The chamber had not heard a voice in years.

  Dust coated the benches that circled the room, and the once-proud seal above the stone doorway hung ajar. Long ago, this place had belonged to the guilds. A hall for settling disputes, for speaking of bronze and trade and river rights. Now, it was abandoned.

  But the two who waited here needed no invitation.

  They wore the shapes of dwarves: thick-browed, broad-shouldered, fingers darkened as if by years at the forge. Their beards were neatly plaited, their cloaks trimmed for mountain cold. At a glance, they might have been mistaken for craftsmen taking rest from honest work. But they only wore the visage of a dwarf.

  The first figure broke the silence. His cloak was the color of weathered stone, grey with streaks like veins of iron. When he spoke, his voice echoed through the hall.

  “We are seeing real signs now,” Balek said. His voice was deep and certain, like rock striking rock. “South, at Mount Tharak. The young dwarves are training after dark. Blunted axes, close-formation drills, practicing like soldiers though they claim it is only for sport. They are preparing for war, even if they will not say so aloud. The stories of the enemies in the dark reach them. It rattles them. They can sense the danger climbing closer, though they do not yet know what form it takes. But more importantly, they feel that it gives them a reason to rise each morning, and why they can still look their children in the eye at supper. Here in Kellen-Tir, the dwarves miss that.”

  The other figure sat across from him, pipe between his teeth. It was unlit. He held it more as a habit than anything else, as though clinging to some mortal gesture. His cloak was the deep color of cooled ash, fastened with a shard of black obsidian. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, deliberate.

  “Not all of them are preparing,” he said. “In Dovek’s Hall, I see no drills. No spark. Only decline. The old masters take fewer apprentices. Whole crafts are being abandoned. The forges burn hot, but the work is joyless. They hammer beside golems that shape metal without pause or flaw, and the golems never grow tired. The dwarves feel themselves being replaced. They do not cheer when a bridge is completed. They do not sing when the first bronze of the season leaves the mold. They simply... finish. Then go home.”

  He removed the pipe from his mouth, jaw tightening. “They have grown silent. Not from peace. From hollowness. Like a song they once knew by heart, but have forgotten the tune.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Balek inclined his head, his eyes gleaming faintly beneath the shadow of his hood. “They feel obsolete.”

  “They are obsolete,” the second replied, though his voice did not hold triumph, only something colder. “Not in spirit, but in purpose. A dwarf who cannot build wonders if he is worth anything at all. And when worth crumbles, walls follow.”

  “Which is why some take up the axe,” Balek retorted. “Fight, or fade. Those are the choices they see.”

  The second tapped the pipe against his knee, though no ember stirred. “Do you blame them?”

  The question hung there. Balek did not answer right away. His gaze drifted to the floor, to the cracks in the stone worn by centuries of boots.

  “No,” he said at last. “I know what it is to feel yourself vanish from the world’s need. I know what it is to rage against it.”

  The brazier that had been lit in the corner flickered weakly, coals reduced to faint orange glow. For a heartbeat, as the light swelled and then dipped, their forms wavered. Not by much. Just enough that one might catch a glimpse—a curve of horn where braid had been, a sweep of something vast tucked close against their backs. When the light steadied, they were dwarves again.

  The second watched the flame as if daring it to reveal more. “The kobold raids are spreading,” he said. “They’ve struck beyond the border. Elzibar was only the first scream. The hills churn with them. How long before the humans see what’s coming?”

  “Some already know,” Balek said. “The rest? They argue over what day of the week it is. A few may mutter of old grudges, as though the past could explain this.”

  “They will learn.”

  “Too late,” the second replied. “They always learn too late.”

  Silence again. It was not an easy silence, not one born of shared comfort.

  Balek shifted slightly. “What of the others?”

  “They wait,” the second said. “They always wait. Watching to see whether fire spreads on its own before they fan it. But they will not wait forever. If the storm spreads, we must petition the high council to step in.”

  Balek’s lips tightened, “It will happen again.”

  “Then we prepare.”

  The second rose, smooth as a serpent uncoiling. His boots made no sound against the stone. Balek stood as well, and in that moment, as they straightened, their borrowed shapes seemed to strain. Their shoulders pulled too wide for their cloaks, their shadows stretched wrong across the floor—long and spined, like the memory of wings.

  The second glanced to the doorway, where darkness waited beyond. “We scout to Harbinth, then.”

  “If the roads hold,” the first replied. “And if the dwarves listen.”

  “They will listen,” the second said, almost gently. “They have no choice.”

  They left together, vanishing into the tunnels. The brazier’s last ember died with their passing. The hall returned to silence.