Despite the bitter air, the banter warmed the path between them. Three strays moving in the same direction, for reasons none of them were quite ready to name aloud.
They were not bound by trust—not yet—but by necessity, bruised pride, and the faintest thread of reluctant camaraderie that formed when survival demanded cooperation.
Ahead, the trail sloped upward toward the red stone cliffs that marked the edge of the Bastion's reach. The forest thinned gradually, roots giving way to cracked shale and exposed veins of rust-colored rock. Wind swept across the rising ground, dry and sharp, carrying with it the metallic bite of old iron and long-dead forges.
By the time they reached the plateau, the sun was already peeking behind the jagged skyline, painting the land in rust-gold.
Garruk halted at a slanted boulder, breath steady but tight. He lifted his chin and nodded toward the cliffside.
"There," he said.
A massive cleft split the red stone wall—a yawning black arch carved directly into the mountain. Ancient dwarven runes encircled the entrance, deep and precise, their edges worn smooth by centuries of wind and neglect. The symbols radiated warning as much as craftsmanship.
The Maw Gate.
Eryndor crossed his arms, studying the opening.
"Charming," he said. "Really welcoming ambiance. Love what the architects were going for."
He squinted at the runes.
"I'm sure nothing terrible has ever crawled out of a place literally called the Maw."
he grumbled with sarcastic tone.
Lirien shot him a sharp look.
"We're not here to admire the scenery."
She moved past him, scanning the surrounding ridges and the narrow approach behind them, eyes measuring distance and angles.
"I don't like it," she added.
"You dislike many things," Eryndor muttered.
"Just the ones that smell like death."
Garruk gave a rough grunt.
"Unfortunate, then. That's dwarven architecture."
As they approached, the entrance exhaled a wave of stale heat, tinged with sulfur and the metallic scent of forgotten forges.
The air carried a faint echo of chains shifting somewhere deep within, stirred perhaps by nothing more than pressure changes… or something else entirely.
"It's been decades since anyone used these tunnels," Garruk said, placing a thick hand against the carved stone. His voice lowered. "Old. Too old."
"That's comforting," Eryndor replied.
"You asked for a safer path," Garruk shot back.
"For the record," Eryndor said with a dry smile, "you offered it."
"And you agreed!" Garruk snapped, irritation flaring briefly.
"We should enter cautiously," Lirien said, cutting between them without slowing.
Eryndor smirked.
"Of course. Anything that survives this long usually wants to kill you."
"Optimistic as always," she muttered.
Garruk huffed.
"Welcome to dwarven travel."
They crossed the threshold and the Maw swallowed them whole.
Inside, darkness pressed close, thick and heavy. At first there was only silence—then a distant, rhythmic clang echoed faintly through the stone, like a heartbeat trapped in the mountain's chest. With every step deeper, the sound grew clearer, more insistent.
Crimson ore veins pulsed faintly along the walls, casting a dull, blood-red glow that provided just enough light to walk without stumbling. Rusted chains hung from the high ceiling, swaying gently in unseen drafts. Collapsed scaffolds and ancient lift mechanisms lay half-buried beneath layers of dust and stone.
Garruk led with the quiet certainty of someone who had walked a hundred tunnels like this. Eryndor followed close behind, senses stretched thin. Lirien brought up the rear, her steps were ghost like, silent and her eyes were never still.
Something tugged at Eryndor's awareness.
A pressure. A hum beneath the noise of the tunnels. It prickled at the back of his neck, faint but persistent, like a distant call just beyond hearing.
He frowned and rubbed the nape of his neck.
"Anyone else feel that?"
"Feel what?" Garruk muttered without turning.
"Exactly," Eryndor said. "That."
Garruk stopped and glanced back, scowling.
"Don't speak in riddles."
Lirien gave Eryndor a flat and unimpressed look.
"You're being vague again."
"Occupational hazard," he replied, smug and unapologetic.
She stared at him in silence, speechless.
The tunnel opened into a vast chamber supported by pillars of molten-red stone, frozen mid-flow into twisted, organic shapes. Broken anvils, shattered carts, and scattered tools littered the floor—relics of a workshop abandoned in haste or desperation.
Eryndor slowed, he felt unease sharpened.
Then instantly and without warning, torches ignited along the walls.
Flame bloomed in a perfect ring, flooding the chamber with orange light.
Garruk froze.
Lirien's fingers brushed the hilt of her sword.
From the shadows stepped dwarves clad in dark guild leathers, weapons already drawn. Crossbows leveled. Axes held low but ready. 50 at least—positioned with intent, not surprise.
"Well now. The stray dog returns. And he's brought two more strays to feed the dark." The man said. His voice echoing through the chamber.
Garruk's face twisted with naked hatred.
"Varric Steelmaul."
"Guildmaster," Varric corrected mildly.
He smiled—polished, practiced, utterly merciless.
"Lovely to see you too, Ironthane."
Eryndor lifted a hand casually.
"Just passing through. If this is a bad time say, a secret murder meeting we can come back next century."
Varric turned his gaze to him, eyes sharpening with interest.
"An interesting human."
"Oh, thank you," Eryndor said, bowing theatrically. "I am flattered."
Varric chuckled once, then returned his attention to Garruk. He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back like a lecturer addressing slow students.
"You've been troublesome, Ironthane" he said. "Very troublesome. And expensive."
"Expensive?" Garruk barked. "Your treachery nearly killed me!"
Varric sighed, as if deeply burdened.
"Yes, tragic. We're all devastated. But you left us no choice."
Lirien's voice cut in, cold and precise.
"Treachery is always a choice."
"It is," Varric agreed easily. "Especially when it brings good business and fortune."
His gaze then flicked toward Eryndor and Lirien.
"You want to understand why your friend was marked dead? Fine. You'll be corpses soon enough. A little truth won't hurt."He raised a hand.
One of his men stepped forward carrying a small metal lockbox. Varric opened it with a flourish.
Inside lay a crystalline shard, no longer than a finger. It glowed faintly, runes shifting beneath its surface like something alive.
The chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Eryndor felt the scripture beneath his skin stir—subtle, unmistakable. Not pain. Not heat, a faint pulse that wasn't entirely his
Lirien inhaled sharply.
Varric noticed. He smiled wider.
"See? Even without knowing a damned thing, you feel it. This is no ordinary relic."
"That's also how I knew that Great Clan would want it."
Garruk snarled.
"You mean the Tarzik Clan."
Varric's smile darkened.
"Ah, so you have already told your new friends. Make this simpler"
"Nope," Eryndor said lightly.
Ignoring the remark with a subtle lift of eyebrow, Varric began to pace- the only sound in the room being soft clink of rings braided into his beard. "About a month ago, our diggers uncovered this artifact. We didn't know what it was. Still don't. But someone did."
"One of the Seven Great Clans," he continued. "With more coin than restraint."
"The Tarzik Clan contacted us before rumours even spread. Offered a sum large enough to buy silence. Quiet. Urgent. Which usually means someone powerful doesn't want questions."
Eryndor raised a brow.
"And I am assuming, Garruk objected."
"Oh, vehemently," Varric said. "Ranting about loyalty. Kings. Old oaths."
Garruk's fists clenched, joints cracking.
The past hung heavy in the torchlight.
And the shard pulsed, slow and patient, as if listening.