As Varnic stepped forward, the darkness within the mountain swallowed him whole. The others followed cautiously, their boots echoing against the ancient stone, their breath visible in the cold, stagnant air.
Then—light. Faint at first, like embers in an abandoned forge, but as they moved deeper, the ruins of Thral'Zadum revealed themselves.
The ceiling stretched impossibly high, lost in the abyss of the mountain's hollowed core. Towering columns of obsidian and granite, carved with intricate dwarven runes, lined the vast cavern, rising like the ribcage of some long-dead god. Each pillar, despite being cracked and worn, still bore the craftsmanship of the ancient dwarves—intricate reliefs depicting their kings, their wars, their glories.
The road beneath their feet was not mere stone but a grand causeway, inlaid with veins of gold and silver, forming a mosaic of the First Age—images of dwarven strongholds, warriors standing against horrors long forgotten, and a golden crown resting atop a mountain peak.
Jhon let out a low whistle. "Even in ruin, it's more magnificent than any human city."
Varnic could barely breathe. This was the home of his ancestors—a place he had never seen, yet felt in his very bones.
As they ventured further, the remnants of once-glorious buildings loomed around them. Massive stone forges, now cold and lifeless, lined the walls. Anvils lay toppled, their mithril chains rusted with age. In one corner, a collapsed market square stood frozen in time—stalls still filled with long-rotted goods, dwarven coinage scattered across the stone, and weapons that had never been wielded in battle.
Nadra knelt beside an abandoned cart. She picked up a mithril dagger, its edge still sharp, though covered in dust. "They left in a hurry," she murmured. "As if something… chased them out."
Then they saw it—the Great Bridge of Thral'Zadum. It stretched across a vast chasm within the mountain, leading toward what was once the heart of the city. Its balustrades were adorned with statues of dwarven kings, each holding a hammer or an axe, their faces worn by time yet still exuding a sense of pride and sorrow. Beneath the bridge, the cavern fell into utter blackness, a void so deep it seemed to swallow sound itself.
Khaltar ran a gloved hand along the stone railing. "This bridge was meant to last eternity," he muttered.
"And yet," Gorim added grimly, "not even eternity could hold against what happened here."
At the far end of the bridge, the gates to the royal district stood ajar. A massive doorway, carved from a single slab of black granite, still bore the sigil of Thral'Zadum—a hammer striking an anvil, wreathed in flames. But the door had been broken inward, its edges blackened as if by fire.
Sayf exhaled sharply. "I'm guessing that wasn't an accident."
With a mighty heave, Gorim and Varnic pushed open the colossal gates. The ancient hinges, frozen by centuries of dust and neglect, groaned like the dying breath of a mountain. The moment the passage opened, a gust of icy wind rushed in, carrying the scent of stone, old iron, and something else—something ancient.
Then, they saw it. Beyond the gate lay the legendary city of Thral'Zadum, carved into the very crown of the Grey Mountains. The sheer immensity of it stole their breath.
The city stretched across the mountaintop, vast enough to house tens of thousands of dwarves in its prime. Buildings rose in tiers, layer upon layer, each carved meticulously from the very stone of the mountain, with bridges, terraces, and massive thoroughfares interwoven between them. From the lowest districts at the base of the city to the glittering ruins of the royal palace at the highest peak, Thral'Zadum stood as a monument to the greatest civilization the dwarves had ever built. Even in ruin, its grandeur eclipsed anything Khaltar had ever seen.
"This..." Khaltar whispered, unable to hide his awe. "No human city even comes close."
Massive stone halls and towering structures lined the great streets, their arches and columns decorated with intricate carvings of dwarven history—legends of kings, battles fought against monstrous foes, and the forging of weapons that could shape the world. Despite the passage of ages, some of the golden inlays still shimmered faintly in the pale light.
At the city's center stood a massive stone amphitheater, surrounded by statues of long-forgotten rulers. The once-thriving market district, now abandoned, was filled with broken merchant stalls, shattered carts, and signs of a civilization that vanished in an instant. Dwarven fountains—now dry—once flowed with water as pure as the mountain snow.
The great foundries of Thral'Zadum lay in the eastern quarter, where enormous, blackened chimneys loomed over the skyline. Some had collapsed, but others still stood, as if waiting for their furnaces to burn once more. The streets here were littered with discarded weapons, half-forged axes, shattered shields—evidence that the fall of this city had been sudden, brutal.
Above them, the royal district loomed—a magnificent fortress-palace carved directly into the mountain's peak. The entrance was guarded by colossal statues of dwarven kings, their stone gazes peering eternally over their lost kingdom.
Gorim exhaled heavily, his breath misting in the frigid air. His aged, calloused hand gripped the hilt of his axe as he stared at the massive entrance before them—the Gate of Durâthrim, the ancient threshold into the heart of the Grey Mountains. The two colossal statues of dwarven kings flanked the entrance, their weathered faces solemn and eternal, as if still standing watch over their lost empire.
"If it's Mithron we seek," Gorim rumbled, "then we go inside."
His voice was low, almost hesitant. He lifted a hand and pointed at the shadowed maw beyond the gate—a passage leading into the depths of the mountain itself.
"The legends say Mithron—the purest metal ever wrought by dwarven hands—can only be mined from the Veins of Azramûl, deep within the Grey Mountains. The greatest of our kind once toiled in those mines, forging weapons fit for kings and armor that could turn aside even dragon's fire. If there is any Mithron left in this world, it lies within."
A heavy silence fell over the group. Then Gorim clenched his jaw and muttered the name that had haunted dwarven history for centuries."But Varkhaz'gor sleeps within."
Even the wind seemed to still at the name. Jhon's brows furrowed. "The Elder Dragon…" he murmured.
"Aye," Gorim nodded. "Even after five centuries, I doubt he's dead. Elder Dragons live longer than empires… longer than memory itself. They're near immortal."
He turned, his greyed beard swaying as he looked at the others grimly. "Marsh Town burned down thirty years ago, right?" he asked, his voice quiet but heavy.
Arianne, usually composed, shivered at the mention. "It was," she confirmed. "I heard the stories as a child. The sky turned red, and the fire swallowed the town in a single night. No survivors."
Gorim's face darkened. "Then it was him. Varkhaz'gor still lives. And if he's guarding the hoards of Thral'Zadum… then we're walking into his lair."
A long, uneasy silence stretched between them. Khaltar exhaled, resting a hand on his sword's pommel. "So be it," he said. "If we must face a god of fire and ruin, we do it with steel in hand."
Rahotep shook his head. "No. If we face a god, we do it wisely."
Jhon, standing between the two perspectives, let out a slow breath. "Then we find another way… or we wake the beast carefully."
The Gate of Durâthrim loomed before them, waiting. As they stepped inside—one by one, in solemn silence—the weight of the mountain seemed to settle upon their shoulders.
Gorim led the way, his boots echoing against the stone as they crossed the threshold of Durâthrim's Gate. Behind him came Rahotep, Nadra, Arianne, Varnic, Khaltar, Jhon, and Sayf—each stepping into the forgotten realm of the dwarves.
The moment they entered, the darkness was not absolute. Instead, it was alive with shimmering light. The walls, the ceiling, the massive stone pillars—all were veined with bioluminescent gemstones, casting an eerie, celestial glow across the vast hall. The air was thick with age, with the scent of dust and old metal, but there was something else—a sense of awe that made even the most battle-hardened among them pause.
The tunnel led into a grand spiraling staircase that descended into the heart of the mountain. As they stepped downward, the glow of the gemstones shifted in color—from deep sapphire blue to a warm golden hue.
Then they saw it. A sea of golds. No words could do it justice. The chamber before them was colossal, stretching beyond sight. And within it lay the hoard of Thral'Zadum.
Piles upon piles of gold coins, silver bars, gemstones the size of fists, crowns once worn by kings, and artifacts from a forgotten era lay in mountains of treasure that glowed with their own light. Weapons of masterful craftsmanship were half-buried among the riches, their mithron blades untouched by rust even after centuries.
Even Khaltar, who had seen battlefields drowned in blood, had never seen wealth like this. Arianne, usually composed, gasped in disbelief.
"By the stars…" Sayf muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
No one moved. They stepped carefully, as if afraid to wake the mountain itself. But then—A yelp. A slip. A crash. Nadra's foot caught on a loose coin.
She let out a startled gasp as she lost her balance—and in the next instant, she tumbled forward.
The sound of shifting gold and clinking jewels filled the chamber as Nadra fell into the hoard, sinking into the endless riches like one sinking into snow. Everyone froze.
Jhon's hand flew to his sword. Sayf reached for his daggers. Gorim held his breath.
Nadra lay still for a moment, half-buried in gold coins, her eyes wide as plates. Then, ever so slowly, she lifted a single trembling hand, as if signaling she was still alive.
"…I'm okay," she whispered.
Silence. Then she added in a forced, awkward chuckle, "I meant to do that."
The tension broke like glass. Khaltar groaned, rubbing his temples. "By the ancestors, girl! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Sayf, ever the opportunist, grinned. "I knew you were drawn to shiny things, but I didn't think you'd actually throw yourself into them."
Arianne, facepalming, muttered, "Could we, just once, explore an ancient ruin without causing a disaster?"
Jhon, despite himself, let out a sigh of relief. "Alright, let's get her out before—"