The Hall of Echoes had once been a place of learning. Apprentices used to stand at the front, nervous voices cracking as they argued points about stonework or engineering, while guildmasters judged their words. It had also hosted contests where crafters displayed their first tools or armor sets, hammer rings filling the chamber with life.

  That had been decades ago.

  Now the hall was quiet, almost somber. Dust gathered in the carved lines of the domed ceiling. The benches were marked with the scratches of generations, little etchings left behind by bored apprentices with nothing better to do during long speeches. The torches had been relit, though, and braziers burned low, sending waves of orange light across the stone floor. The mosaic at the center showed a hammer striking sparks from an anvil, the old dwarven sign for silence giving birth to action.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Gadrik, who sat near the back to watch. He thought to himself that this was exactly what they were doing, trying to bring action out of a long silence, sending dwarves beyond their mountain once again.

  Nearly two dozen dwarves stood at attention at the front, helms tucked under their arms, hands locked behind their backs. Most were young, their beards hardly long enough for the proper braids. But a few bore scars, the kind that came from real fighting and not just training drills. Those scars carried stories, and the younger ones glanced at them with both respect and unease.

  General Marn Strongblood paced slowly before the line. He was built like a fortress, with shoulders that looked carved from granite and a voice that could roll through stone tunnels like a quake. Each step of his boots echoed against the chamber, steady, deliberate.

  Beside him stood Balek Hearthgleam. His robes were green with bronze trim, plain but dignified. His hair had long since turned to iron-gray, but his eyes, bright, amber, sharp, missed nothing. He looked not at the line as a whole, but at each dwarf individually, as though searching for something deeper than what could be seen.

  Two guild representatives stood nearby as silent witnesses: one from the Builders’ Lodge, the other from the Archive of Old Stone. Neither spoke, but both carried themselves with the weight of record-keepers.

  The general stopped at the dais and rested his thumb on the edge of his belt. His voice rolled low and rough.

  “You’re not here for banners,” he said. “There’ll be no songs written for this. No polished armor waiting for you back home. If it’s glory you’re after, leave now.”

  His eyes swept the line. Not one dwarf moved.

  Marn gave a small grunt, then looked at Balek.

  Balek stepped forward, his tone softer but clear enough to carry through the chamber. “This mission is not official. You will not wear the colors of Kellen-Tir. You will not go as emissaries. You will go as observers, as travelers. Quiet ones.”

  The words unsettled a few of the younger dwarves. Gadrik noticed one shift on his feet, a smith’s apprentice by the look of soot still caught in his nails. Another licked his lips, as though trying to swallow nerves.

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  “You will have no protection,” Balek continued. “You will walk into unknown lands. Among humans, trolls, perhaps kobolds. You will be asked to see with clear eyes, and to return with what you’ve seen. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  A murmur traveled down the line, but it died quickly under Marn’s heavy stare.

  Balek’s voice shifted, quiet but weighted. “The Guild Council does not condone this mission. But neither do they forbid it. The king has given consent for twelve to go. No more.”

  Marn stepped forward again. He folded his arms, scanning each face in turn. “You will be tested. Not in how hard you swing a hammer, but in how long you endure. You’ll face doubt. You’ll have to follow orders, but also learn when orders are not enough. You won’t be building walls. You’ll be standing where there is no stone beneath your feet. And you will need to hold.”

  The words hung in the chamber.

  Finally, the general raised his hand. “When your name is called, step forward.”

  A clerk shuffled forward with a slate in hand. His voice was thin, nasal, but steady.

  “Bram Flintbrace.”

  A young but broad-shouldered dwarf stepped forward. His forearms bore twin hammer tattoos. He stood without fidgeting, chin lifted, and there was quiet confidence in his movements.

  “Torli Underpick.”

  This time it was an older dwarf. His right eye was clouded white, a mark of old injury, but his beard was braided with red cord. That cord marked him as a retired tunnel-ranger, though Torli had seen war campaigns as well. Whispers stirred. Marn raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Farrin Duskshade.”

  A woman moved forward next. She was leaner than most, a curved pickaxe strapped across her back. She walked with a steady, even step, and her expression carried the weight of someone who had already seen too much.

  On it went. Names were called. Some drew approving nods. Others drew doubtful glances. The chosen dwarves stepped out from the line one by one until twelve stood apart from the rest. Those who weren’t called clenched their jaws but stayed silent.

  The clerk stepped back. The hall fell still again.

  Balek moved slowly down the line of twelve. He stopped at each one, not rushing. At every pause, it was as if he was listening for something no one else could hear. He said nothing, only looked into their faces, judging what he found there.

  At the last dwarf, a boy with hands too clean, with eyes too sharp and searching, Balek lingered longer than before.

  Marn leaned toward him and muttered under his breath. “This one?”

  Balek gave a single nod. “He watches before he speaks. I prefer those.”

  Marn stepped forward again, arms folding across his chest. His voice dropped in tone, less harsh, more steady.

  “You twelve will report to me at dawn. Bring nothing more than what you can carry on your backs. One weapon. One tool. No ceremonial gear. No needless weight.”

  He looked at them one by one, letting his gaze sit on each face. His words softened.

  “You do this not for coin. For your kingdom. You do this for kin.”

  Balek stepped beside him, his voice almost a whisper, but it carried all the same.

  The torches flickered then, as if stirred by breath, and for a moment the chamber seemed alive again.

  No one cheered. No one clapped. But the twelve dwarves straightened their backs. They nodded, quiet and steady.

  Gadrik thought as he watched them: these were not just twelve dwarves. They were the mountain’s first step outward in a long time. He wondered if they were ready. He wondered if anyone ever could be.

  But still, twelve from stone stood prepared to walk into shadow, toward smoke and secrets, and the unknown beneath the wide sky.