The bells of the Monastery of Polished Gems tolled softly through the thick mountain air, their low chimes reverberating across the ancient stone halls. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel, the distant murmur of merchants haggling in the streets, the deep, resonant hum of the forges. This was the ever-present song of Dhogbuldor, the Mountain’s Heart, the beating core of the dwarven kingdom of Gelgarom.

  Herschel Talius Harlian exhaled slowly, seated in the center of the monastery’s polished stone courtyard. His legs were folded, hands resting atop his knees, posture rigid and disciplined. Around him, other monks sat in quiet meditation, dressed in the simple, sleeveless robes of their order. The scent of smoldering incense coiled through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of stone and the faint metallic tang that forever lingered in the city. It was supposed to be a moment of peace. Of reflection. Of balance.

  But Herschel felt none of that.

  He cracked one brown eye open, glancing around at his fellow monks. Their expressions were serene, their breathing steady, their minds undoubtedly empty of all but the teachings of the Polished Path. He was supposed to be the same. Supposed to find solace in the repetition of his training, in the clarity of discipline, in the pursuit of self-perfection.

  Instead, all he felt was the gnawing, insatiable hunger for something more.

  He clenched his jaw, shifting slightly on the cold stone floor. The Undermarch had grown restless. There were whispers of monsters emerging from the deep tunnels, creatures not of dwarven make, not of mortal origin. The city’s guards had taken up arms, patrols had increased, and yet…here he was, meditating. Waiting. He was tired of waiting.

  He was tired of polishing his spirit when his fists ached for action. Tired of memorizing sacred verses when the real world was shifting, trembling beneath their feet. He had trained for years, mastering the art of balance, honing his body into something sharper than any blade. But what good was a honed edge if it was never tested?

  His fingers curled into fists against his knees. He had heard rumors of warriors being recruited, of skilled fighters being called to the depths to face the unknown. Not just soldiers, but specialists. People who could think beyond the rigid formations of the city guard. People who could move, adapt, strike where needed.

  People like him.

  The thought made his heart pound in his chest, a rush of purpose filling the void that endless meditation never could.

  The bells tolled again, signaling the end of morning prayer. The monks began to rise, moving in synchronized silence, their robes rustling like the whisper of falling sand. Herschel stood as well, though his mind was elsewhere, his gaze drifting beyond the high monastery walls, beyond the city, beyond the world he had always known.

  Somewhere beneath them, something stirred in the dark. And he was going to meet it.

  Suddenly, the monastery gates rumbled, opening with the sound of grinding stone that echoed through the courtyard. Herschel turned his head toward the entrance just as a figure strode inside, his presence commanding, his heavy boots clanking against the polished stone.

  Dimitri Tintorian Harlian stood tall, draped in golden dwarven plate, the masterful craftsmanship of Gelgarom’s finest smiths gleaming in the torchlight light. The armor bore intricate runes of fortification, etched deep into the metal. Proof of its enchantment. A fur-lined cape of deep crimson flowed behind him, pinned at the shoulders with the sigil of their house: a hammer striking an anvil, the age-old symbol of the Harlian bloodline.

  He cut a striking figure, a warrior in full regalia, the very image of dwarven might.

  Herschel exhaled, crossing his arms as his elder brother approached, his usual smirk barely restrained beneath this well trimmed brown beard.

  "Brother," Dimitri greeted, his voice as rich and deep as the mountain itself. "Still wasting away in here, polishing your soul while the world moves on without you?"

  Herschel rolled his eyes. "And you’re still stomping around in all that metal, pretending it makes you important?"

  Dimitri chuckled, removing his helmet and tucking it under one arm. His raven-black beard, impeccably groomed and braided with gold rings, framed his strong jaw. "Pretending? Hardly. Some of us have real work to do." He paused, then stepped closer, his voice lowering. "But I am not here for pleasantries, as much as I enjoy our banter. The Undying King has summoned me, Herschel. I’ve been hand-picked."

  Herschel blinked. "Hand-picked for what?"

  A rare, serious expression crossed Dimitri’s face. "A war in the Undermarch. It has begun."

  The words sent a jolt through Herschel’s chest, excitement and unease battling within him. He had known something was coming. He had felt it in the way the city’s forges burned longer, in the hushed whispers of soldiers gathering in the taverns, in the subtle tension among the monastery’s elders. But to hear it confirmed? From his own brother?

  "It’s worse than they’re letting on," Dimitri continued, voice grim. "The creatures, the Anomalies. are growing in number. Whole tunnels have been lost. Whatever they really are, they aren’t beasts. They aren’t things we’ve fought before. The King is gathering our best, and he’s sending us down."

  Herschel studied him carefully, watching the way his brother’s fingers tightened around his helmet. Dimitri was bold, brash, arrogant at times, but he was no fool. If he was concerned, then the threat was real.

  He felt his heart pound against his ribs. This was his chance. His moment.

  He met his brother’s gaze, and for the first time in years, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Tell me where to sign up."

  Dimitri suddenly let out a sharp bark of laughter, the sound bouncing off the polished walls. "You? Recruited?" He shook his head, shifting his helmet beneath his arm. "You’re not even a soldier, Herschel. You’re a monk, a scholar who fights only when forced."

  Herschel crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "I can fight, Dimitri."

  "I’m sure you can throw a fine punch," Dimitri smirked, "but this is war. You don’t know the first thing about marching into battle. You’ve never stood in a shield wall, never fought in formation, never held the line while beasts clawed at your armor."

  Herschel’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He had always lived in Dimitri’s shadow, the golden son of their family, the one who followed the "right" path. The dutiful warrior, the proud soldier, the shining heir to House Harlian’s legacy. Herschel had always been the odd one out. The spiritualist, the misfit, the dreamer who sought meaning beyond steel and war.

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  But that didn’t mean he was weak.

  "So, you’re saying no?" Herschel asked, lifting a brow.

  Dimitri sighed, rubbing his temple. "I’m saying the army won’t take you."

  Herschel scoffed. "And what if I said I don’t need the army?"

  Dimitri gave him a long, searching look before shaking his head. "You’re serious, aren’t you?"

  "Deadly."

  For the first time, his brother hesitated. He glanced around, as if ensuring no monks or elders were listening, before lowering his voice. "Look…if you truly want in, there might be another way. The King’s War Council isn’t just calling upon the army. They’re enlisting specialists. Mercenaries, engineers, sorcerers. People who can handle the stranger aspects of the war."

  Herschel frowned. "Stranger aspects?"

  Dimitri exhaled through his nose. "I told you, these things we’re fighting aren’t just beasts. We still don’t know exactly what they are, what they want, or where they came from. But the Undying King believes there’s more to this than just mindless aggression. He wants people who can uncover the truth, people who think beyond swords and spears."

  Herschel’s mind was already racing. A way in. "Who do I talk to?"

  Dimitri studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "There’s a man in the city. A recruiter for the war’s more unconventional efforts. I can point you to him, accompany you, but that’s all I can do. If you fail, you fail alone."

  Herschel smirked. "Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on failing."

  “I will meet you there, then. The Iron Cask.” Dimitri said solemnly, putting his helmet back on and turning away.

  Herschel watched his brother leave the monastery’s courtyard, the golden sheen of Dimitri’s armor catching the lamplight as he strode away. Once he was out of sight, Herschel exhaled sharply and turned on his heel, making his way toward his quarters.

  The Monastery of Polished Gems was a place of discipline and reflection, but it was also a place of suffocating routine. Every day, the same meals, the same drills, the same meditations. Herschel had never hated it, but lately, it had begun to grate on him.

  Inside his small stone chamber, he pulled open his trunk and sifted through its contents. His robes were plain, but he kept one set of finest cloth, woven in the deep blues and blacks of House Harlian. If he was to meet this recruiter, he couldn’t look like some aimless monk. He had to look like a man with a purpose.

  He pulled on the robes, adjusting the sash at his waist, before a familiar rustling came from the corner of the room. A small, forked tongue flickered out from under his bed, followed by the gleaming golden eyes of Bacon, his pet basilisk.

  The tiny creature slithered out, its scales a deep, glossy black, save for a faint emerald sheen along its spine. Herschel grinned as it coiled around his arm, blinking up at him.

  "You feel it, huh?" he muttered, scratching just beneath its jaw. "Sounds like we’re finally getting out of here."

  Bacon flicked his tongue in response, uncoiling just enough to perch comfortably on Herschel’s shoulder.

  Herschel turned back to the small mirror in his chamber. The man who stared back at him was still young, but there was a fire in his brown eyes now, a certainty that hadn’t been there before. He adjusted his collar, ran oil through his beard, took one last breath, and then stepped out the monastery’s stone archways and into the open air, where the Mountain’s Heart revealed itself in all its awe-inspiring grandeur.

  Dhogbuldor was a city like no other. Not just built into the mountain, but part of it, sculpted from its bones over millennia. It stretched across multiple layers, each carved with masterful precision, an endless expanse of bridges, terraces, and towering halls seamlessly woven into the mountain’s natural form.

  Above him, he could see the uppermost tiers where the Golden Anvil Palace resided, the seat of the Undying King himself. Its spires were adorned with molten gold, which shimmered in the torchlight, reflecting down onto the rest of the city like a perpetual sunset. The High Houses of Gelgarom dwelled there in their gilded halls, dwarves of ancient lineage who traced their bloodlines back to the First Kings.

  Below that, the Artisan’s Tiers stretched out, vast and sprawling. The rhythmic pounding of hammers rang through the air, a symphony of craft and industry, as smiths, jewelers, and enchanters worked tirelessly in their forges. The streets here were lined with massive statues of revered ancestors, each one carved with painstaking detail, as if watching over their descendants with unyielding pride.

  Further down still were the Merchant Rings, bustling with life. The scent of roasted meats and spiced ales wafted through the air there, mixing with the tang of smelted metal and gem dust. Stalls and open markets filled the winding streets, where merchants peddled everything from runed weaponry to enchanted baubles, to rare gems pulled from the deepest veins of the Undermarch.

  And finally, below it all, the lowest layer of the city. The Gates of the Undermarch.

  Herschel’s gaze drifted downward, past the grandeur and wealth, to where massive gates of blackened steel marked the entrance to the tunnels below. There, armored battalions stood in formation, their banners fluttering in the cavern’s wind. This was where the war was being fought. Where the dwarves of Gelgarom clashed against whatever horrors lurking in the depths.

  A slow breath left his lips. He had always known his home was mighty. But tonight, for the first time, he saw it as something else. A war machine. A fortress built not just to stand the test of time, but to fight against it.

  Bacon shifted on his shoulder, his tail curling around Herschel’s neck as if sensing his unease.

  "Aye," Herschel muttered, his gaze fixed on the gates. "I guess we're really doing this."

  He wove through the winding streets of the Merchant Rings, the rhythmic clatter of armored boots, the murmur of traders, and the distant pounding of hammers creating a constant hum of life around him. The flickering glow of runed lanterns cast a warm light over the bustling market avenues, illuminating the wealth of goods on display. Mithril-plated gauntlets, rune-etched war axes, rare stones glimmering with an inner light. But he wasn’t here for the market.

  The Iron Cask, one of the most well-known taverns in Dhogbuldor, loomed ahead. Its heavy stone doors bore the sigil of the Stout Sons, a fraternity of warriors and mercenaries that had long served as the unofficial vanguard of Gelgarom. Herschel pushed inside, and the familiar scent of dwarven ale, roasted meat, and pipe smoke washed over him. The place was alive with rowdy laughter, the clashing of mugs, and the occasional drunken song bellowed from the upper balconies. The Iron Cask was built into the mountain itself, its many levels carved into the rock, forming a sprawling tavern where warriors and merchants alike drank away their worries.

  At the far end of the main floor, Dimitri was already seated at a stone table, his golden plate armor catching the firelight, making him look like a living statue of some heroic ancestor. Across from him sat a grizzled dwarf in crimson plate, a fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, his gray beard braided with gold clasps. A heavy warhammer rested beside his chair, its head etched with ancient runes of command. This had to be the recruiter.

  Herschel strode over, the weight of what he was about to do settling in his chest. As he reached the table, Dimitri looked up, his eyes sharp.

  "Finally decided to join me, brother?" Dimitri said, raising an eyebrow.

  The recruiter turned to Herschel, sizing him up with a critical gaze. His deep-set eyes were the color of old steel, and the scars on his knuckles spoke of a lifetime of war. He said nothing at first, simply letting the silence stretch between them.

  Then, finally, he spoke, his voice like gravel grinding against stone. "So. You want to fight for Gelgarom?"

  Herschel met the recruiter’s steel-eyed gaze, folding his arms across his chest. “Aye,” he said, voice steady. “I want to fight for our home. For the Undermarch.”

  The recruiter scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a creak of leather. “That so?” He gestured vaguely at Herschel’s simple monk’s robes. “I was told the Harlian lad was a brawler, but you look more like a temple rat to me.”

  Dimitri’s hand twitched toward his tankard, but Herschel placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm before he could interject. Instead, Herschel kept his gaze locked on the recruiter.

  “Aye, I train with the monks of Polished Gems,” he admitted, before lifting his chin slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t break a man’s jaw before he blinks.”

  The recruiter smirked. “Bold words. But words don’t win wars.”

  He turned his gaze to Dimitri. “I don’t have time for soft hands and untested warriors. The Undying King needs soldiers who won’t break at the first sign of an Anomaly. Your brother may have a famous name, but name alone doesn’t cut through the things lurking below.”

  Herschel clenched his fists beneath the table. He had spent most of his life training in the monastery, watching others go off to battle while he was told his path was different. But what was the point of training, of dedicating himself to strength, if not to protect his people?

  Taking a slow breath, he met the recruiter’s gaze and leaned forward. “Test me. Kvann’s honor.”

  The tavern quieted slightly at the challenge. Nearby drinkers glanced over with interest, a few nudging their companions. Dwarves never passed up a good challenge, especially not one invoking the name of the First Kings.

  The recruiter grunted, then motioned to a nearby training pit in the tavern’s lower level. A wide, open space where warriors sparred, settling disputes the old-fashioned way. A handful of fighters were already down there, circling each other, fists and weapons flashing in the low torchlight.

  “Fine,” the recruiter said, rising from his chair. “Show me you’re not all talk, boy.”

  Dimitri exhaled through his nose, shaking his head but saying nothing.

  Herschel stood, rolling his shoulders. As he followed the recruiter toward the pit, he let out a slow breath, feeling his muscles loosen, his instincts sharpen.

  Finally. A chance to prove himself.