Varnic knelt at the base of the Grey Mountains, his breath caught in his chest. The towering peaks loomed before him, their snow-capped summits piercing the storm-heavy sky. The jagged cliffs were etched with time-worn ruins, remnants of an age when dwarven kings ruled these lands with iron and stone.
He had never known the glory days of his people. Born in exile, raised in lands where dwarves were scattered and wandering, he had only heard whispers of the great halls carved into the heart of the mountains, of the golden forges that once burned brighter than the sun, and of the elders who had led them into an age of might—before it all fell to ruin. And yet, he felt it.
Standing on the frozen ground, breathing the cold, crisp air that smelled of iron and forgotten history, he knew this was home—even if it had never been his before now.
Gorim, walked up beside him. His gnarled hands, hardened by centuries of toil, reached down and grasped Varnic's shoulder.
"If you wish to see our home restored," Gorim rumbled, his voice like shifting boulders, "then there's only one way forward."
Varnic looked up, eyes filled with unspoken questions.
Gorim turned his gaze to the highest peak. "The Elder Dragon," Gorim muttered. "It took everything from us. Our halls. Our forges. Our kingdom. If we wish to reclaim what's ours, then its death is mandatory."
Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if the mountain itself had heard their vow. Jhon checking their remaining supplies—dried meats, hardtack, water skins, firewood, and a few pouches of medicinal herbs. They had enough for the next few days, but Gorim's grim expression said it all: it wouldn't be enough.
"This won't last us," Gorim muttered. His weathered hands gripped his axe as he looked up at the mountains that had once been his people's home. "And even if it did, supplies ain't the only problem."
"How long will it take?" Jhon asked.
Gorim exhaled sharply. "Three weeks—if the weather is kind, which it won't be. We'll be pushing through thin air, biting winds, and sheer cliffs that would make a goat think twice. You think the journey so far was bad? That was a pleasant stroll. The Grey Mountains ain't just tall—they're deadly. We're climbing into a graveyard."
Sayf narrowed his eyes. "Three weeks?" He gestured at the towering peaks ahead. "And what makes it so impossible?"
Gorim chuckled darkly. "Because the Grey Mountains ain't like any other range. This isn't a climb—it's survival."
The first few days were spent trekking through thick, snow-laden forests. The trees grew gnarled and twisted, their bark blackened by centuries of cold. Every breath was filled with the sting of frost, and the ground beneath them crunched with hidden ice.
The temperature dropped drastically each night, forcing them to huddle around small fires that barely fought back the creeping frost. Then came the first real challenge: the Frozen Scree.
A vast, jagged field of unstable ice and rock, the Scree stretched for miles up the mountain's belly. Each step threatened to send them tumbling into unseen crevasses, where the dead lay entombed forever. "We take one wrong step here," Khaltar muttered, "and we're done."
They moved in single file, tied together by ropes, using ice picks and iron spikes to hold onto whatever solid ground they could find. The wind screamed past them like the voices of the lost.
By the second week, they had climbed above fourteen thousand feet, where the air thinned and breathing became a struggle. Each step felt heavier, their bodies sluggish and weak.
Rahotep collapsed to his knees, coughing violently. "By the gods... it feels like my lungs are burning."
"It's the air," Gorim grunted. "Ain't much of it up here. We need to rest, or we'll start seeing things that ain't there."
And the mountain did whisper. Each night, phantom voices drifted through the howling wind—the echoes of fallen warriors and lost souls. Jhon barely slept, his body shivering despite the heavy furs wrapped around him. Then came the Avalanche Pass.
The only way forward was through a narrow ridge, where the slightest sound could send tons of snow crashing down upon them. The ground beneath them was perilously soft, shifting with each step. Sayf, moving too fast, knocked loose a chunk of ice. The rumbling began.
"Run!" Jhon shouted, and they sprinted for their lives as a tidal wave of ice and rock thundered down. Snow and debris filled the air, suffocating, blinding, ripping through the mountain with fury. They barely made it to the other side, gasping, half-buried in snow.
At eighteen thousand feet, the world became a wasteland of sheer cliffs, icy ledges, and bone-chilling cold. Their bodies screamed for rest, but they had to keep moving.
Frostbite crept up their fingers. Their lips cracked and bled. Nadra lost feeling in two of her toes. Food was almost gone.
The wind howled like a chorus of lost souls as Jhon and his companions finally stood before it—the Gate of Thral'Zadum.
A massive structure, embedded directly into the very heart of the mountain itself, stretching nearly a hundred feet high and fifty feet wide. Blackened iron and rune-carved stone framed its enormous doors, its surface etched with age-old dwarven script that glowed faintly beneath the frost.
Varnic stepped forward, his breath ragged, his legs trembling—not just from exhaustion but from a deep, unshakable reverence.
His hands brushed the cold, ancient metal. "This is it," he whispered. "The gate of our forefathers."
Gorim, placed a firm hand on Varnic's shoulder before turning his gaze upward. His weary eyes traced the legendary inscription that had been passed down in forgotten songs and fading scrolls.
His voice, though hoarse, boomed with the weight of history as he began to read aloud.
"Behold, the Threshold of the Ancient Kings.
Sealed in fire, broken by war, waiting in silence.
When the Sons of the Mountain return, clad in steel and bound by blood,
The stone shall sing, and the halls shall blaze anew."
As the final words left Gorim's lips, a deep, rumbling echo vibrated through the stone—as if the mountain itself had heard them.
The air grew still. The wind halted its ceaseless wail. And then—A single golden rune ignited upon the gate.
A pulse of ancient magic, dormant for centuries, flickered to life. The letters on the gate, once dull and weathered, glowed like molten steel. The prophecy was real.
Varnic's fingers clenched into fists. His whole life, he had wandered without a home, without a true purpose. But now—the mountain knew his name.
"This gate," he said, his voice shaking with emotion, "is waiting for us to reclaim what is ours."
Jhon stepped forward, running a gloved hand along the heated stone. He turned to Gorim. "So, how do we open it?"
Gorim sighed deeply. "That… is the real question."
Because though the prophecy had stirred—the gate remained closed. The argument erupted like a forge fire, hot and uncontrollable.
"How in the hells do our bloodlines not know how to open our own gate?" Varnic snapped, pacing furiously.
"The knowledge was lost," Gorim grumbled, arms crossed. "Or taken."
"Typical," Nadra scoffed, rubbing her temples. "We cross the deadliest lands, nearly freeze to death climbing this damned mountain, only to be stopped by a door."
Even Arianne, usually the quiet one, threw up her hands in frustration. "I refuse to die at the doorstep of some ancient rock."
Jhon pinched the bridge of his nose. "There has to be something. A mechanism, a phrase—anything."
Sayf, who had been leaning casually against the frozen wall, finally spoke—but with his usual smirk. "Did anyone try saying 'please'?"
Silence. Then, a chorus of groans and curses filled the air.
"For once," Khaltar grumbled, "Sayf, could you—"
But he was cut off by Gorim's sharp intake of breath. His eyes widened as a memory surfaced—a vow, ancient as the stone itself.
"There is," he whispered, "one phrase…a vow that only dwarves know."
Varnic turned to him, his heart pounding. "What vow?"
Gorim stepped forward, placing a calloused hand against the ancient runes. He closed his eyes, and in a voice deep as the mountain's roots, he spoke:
"Az-Gorath Un'Khazad, Dûm Khazad Ai-Mênu."
(By the Will of the Mountain, The Halls of the Dwarves Shall Open Once More.)
For a moment, nothing happened. Then—A tremor shook the ground beneath them. The glowing runes flared brilliantly, casting golden light across the snow. A deep, resonant groan echoed from within the mountain as ancient gears—forgotten by time—began to turn.
Dust rained down from the carved arch above as the massive gate split apart, revealing a darkened corridor beyond.
A gust of warm air, thick with the scent of iron, ash, and something far older, swept past them.
Varnic stared into the blackness. For the first time in his life, he was staring into the halls of his ancestors. Gorim gripped his axe. "Welcome home, lad."
Varnic took the first step inside, his boots echoing against the long-forgotten stone. The darkness swallowed him, but the faint golden glow of the runes on the gate cast flickering light into the corridor beyond.
Jhon followed, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. Khaltar was next—but as he moved, a firm hand gripped his arm. Gorim.
The old dwarf pulled him into a tight embrace, his rough hands gripping Khaltar's back as though afraid to let go. For the first time in his life, Gorim's voice trembled.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything. You're the kindest human I've ever known."
Khaltar, caught off guard, froze for a moment. Then, slowly, he returned the embrace.
"You stubborn old bastard," he said softly, patting Gorim's back. "Let's not start saying goodbyes yet."
A few steps away, Sayf leaned toward Jhon. "Do dwarves even cry?" he whispered with a smirk.
Gorim immediately whirled around, his beard fluttering in indignation. "I do NOT cry!" he huffed, then sniffled. "I just… sweat through my eyes."
Arianne sighed. "By the gods, let's just get moving before we all start sweating through our eyes."
Gorim cleared his throat, straightened his armor, and looked at them all—his family in battle, bound not by blood, but by something stronger.
"You have all brought me here, through lands that no dwarf has seen in ages," he said, voice steady now. "But the last challenge still lies ahead. The Elder Dragon."