouldn't do to keep the Lord waiting too long."
This polite but clear warning reminded the elves that they were both in a state of grace and that time was short. Casting curious and astonished glances around, they continued to follow the commander.
After a while, deeper inside the inner city, they came before a large gate. This was the door to the lord's hall. It was as large as the outer gate, but it had far more ornate reliefs and runes. Every rune and every relief was inlaid with pure gold and adorned with precious jewels. As the light from the torches illuminating the corridors struck these precious stones and metal, the surface of the door sparkled like thousands of little stars.
As two dwarf guards began to creak the massive door open, Thaerion took a deep breath. The embarrassing welcome, the shock he experienced at the city's splendor; all of it was in the past. He had come this far. Now, what would happen behind that door, the words he would use and hear, his every gesture, his every move, would determine whether this mission would end in success or failure.
He would either make his lord, Valtherion Dravakar, proud and turn this unknown race into an ally, or he would disappoint his house and perhaps create a dangerous enemy.
As the weight of all this pressure settled on his shoulders, the doors opened wide. Thaerion, at the very front, entered the dwarf lord's magnificent hall with his head held high and his steps firm.