They rested on the rocky plateau, breathing in the cold, crisp air of the Grey Mountains. The sun hung low, casting golden rays across the jagged peaks that stretched beyond the horizon. The landscape was both awe-inspiring and daunting—vast, treacherous, and unforgiving.
Khaltar, sitting on a boulder, wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to Gorim. "How long will it take to reach the top?"
Gorim let out a deep sigh, his eyes scanning the steep cliffs ahead. He shook his head. "This ain't just about time. The journey up there won't be easy."
The group fell silent, gazing up at the towering peaks. The Grey Mountains were far more perilous than any human mountain range. Even a seasoned climber would struggle against what awaited them.
The first stretch of their climb would take them across sheer ice-covered cliffs, where the wind howled like a starving beast. The rock beneath was smooth and treacherous, covered in a thin layer of frost that could snap even the best-crafted boots. One misstep would send them plunging into the abyss below.
"We'll need to climb with ropes and axes," Gorim warned. "No way we're making it up there without 'em."
Beyond the ice cliffs lay a narrow ravine, where the weight of fresh snow threatened to bury anything that dared to disturb its fragile balance.
Arianne frowned. "So, one wrong step, and we'll bring the whole mountain down on ourselves?"
"Pretty much," Gorim muttered. "We move slow, stay quiet, and pray the gods don't sneeze."
Higher up, the mountains became a battlefield for the elements. Winds strong enough to strip flesh from bone roared between the peaks. Snow and ice rained down in chaotic tempests. Even the most experienced climbers would struggle to move forward against the relentless gales.
"Only way through is finding cover when storms hit," Soraya said, tightening her cloak. "Or else we freeze before we even see the summit."
An ancient dwarven road once led to the mountaintop, but time had shattered it beyond recognition. The stone steps were cracked, unstable, and half-buried beneath centuries of ice.
Yaraq kicked a loose stone, watching it tumble down the chasm. "Looks like whoever built this didn't expect us to need it."
Gorim grunted. "Aye, or they built it well, and time just doesn't care."
And above it all loomed the greatest danger—Varkhaz'gor. The elder dragon had made the peak its throne, its black wings casting an eternal shadow over the land below. It was not just the mountain's final guardian; it was the very soul of the Grey Mountains, watching, waiting, ready to incinerate any who dared trespass upon its domain.
"We won't just be fighting the cold, the winds, or the climb," Nadra whispered. "We'll be fighting him."
Yaraq crossed his arms, his sharp eyes scanning the towering peaks ahead. "Then how the hell do we kill an Elder Dragon?"
Gorim, who had been silently staring at the ground, let out a deep murmur. "No one, nothing, has ever scratched its scales." His voice was heavy with the weight of history. "Not swords, not arrows, not even the mightiest warhammers. That beast is wrapped in an armor forged by time itself."
The group exchanged uneasy glances. The Elder Dragon was not just any foe; it was a living calamity, a creature that had reigned over the Grey Mountains for half a millennium. It had burned entire armies to ash, shattered fortresses with its mere presence, and sent civilizations crumbling into ruin.
Gorim took a deep breath. "Only Red Steel can wound it."
At the mention of Red Steel, a cold silence fell over them. A metal lost to time. A metal said to be forged in the blood of titans, tempered in the heart of volcanoes. A weapon of legend.
"That's why the Grey Mountains fell five hundred years ago," Gorim continued. "Dwarven forges never held that kind of steel. The only ones who ever mastered the craft were the blacksmiths of Marsh Town."
Hadeefa furrowed her brow. "Marsh Town? But that place—"
Gorim nodded grimly. "Aye. When Varkhaz'gor descended upon them thirty years ago, they had the Red Steel. They had the weapons to kill it. And yet…" He sighed. "They failed."
Yaraq scoffed. "Failed? With the one thing that could kill it?"
Gorim's eyes darkened. "They missed their chance."
Arianne narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
Gorim clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as memories flooded back. "They had ballistae tipped with Red Steel. Dozens of them. Trained archers, siege weapons, warriors waiting for the perfect shot…"
Soraya swallowed hard. "And?"
Gorim exhaled sharply. "Varkhaz'gor burned everything before they could even land a proper hit."
Silence. The wind howled around them, as if mocking their feeble hopes.
"Their bows couldn't reach its heart. Their blades couldn't pierce its scales fast enough. And the dragon—" Gorim's voice grew quiet, haunted. "—turned their entire city into an ocean of fire."
Khaltar let out a long sigh, running a hand through his dust-covered hair. "You sure know a lot, Gorim," he muttered. "Almost like you've been preparing for this your whole life."
Gorim smirked, a glint of pride in his eyes. "Aye, lad. That's because I ain't just some lonely old dwarf hiding in the dark." He straightened his back, patting the handle of his axe. "I'm an adventurer. And I've spent my life chasing legends."
The group listened intently as Gorim's voice took on a storyteller's cadence.
"I've always believed that the Grey Mountains would be reclaimed one day. That the descendants of the ancient kings would rise again." He turned to Khaltar. "So I traveled, searching for answers. And that journey took me to Marsh Town."
Hadeefa raised an eyebrow. "You went to Marsh Town? That place is barely standing after the dragon attack."
"Aye," Gorim nodded, his expression darkening. "I wanted to see Red Steel for myself. Wanted to know if the stories were true. And guess what?" His smirk returned. "They were."
Nadra leaned forward. "So they really had Red Steel? Did they—?"
"They didn't kill it." Gorim cut her off, shaking his head. "But they wounded it."
A shocked silence fell over the group.
Yaraq scoffed. "That's impossible. You just said nothing can scratch its scales."
Gorim's grin widened. "I said nothing except Red Steel. And that's exactly what happened." He took a deep breath. "When Varkhaz'gor attacked Marsh Town, they fired dozens of Red Steel ballistae at it. But the thing is—they missed."
Khaltar frowned. "All of them?"
"No, lad. One hit." Gorim raised a single finger. "Just one. And do you know what happened?" He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"They tore off a single scale."
Arianne's eyes widened. "They actually pierced its armor?"
Gorim nodded. "Aye. They did. If more of their shots had landed, the beast would've fallen. But they didn't. The dragon burned their town before they could reload."
Soraya clenched her fists. "Then that means… it can be killed."
Gorim's smirk returned, full of mischief and determination. "Aye, lass. It ain't invincible. And that's why I never gave up hope."
Nadra picked up a smooth, flat stone and flicked it across the river's surface. The first bounce was strong, the second weaker, and by the third, it sank into the rushing current. She smiled, turning to Gorim with bright, eager eyes.
"Then lead us to Marsh Town," she said. "If Red Steel is the key to killing that beast, we need to find it."
Gorim chuckled, his beard shaking as he folded his arms. "Straight to the point, aren't you, girl?" He exhaled and turned his gaze to the distant horizon, where the mountains met the sky in jagged peaks. "Aye, I'll lead you—but don't think it'll be an easy road. There's a reason no one's come back from this journey in thirty years."
He stepped forward, planting his boot in the damp earth, and gestured toward the towering ridges behind them. "First, we descend the Grey Mountains—two days of picking our way down crumbling paths, past cliffs that sheer off into endless drop-offs. The old Dwarven trails have long since eroded, and whatever bridges once spanned the ravines have fallen to ruin. That means we climb, crawl, and pray to the gods that the rocks beneath our feet don't betray us."
Yaraq smirked. "And if they do?"
"Then you best hope you land somewhere soft," Gorim muttered.
The dwarf turned, his finger tracing an invisible path through the air. "Once we reach the base, we step into the Ashen Plains—three days of marching through a wasteland where nothing grows but brittle, blackened trees and thorn-choked ruins. The ground is scorched from dragonfire, and the air is thick with the stench of old wars. No water, no shade—just heat, wind, and whatever creatures learned to survive in that graveyard. If we see movement, it's either scavengers or worse—the remnants of the warbands that still roam those cursed lands."
Soraya frowned. "Warbands? After all these years?"
"Some men refuse to die," Gorim said darkly.
He let his hand drift lower, past the invisible plains, and to the next stage of their journey. "If we make it across the Ashen Plains, we enter the Sunken Marshes—two days of wading through waters so thick with silt you can't see your own legs beneath you. Fog clings to the air like a living thing, twisting and turning to hide the dangers that lurk beneath. The waters breed leeches the size of a man's arm, serpents that strike from the murk, and goblins that learned long ago how to hunt without making a sound."
Zahra wrinkled her nose. "Goblins?"
"Aye. And worse." Gorim hesitated. "If you hear a voice calling your name in the mist—don't answer. There are things in the marshes that wear the faces of the dead, whispering to the living, luring them away. Wraiths, if the old tales are true."
Hadeefa shivered and murmured a quiet prayer under her breath.
"And if we survive that," Gorim went on, "we reach the Ruins of Old Marsh Town. The first settlement fell when Varkhaz'gor came, and what's left of it is little more than broken towers and sunken streets. It's there, beneath the rubble, that we'll find the Red Steel Forge. The last remnant of a time when men and dwarves still stood side by side against the darkness. But the ruins are unstable, and what might be buried there… not all of it sleeps."
The group had fallen silent. Even Nadra, despite her boldness, now looked toward the horizon with a weight of understanding.
"And then?" she finally asked.
"Then, and only then, do we reach Marsh Town itself," Gorim said. "The last bastion of men in these lands. If the town still holds records of their ancestors' work, we might learn how to forge Red Steel again. If not, then we've marched ten days through fire, stone, and shadow for nothing."
The wind stirred, carrying with it the scent of the earth and the distant promise of rain. Gorim turned back to them, his expression unreadable.
"So," he said, voice steady. "Still want to go?"
Nadra grinned and cracked her knuckles. "What are we waiting for?"
Gorim laughed. "Then rest well tonight. Come dawn, we walk the road that no one has dared for three decades."