Chapter 79: The Dwarven Council
POV: Adam
The formal council chamber dwarfed the emergency session room where we'd negotiated sanctuary extension.
Carved from living rock over centuries of patient work, the space could hold two hundred dwarves on tiered stone benches that rose toward a ceiling lost in shadows. Runes covered every surface—protective wards, historical records, names of clan founders stretching back to ages when humans still lived in mud huts.
Today, nearly every seat held a body.
Word of Nilfgaardian scouts had spread through Mahakam like fire through dry timber. Miners abandoned shifts. Smiths left forges cooling. Everyone wanted to witness the humans who'd brought Imperial attention to their mountains.
"Intimidating." Lambert muttered beside me. "Very intimidating. Think they practiced this?"
"Shut up." Geralt's growl carried minimal heat—even he seemed affected by the display of dwarven solidarity.
Brouver Hoog presided from the central throne, flanked by four other elders whose combined age probably exceeded a millennium. His voice boomed without apparent effort when he spoke.
"Adam of No-Clan. You have requested formal address to this council. Speak your piece."
I stepped forward onto the speaking platform—a circle of polished granite that seemed designed to make the speaker feel very small and very exposed.
"Don't think about the audience. Think about the argument."
"Honored elders. Clan leaders. People of Mahakam." My voice found its footing, strengthened by weeks of learning to command attention through presence rather than volume. "You've shown us hospitality when others would have turned us away. Sheltered us when the world wanted us dead. I cannot repay that debt with words alone."
Murmurs. Neutral so far—acknowledgment without commitment.
"But words are what I have tonight. So let me speak plainly." I met Brouver's eyes directly. "Nilfgaard will pressure you regardless of what happens to us. Their scouts weren't here just for one girl—they were mapping your defenses, cataloging your resources, preparing for eventual conquest. Surrendering us doesn't stop that. It proves pressure works."
"Bold claim." Elder Morvran's interruption came sharp as his reputation suggested. "Evidence beyond assertion?"
"The maps your patrols captured." I gestured to where Yarpen held the confiscated documents. "They mark positions throughout the mountains. Settlements that have nothing to do with us. Mineral deposits that Empire covets. Water sources that would supply invading armies. This isn't a search pattern—it's reconnaissance."
Yarpen spread the maps on the central table. Dwarves leaned forward, reading military notation that their own warriors would recognize.
"He's right." Yarpen's voice carried to every corner. "These are invasion maps. Empire's been planning this for years. We're just the excuse they needed to accelerate."
"Then we close the mountains." Korgan's engineering mind found the obvious solution. "Seal entrances. Wait them out. Stone endures longer than soldiers."
"Stone endures," I agreed. "But what about trade? Food supplies you import? Metal you export? Mahakam thrives because it connects to the surface world. Seal yourselves completely, you might survive—but you won't live."
Silence. The point struck home with merchants and craftsmen who understood economics better than isolation.
"I'm not asking you to fight our battles." Time to shift from criticism to offer. "I'm asking you to let us fight yours. Cahir's forces threaten you now because they threaten us. Help us eliminate that threat, and you remove the immediate pressure while sending a message that Mahakam doesn't yield to Imperial bullying."
"And the Wild Hunt?" Brouver's question cut to the deeper fear. "Scouts spoke of ice riders. Creatures that don't respect stone walls."
"The Hunt wants her." I pointed to Ciri, standing silent in her disguise. "Not you. Not your holds. Not your people. When we leave—and we will leave, eventually—they'll follow us. But while we're here, my abilities grow stronger. Every day I train in your tunnels, I become better able to protect us all."
"Demonstrate." The elder who spoke hadn't contributed before—ancient even by dwarven standards, face like weathered granite. "Show us what your training has achieved."
I nodded. Turned to the speaking platform beneath my feet.
And lifted it.
Two tons of polished stone rose smoothly into the air, carrying me with it. Gasps echoed through the chamber. I held the platform steady for a five-count, then lowered it with precision that left no crack, no stress mark, no evidence of the feat except the memory burned into watching minds.
"I move stone like dwarves shape metal." My voice carried into the stunned silence. "And I'm still learning. Give me time, give me training space, and I'll grow strong enough to protect not just us but anyone who calls me ally."
—Scene Break—
POV: Ciri
The vote stretched across an hour of deliberation.
Ciri watched from her position among the observers, maintaining Fiona's persona while her heart raced with fear she couldn't show. Everything they'd built here—the sanctuary, the training, the brief respite from constant running—hung on the decisions of people who owed them nothing.
"Please. Please let them choose safety over fear."
Adam stood rigid on the speaking platform, answering questions with patience that impressed even Geralt. He detailed tactical plans, discussed cooperative defense strategies, outlined scenarios where his abilities complemented dwarven engineering.
"The boy's good." Lambert appeared at her elbow, voice pitched for her ears alone. "Better than good. Learned to speak their language."
"He always does." Pride warred with worry in her chest. "Adapts to whatever situation demands."
"Dangerous skill, that. Adaptability." But Lambert's tone carried respect rather than warning. "Useful, though. Very useful in the life we lead."
The final vote came down as Adam had hoped—conditional support, thirty-day deadline, expectation of results.
She found him afterward in the corridor outside the chamber, accepting congratulations from Yarpen and other friendly dwarves. When their eyes met across the crowd, his smile carried exhaustion alongside triumph.
"We did it," that smile said. "For now."
For now would have to be enough.
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
"Thirty days." Geralt spread maps across the planning table in our guest quarters. "That's our window. Either we solve Cahir or we lose sanctuary."
"We solve Cahir." No hesitation in my voice. "Negotiation or elimination. One way or another."
"You sent messenger to him?"
"Scout left yesterday. Should reach Cahir's camp tomorrow, assuming he doesn't desert first."
"And if Cahir refuses to talk?"
"Then we ambush him in the tunnels." I traced routes through the map's tunnel systems—paths that Yarpen had marked as suitable for defensive operations. "Dwarves know their mountains. We pick the ground, control the engagement, use my abilities to maximum effect."
"Fifty soldiers and two mages." Lambert's assessment came with characteristic bluntness. "Even with tunnel advantage, that's rough odds."
"We're not fighting all fifty. We're forcing Cahir into a corner where negotiation looks better than combat." I looked up from the maps. "His family's hostage. He doesn't want to die any more than we want to kill him. Find the angle where cooperation benefits everyone, and we can end this without massacre."
Geralt studied me for a long moment.
"You've changed." Not accusation—observation.
"Running gets old." I rolled the maps, tucked them into carrying cases. "Time to see what happens when we stop running and start choosing."
Outside our windows, Mahakam's eternal forges burned on. Thirty days. Thirty days to transform from hunted into hunter.
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