As the small fire flickered, casting shadows against the damp cavern walls, Hadeefa passed a small share of their food to Gorim. The old dwarf hesitated at first, then accepted the offering with a grunt of thanks. He ate slowly, savoring every bite—perhaps the first shared meal he'd had in decades.
The tension eased. His posture softened, his guarded expression less rigid. It was clear that Gorim had spent too long in solitude, and a warm meal among others was something he had nearly forgotten.
Yaraq, leaning forward with curiosity, broke the silence. "Where do you come from?" he asked, listing off the great dwarven kingdoms of old. "Dur-Khazad? Az-Thulun? Zor-Gharn? Urd-Hazrak? Thrain-Kazul? Zul-Norrim? Dorn-Vael?"
At the mention of those names, Gorim's chewing slowed. His eyes, once dulled by time, flickered with an emotion neither anger nor sorrow—but something in between. He swallowed, wiped his beard, then muttered, "It doesn't matter."
Yaraq frowned. "What do you mean?"
Gorim's voice was low, heavy with old grief. "Those places are gone. The halls have fallen. The forges have grown cold. The Grey Mountains themselves… are nothing but tombs now."
Silence fell over the group. Khaltar clenched his jaw, his suspicions confirmed. The rumors were true. The dwarves, once a proud and mighty race, were now on the brink of extinction. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "So it's true…"
Gorim gave a slow nod. "Aye. We are relics of a dead age. The last embers of a dying fire. And soon… even those will fade."
The weight of his words settled deep in their chests. The loss of a people. The end of a legacy. And yet, something in Khaltar refused to accept it.
After a long, heavy silence, Gorim finally spoke again. His voice, once weary, now carried a solemn weight that sent a chill through the air. "Five hundred years ago, the Grey Mountains fell," he murmured, his fingers tightening around his axe. "Not to war, not to famine, not to the greed of men. But to something far worse…"
The others leaned in, listening intently. The flames of their small campfire crackled softly, but the warmth did nothing to drive away the cold settling in their bones.
Gorim's gaze grew distant. "It came from the skies, casting a shadow so vast it swallowed the sun. Its wings were like tattered banners of war, and its breath—its breath was flame beyond mortal reckoning. Not just fire… but a heat so fierce it turned stone to molten rivers, reduced steel to liquid slag."
Khaltar frowned. "What was it?"
Gorim's jaw clenched as if the name itself carried a curse. Then, in a hushed, reverent tone, he whispered "Varkhaz'gor… the Hellmaw."
A fire-breathing Elder Dragon. One of the strongest flame dragons to ever walk. Its body was massive, bigger than any dwarf had ever seen—a living mountain of burning scales and razor talons.
"It descended upon the Grey Mountains like the wrath of the gods," Gorim continued, his voice barely above a growl. "It did not just burn our kingdom… it melted it. Our great forges, our towering citadels, our carved halls of stone—gone in an inferno hotter than the core of the world."
Yaraq swallowed hard. "And the survivors?"
"There were none," Gorim said. "Not in the halls. Not in the tunnels. The few who escaped the fire perished in the freezing snows beyond. And Varkhaz'gor? He took our ruin as his throne. Now he sleeps in the heart of our once-great kingdom, buried beneath a hoard of gold and jewels… our gold and jewels."
A shudder ran through the group. A dragon unlike any they had ever known… A beast that had single-handedly wiped out the last great dwarven kingdom.
And now, it slumbered beneath the Grey Mountain, waiting.
"Elder dragon…" Yaraq murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
The weight of the words pressed against his chest, heavy with the knowledge passed down through generations. He clenched his fists, recalling the stories his father used to tell him—the hierarchy of dragons.
"Dragons are divided into three kinds," he muttered, his breath uneven. "First, the regular dragons—those we see almost every day. Wyverns, drakes, nagas, even leviathans. Dangerous, yes, but manageable. Most grow no larger than ten meters. A skilled warrior, the right weapon, and enough numbers can bring them down."
The others listened in silence, their eyes reflecting the dim glow of the fire. "Then there are the Alpha Dragons." His jaw tensed. "The queens and kings of dragon lairs. They don't just rule over their kin—they command them. They grow beyond a hundred meters, their scales as hard as dwarven-forged steel, their fire enough to turn castles to ash. Kingdoms fall before them…"
He took a slow breath before continuing. "And then, there are the Elder Dragons."
Silence. Even Gorim, the battle-worn dwarf, bowed his head slightly at the mention.
"Elder Dragons… they are the end of empires, the nightmares of legends." Yaraq's voice was grim. "They grow beyond a hundred meters, their elemental power unmatched by any living creature—only lower from Primal Dragons themselves."
Khaltar narrowed his eyes. "Primal Dragons?"
"The dragons of destruction." Yaraq exhaled sharply. "The ones whispered about in myths, the first dragons, born from chaos itself. If Elder Dragons can destroy kingdoms, then Primal Dragons can erase continents."
His gaze met Gorim's. "And you're telling me… one of these Elder Dragons—the Hellmaw—took the Grey Mountains?"
Gorim nodded slowly.
"Then we're not just dealing with a ruined dwarven kingdom," Yaraq muttered, rubbing his face in frustration. "We're dealing with something far worse."
Gorim let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head with a bitter smile. He sat back against the cavern wall, his fingers idly tracing the haft of his axe. "You lot think of seeking refuge in Grey Mountains?" His voice was laced with amusement, but his eyes held only exhaustion. "Then tell me, why do you think I stay here? Why do you think I've never dared to pass through the tunnels leading there?"
Silence fell over the group. The weight of his words settled like cold iron in their chests.
Khaltar furrowed his brow. "You've lived here alone for decades? Why?"
Gorim sighed, his grip tightening. "Because beyond those tunnels, there is no safety. No home. No kingdom. Only death."
His gaze swept over them, lingering on each face as if measuring their resolve. "The Grey Mountain you hope to find? It's gone. Its halls once rang with the songs of my kin, its forges burned with the might of our craft. Now? Now, it is nothing more than a tomb. A dragon's lair. And that beast…"
His voice grew quieter, a tremor slipping through. "That beast is no mere dragon. It is fire incarnate, a force of ruin. I saw it with my own eyes—the moment it came crashing down from the skies."
Gorim's gaze darkened, lost in memory. "Flames hotter than any forge consumed the city. We tried to fight, we tried to hold the gates, but our strongest warriors fell like wheat before the scythe. Even the deepest tunnels were not safe. The beast's breath turned stone to slag, its claws raked through our walls as if they were parchment. I ran. I ran because I had no other choice. And when I looked back… my home was gone."
He let the words hang in the air, a heavy finality settling over them. "So if you truly mean to go there, know this—" His eyes locked onto Khaltar's, voice like a hammer striking an anvil. "You're marching straight into the maw of hell itself."
Nadra cut him off, frustration clear in her voice. "Then what should we do?"
Gorim sighed, rubbing his temples. "Even if the dragon isn't there anymore, the journey to Grey Mountains will take more than a week. And trust me, you won't survive that long in the tunnels unless you're willing to eat worms and drink from cave roots."
Khaltar scowled. "There must be another way."
Gorim nodded. "Aye. There is." His expression grew thoughtful. "You won't make it through the tunnels alone. You need warriors—real ones. Dwarves who still know the old ways."
Yaraq narrowed his eyes. "You said the dwarves are gone."
"Gone? Scattered, more like. Some fled into the deep tunnels, some wandered the surface, lost to drink and despair. But a few? A few still carry their axes, waiting for a reason to fight." Gorim leaned forward, his voice lowering. "And if you can find them, they might be the only chance you have."
The group exchanged uneasy glances. "Where do we even start?" Nadra asked.
Gorim hesitated, then gave a wry chuckle. "I don't know. Maybe it's just an old fool's hope. A prophecy, a song we were told as children—the Son of the Ancient King will rise and reclaim our home." He waved a hand dismissively. "But it never said where, when, or who. For all we know, it's just a lullaby."
A heavy silence followed. Then Khaltar clenched his fists. "Then we make it real. We find the warriors. And if no son of an ancient king comes? Then we do it ourselves."
Gorim studied him for a long moment. Then, a slow, knowing smile crossed his face. "Hah. You've got the madness for it, I'll give you that."
While on the other side, beneath the Grey Mountains. The chamber was an ocean of gold, an endless tide of coins, goblets, crowns, and statues that gleamed under the dim glow of dying braziers. The remnants of dwarven craftsmanship—ornate weapons, gemstone-encrusted armor, and priceless relics—lay scattered like forgotten offerings to a god that neither spoke nor bargained. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old metal, but beneath it all, something else lurked—something ancient. Something foul.
The golden sea stirred. A ripple, almost imperceptible, sent a cascade of treasure tumbling down the mound at the heart of the vault. The shift was slow at first, like the earth itself groaning in discomfort. Then, the weight of centuries shifted all at once. A deep, guttural growl rumbled from beneath the gold, a sound so low it seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the mountain.
Varkhaz'gor was waking. The coins spilled like liquid as something massive began to rise from beneath them. A titanic form, half-buried in its own hoard, slowly emerged—vast and horrifying. A single eye bigger than the size of a giant war shield cracked open, its pupil a molten slit of pure ember. It burned, not with fire, but with something far worse, an intelligence so ancient and cruel it made the very air tremble with its presence.
The dragon's scales, darker than the deepest abyss, shimmered with an eerie, oil-slick sheen beneath the gold dust that clung to them. Its colossal wings remained half-buried, their edges jagged and scarred from battles fought in an age long past. Each claw, longer than a giant greatsword, twitched as they flexed, shattering goblets and splitting open gem-studded chests with effortless malice.
Varkhaz'gor exhaled. The breath alone sent a wave of heat rolling across the chamber, warping the air, blackening nearby relics as the sheer intensity of its presence corrupted everything around it. The gold beneath its massive form had begun to melt, pooling into a slow, viscous river of molten wealth, as if the hoard itself was bowing to its master's return. The cavern trembled.
The torches, dim and forgotten in the corners of the vault, flickered once—and then died, snuffed out by the sheer will of the beast that had awakened. Darkness swallowed the chamber, but it was not empty. A new glow pulsed within it, the slow, steady rise and fall of the dragon's burning eyes, staring into the abyss of time itself.
Then, Varkhaz'gor spoke. A voice like grinding stone, like fire consuming flesh, like death itself crawling free from its grave. "I have slept long enough."