The air stank of ash and iron.

  King Hramnor Stonestrewer stood tall at the base of the southern gate, his armor cracked and soot-streaked, the royal cloak torn and flapping in the heated wind. Behind him, no more than six hundred warriors remained, their eyes hard as black diamond, their beards matted with blood. They stood as sentries of doom, lining the stone walls in two grim rows, overseeing the stream of kinfolk that poured past them in a flood of desperation.

  Old men shouldering infants. Mothers dragging wounded sons. Warriors barely able to limp, smeared in pitch and ichor. The dwarves of Deep Stone—once proud, once mighty—now fled their ancestral hold in silence, save for the occasional scream, or the distant echo of collapsing halls.

  All around, the mountain crumbled.

  The deep thuds of war drums echoed from above—orcish signals, pulsing like a second heartbeat, louder now, closer. Fires smoldered behind sealed gates. The east passages had fallen. The High Forges were lost. The Chamber of Oaths had been defiled.

  Hramnor spat into the dust. The sour taste in his mouth would not leave.

  He looked out over the river of his people and caught glimpse after glimpse of heartbreak. Bent backs. Bleeding hands. Silent fury. And worse shame. Dwarves did not flee. Not from stone. Not from home. And yet here they were, retreating like vermin through the final gate.

  A scream split the air behind him.

  He turned.

  Six warriors barreled up the hall, each gripping a corner of a massive shield turned stretcher. Blood ran off it in rivulets, trailing behind like a ribbon of defeat. On it lay a motionless form, limbs hanging loosely over the sides, one arm twitching involuntarily.

  His son.

  Brorn.

  Hramnor’s chest collapsed inward. The breath left him.

  The stretcher slid to a halt at his feet.

  “Your Grace,” gasped Grimnil, the shield-bearer captain, voice cracking. “We fought at the second causeway. He slew a dozen of the beasts before they brought him down. He’s alive, but…”

  The king dropped to his knees, heedless of the grime. He gripped his son’s hand. It was warm. Too warm. Fever had already set in.

  Brorn’s eyelids fluttered.

  “I have… failed you,” the prince croaked, blood leaking from his mouth.

  “No,” Hramnor said fiercely. “Never that.”

  He brushed a thick hand across his son’s brow, voice trembling with fury and love. “You are my legacy. You are the mountain reborn. I am proud of you beyond all words.”

  From the leather pouch on his hip, the king drew out the crown of Deep Stone—a circle of runed gold, embedded with emeralds as bright as spring dew. The old crown, passed down since the First Hollowing.

  He placed it in his son’s hands.

  Brorn’s eyes widened. His lips moved, but no sound came.

  The king nodded to the warriors. “Take him.”

  “No—” Brorn rasped, straining to rise.

  “Go!” Hramnor bellowed. “There’s no time!”

  The warriors obeyed. Brorn’s gaze locked with his father’s as the shield was borne into the crowd. His mouth moved again. A single word—Father—barely audible, lost in the wail of the retreat.

  “Be mighty,” Hramnor called after him, voice breaking. “And merciful.”

  Then the darkness swallowed his son.

  The king stood slowly, breath heavy as iron chains. All the years of war and stone weighed down on him. But now was not the time to bend.

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  He turned to face his warriors. His voice rang like a forge bell.

  “We seal the path.”

  No one flinched.

  He stepped before the battered line of veterans—some scarred, some ancient, many likely marching to their deaths—and met their eyes one by one.

  “My kin. My oath bound. My friends.”

  He paused, breath catching.

  “I have never been more proud to stand among you than I am this day. In the darkest of hours, it is you who remain. While others would flee, you hold the line. While our world ends, you choose defiance.”

  He looked to the gate.

  “Today, we become myth. Let them write songs of the blood spilled here. Let the stone remember our names.”

  A grim smile tugged at the edges of his beard.

  “The greenskins think they’ve won. But we will show them what it means to awaken the wrath of Deep Stone. We will give them something to fear for a thousand years.”

  He raised his axe to the cavern’s mouth.

  “Let it be done!”

  The gate groaned shut behind the last of the refugees. Fifty warriors remained to seal it with rune-fused chains and stone bolts. The rest turned as one and followed their king down the blackened causeway into the final chamber.

  The Black Altar.

  A vast platform suspended by four ancient stone pillars, each carved with the names of dwarven kings long dead. The bridge to salvation lay at its far end—a staircase hewn from the living rock, rising toward the secret escape tunnel cut centuries ago, leading far beyond the grasp of orcish reach.

  But they would never make it without time.

  Time was blood.

  The warriors took their positions. General Brun, old and battle-worn, stood at the base of the bridge with two dozen ironclads. Each man knew what must be done. Each was ready to die.

  The king gave him a nod.

  Brun returned it. “You’ll hold the line?”

  Hramnor chuckled. “I am the line.”

  Brun grunted. “Aye. Then let’s make it a good death.”

  The gates at the far end exploded inward.

  Three ogres barreled in first, foam streaming from their mouths, eyes wild with the promise of slaughter. Behind them came the horde—green skins by the hundreds, howling and cackling, swarming like insects.

  General Brun stepped forward.

  Hefted his axe.

  The ogre bore down—a wall of muscle and hate.

  Brun roared and hurled his axe with all the strength left in his ancient arms.

  The weapon spun end over end, a silver blur.

  It struck the ogre between the eyes. The beast dropped mid-stride, crashing forward like a felled tree, crushing Brun beneath its bulk.

  Hramnor watched it all.

  His teeth clenched.

  “Now!” he cried. “The pillars!”

  The dwarves broke formation. Small teams of three sprinted to each massive support beam, rune-hammers in hand. The ancient stone cracked with every blow.

  And then the horde was upon them.

  Warmonger charged across the bridge, Ar’Sul in hand, the great obsidian blade trailing smoke and shadow. His eyes scanned the battlefield, narrowing as he saw the small hammer teams smashing the pillars.

  He knew the plan.

  He roared. “Stop them!”

  The pillars began to crack.

  One to the west—down. Then the east—shattered.

  The ceiling groaned.

  Dust fell like snow.

  “Thark!” Warmonger bellowed.

  A blue-skinned orc with jagged tusks stepped forward. “War-King?”

  “Get to the back stair. Kill them all. Let none escape.”

  “Yes, War-King.”

  Thark spun on his heel, taking a cadre of blade-born orcs toward the bridge. But as they neared, the last dwarves smashed the rear pillar. The bridge fell away in a thunderous crash, vanishing into the abyss.

  Thark pulled up short.

  Too late.

  The dwarves had cut the bridge.

  Warmonger cursed.

  Then he turned—and there stood King Hramnor, bloodied, bearded, armored in gold-etched steel.

  Between them, the third pillar still stood.

  Their eyes met.

  “You’re clever, little king,” Warmonger said. “But it will not save them. I will hunt them all. Even the prince.”

  “You’ll not get past me,” Hramnor growled.

  Ar’Sul flashed up.

  “So be it.”

  The two clashed with a sound like mountains breaking.

  Warmonger’s strength was monstrous. Ar’Sul slammed down in sweeping arcs, its cursed edge throwing sparks. Hramnor parried with his rune-hammer, the ancient weapon groaning beneath the strain.

  They moved in a storm of fury.

  Steel on steel. Stone on bone.

  Blades screamed. Jaws broke. Blood sprayed.

  The king fought like a god of wrath. But he was old. Tired. Wounded.

  And Warmonger was fresh as fire.

  A massive swing knocked Hramnor’s hammer wide. He stumbled. Ar’Sul came down again and again.

  The hammer’s shaft cracked.

  Then shattered.

  Hramnor dropped to one knee.

  A final stroke carved through his helm, through his face, through his chest. He collapsed, blood gushing from his ruined jaw.

  Still, he did not scream.

  Still, he lived.

  Warmonger stood above him, chest heaving.

  “You were worthy,” he said.

  Ar’Sul sang one last time.

  And the dwarven king was no more.

  A great cry tore from the stairs.

  Brorn.

  He had seen it all—every blow, every wound, every moment his father had stood alone.

  Now Hramnor’s head was lifted high by the War-King himself.

  “Little prince!” Warmonger called across the chamber, voice booming. “Next time we meet—you’ll be a king!”

  Brorn did not speak.

  But his eyes said everything.

  Vengeance was etched into his soul.

  Warmonger dropped the head with a sickening thud.

  And at that moment, the final pillar cracked.

  Then fell.

  The last group had done its job before they were cut down. Given time by their king's sacrifice.

  The ceiling began to collapse.

  Stone screamed. Beams twisted. Chains snapped.

  The entire altar groaned and tipped as one side began to sink into the darkness.

  Dwarves still alive screamed as they leapt toward the exit.

  Brorn reached for his sword—but could not rise.

  The last thing he saw before the cavern swallowed itself was Warmonger staring up into the abyss, arms wide, as if welcoming the ruin.

  And then—

  Darkness.

  The pillar.

  The altar.

  The last stand of Deep Stone…

  Was no more.