After long days riding through the unforgiving dunes, the dwarf finally arrived at the small town of Almadhir—a lone jewel nestled at the edge of Serenity Bay.
Almadhir was a haven for wanderers, where the scent of spiced meats and sweet dates mixed with the briny air from the distant bay. The town stood as the last true resting place before the endless, merciless sands of the Infinite Dunes. Merchants, mercenaries, and exiles all passed through its streets, some seeking fortune, others simply trying to survive.
As the dwarf guided his donkey through the bustling alleyways, his deep-set eyes scanned the crowd beneath his tattered hood. He felt the stares. Not many dwarves were seen in these lands—if any at all. Yet here he was, moving through a town built by and for tall men.
The town square bustled with bartering voices, the clinking of gold and silver, and the distant sound of lute strings being plucked by a street musician. The market was alive, its stalls overflowing with silken fabrics, exotic spices, and jewelry glinting in the sun.
The dwarf halted before a worn wooden sign swaying in the desert breeze. Carved in the old tongue, the words read "Dar al-Khazin"
A well-known inn of Almadhir, favored by travelers seeking discretion or a quiet night before facing the dangers of the dunes. The building stood four stories tall, its sandstone walls etched by time and its balconies wrapped in intricate wooden lattices that overlooked the lively town square.
With a grunt, the dwarf tied his donkey to a post outside, giving it a firm pat on the neck. The beast had carried him far and without complaint—it had earned its rest. He stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, cinnamon, and old tobacco. The low hum of patrons murmuring, dice clattering against wooden tables, and the occasional ring of laughter filled the room. Golden lanterns, lined with blue and green mosaic glass, cast a soft, flickering light over the rug-covered floors.
He moved through the crowd unnoticed, his heavy boots creaking against the worn steps as he climbed—one floor, then another. By the time he reached the fourth floor, the noise below had faded into a distant murmur.
His room stood at the end of the hall. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door. Inside, they were waiting. A moment of silence passed as all eyes turned to him. Then—Relief.
A gruff, white-bearded dwarf rose from a cushioned seat near the hearth. His eyes, dark as forged iron, gleamed beneath his heavy brows. His voice was low and rough, but unmistakably warm "You live, boy. By the gods, you live."
His uncle, Baeric Khazul, the last living warrior-lord of their fallen house. Before he could respond, others stood.
A group of young dwarves rushed forward—his nephews and cousins, the last sons of the ancient kings.
A burly, braid-bearded lad clapped him on the shoulder. "Took you long enough, cousin!" grinned Thordrek.
"Thought you'd become vulture feed," muttered Varnic, arms crossed but unable to hide his smirk.
A smaller, freckled dwarf—Durnhal, barely past his eighty-seventh winter—blinked up at him. "Did you see it?" he whispered. "Grey Mountains... does it still stand?"
The dwarf exhaled, rubbing the dust from his face. "I saw it," he murmured. "The sign of propechy."
Silence. Baeric nodded solemnly, motioning for him to sit. "Then sit, lad. Eat. And tell us everything."
The dwarf sat heavily onto the cushions, stretching his weary limbs as he reached for the goblet before him. The wine was strong, spiced with desert herbs, but he barely tasted it. His mind was elsewhere—on what he had seen, on what it meant.
His uncle Baeric Khazul leaned forward, arms crossed, his gaze unwavering. The others, his nephews and cousins, sat in expectant silence, waiting for him to speak.
Finally, he exhaled. "The prophecy... it has begun."
The younger dwarves exchanged glances. Some frowned, others leaned in closer. Baeric's voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "What sign did you see?"
The dwarf set down his goblet, his fingers tightening. "The birds," he said. "The Zulqar have returned."
A hush fell over the room. The Zulqar. A species of great-winged birds, long thought to have vanished from the world. The Zulqar were massive, their wings stretching over four meters from tip to tip. Their feathers were ash-grey, blending perfectly with the mountain stone, save for the crimson streaks that ran along their wings—like rivers of molten fire.
Their eyes were golden, sharp and unyielding, and their beaks curved like forged scimitars. They were not predators, nor were they prey—they were watchers, creatures of instinct and foresight.
And most importantly—they never nested where danger loomed. "I saw them," the dwarf continued, his voice steady but heavy. "Circling the Grey Mountains... their cries echoing across the peaks. And then—" he swallowed. "They landed. They nested."
A long silence stretched between them. Baeric closed his eyes. "Then the prophecy is true," he murmured.
The words hung in the air like a blade. For centuries, the Grey Mountains had been abandoned—cursed by the fire of Varkhaz'gor, the elder dragon that had claimed it as his lair. No creature dared tread those lands, not beast nor man nor dwarf.
But the prophecy—the one spoken in hushed whispers, the one passed from the last kings to their sons—it had foretold of this very moment.
"When the Zulqar return to the Grey Mountains..."
"When they carve their nests into the old stone..."
"The mountain shall be reclaimed."
Baeric rose to his feet, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes darkened, not with fear, but with the weight of memory.
He murmured at first, as if speaking to himself, but as his voice grew stronger, all in the room fell silent, listening. "The Grey Mountains..." he whispered, then exhaled. "Once the greatest of all dwarven kingdoms, greater even than Dur-Khazad, richer than Zor-Gharn, mightier than Urd-Hazrak."
He turned to face them, his face etched with both pride and sorrow. "You never saw it," he said, his voice heavy. "You were born in exile, forced to live as nomads, hiding our names, hiding our blood. But I did. I saw it in its glory."
His fingers curled, as if grasping something unseen. "The city of Thral'Zadum, our capital, stood at the heart of the mountains, carved from stone so strong that no hammer nor siege could break it. The walls gleamed like silver, for veins of mithril ran through them, polished by the hands of our forefathers. The gates—oh, the gates!—not iron nor steel, but adamantine, black as night and unyielding as the bones of the world."
The young dwarves exchanged glances, their eyes wide with wonder. Baeric continued, his voice growing deeper, full of longing. "And the halls... vast and endless, stretching beneath the mountain like the veins of a titan. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal hung from the ceilings, glowing like captured starlight. Waterfalls of molten gold flowed through great channels, cooling into perfect ingots as they fell. Forges burned day and night, crafting weapons and armor that no man, elf, or beast could match."
He took a slow breath, his expression darkening. "And then... there was the Great Vault."
A hush fell over the room. Baeric's gaze flickered, as if seeing something distant. "A hoard unlike any other. More gold than even the kings of men could dream of, jewels so large they could blind you in the light. But not just wealth—artifacts, weapons of legend, relics from the First Age, hidden away in chambers guarded by runes even the gods feared to challenge."
He clenched his jaw. "All of it... gone. Burned. Stolen by that cursed beast."
The room felt colder. The warmth of the desert night could not reach them here, not in the shadow of Baeric's words.
He looked up at them now, his gaze burning. "That was our home. That was our pride. And now? The Grey Mountains are silent, its halls dark, its treasures lost beneath the belly of a monster."
He took a step forward, his voice low, gravel rough. "But the Zulqar have returned. And if the prophecy speaks true..." He let the words hang for a moment, letting them sink into the bones of those before him. "Then it is time we take back what is ours."
Varnic raised his hand, his brow furrowed in doubt. His voice, though respectful, carried the weight of hard-earned pragmatism. "Uncle… we speak of reclaiming our home, but how?" His fingers curled slightly. "The dragon—Varkhaz'gor—its scales are impenetrable. No blade, no axe, no hammer can break through them."
The room fell silent. No one could deny the truth in his words. "The only thing that could harm such a beast," Varnic continued, "was red steel. The metal of legends, forged only by human hands… and lost to time. If we are to strike against the dragon, then tell me—where do we find such a weapon?"
Baeric's expression darkened, as if Varnic had spoken aloud a truth he wished to avoid. "Red steel…" he murmured. "Yes, it is the only thing that can wound a dragon of that power. But that secret died with the smiths of Marsh Town."
The mention of the town sent a ripple through the room. The younger dwarves exchanged uncertain glances. The name was not spoken lightly. Marsh Town.
A forgotten city, sealed off from the world after the brutal war between dwarves and men. A place of ruin and whispers, its gates shut for nearly a century. None who entered had ever returned. "So what are you saying?" Varnic pressed. "That we march into a dead town, cut off from the world, where even the bravest wanderers do not dare tread? And even if we did, who's to say the forges of men still burn?"
Baeric exhaled, his hand running through his graying beard. "I do not know what remains in Marsh Town, Varnic. But the prophecy speaks of the Grey Mountains awakening, and if that is true… perhaps the weapons to reclaim it will awaken as well."
He turned to the others. "We have no choice. If we are to slay Varkhaz'gor, we must find the lost forges of Marsh Town. And if the red steel still exists…" His eyes gleamed with something old, something unshaken. "Then we will wield it."