The throne room of Kellen-Tir was carved straight into the mountain, the walls veined with silver and iron that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. The air inside was cool and dry, carrying the smell of stone dust and burning oil.

  King Thoman Flintmantle sat on his throne of dark basalt. His hands were clasped together, the thick fingers of a craftsman turned ruler. His beard was streaked with gray and tied neatly at the end with a bronze clasp.

  He wasn’t wearing his crown. It sat beside him on a low stone table, next to a half-drained cup of deep amber ale.

  Standing to his left was General Marn Strongblood, tall for a dwarf, with shoulders like stacked granite. His eyes followed every movement in the chamber, though his mouth stayed a hard line. To the right leaned Balek Hearthgleam, the king’s oldest advisor.

  The thick doors groaned open. Gadrik Strongstaff entered without being announced. His boots were still covered in quarry dust, his vest unbuttoned, his expression tired but urgent.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head briefly. “I’ve come from the North Quarry with news you’ll want to hear.”

  King Flintmantle motioned for him to continue. “Go on then.”

  Gadrik shifted on his feet. “The lads… some of them are startin’ to lose heart. Too many idle hands these days. Those who do work, they grumble that it’s not real work anymore. Sayin’ the golems took what’s ours.”

  The king frowned, his heavy brows pulling together. “But they’re still being paid, are they not? Even the idle ones?”

  “Aye, they are,” Gadrik said quickly. “But pay’s not the problem. Gold fills the vaults, aye, but it don’t fill the spirit. Dwarves need to build, to sweat, to shape the world. These golems do all that now. Never get tired, never make a mistake. The lads watch, and it eats at them.”

  General Marn crossed his arms. “They should be proud. The golems are dwarven work too. Made by our craft, powered by our magic.”

  Gadrik hesitated. “Maybe so, General. But they don’t see it that way. Some o’ the men started callin’ themselves the Hammer of Tir-Terrum. Said they named themselves after the old relic, the one from the stories of the first kings. They meet in the taverns. Speak of taking back dwarven work. Doin’ things ‘the old way.’”

  Balek’s eyes narrowed. “The Hammer of Tir-Terrum…” He leaned forward slightly, his cane tapping the stone. “That’s an old name. Sacred to the miners of the deep forges. If they’re using it again, this isn’t just grumbling. It’s a movement.”

  “How many?” asked Marn.

  “A couple dozen that I’ve seen,” Gadrik answered. “But they’re not all troublemakers. Most are just tired of sitting still. Some say they’d work for free, if it meant feeling like craftsmen again.”

  The king was silent for a while, staring past them into the carved wall where scenes of dwarven history were etched, kings raising hammers, golems being shaped from stone, cities built beneath the mountain’s roots.

  Finally, he asked, “Have there been any fights?”

  “Not yet,” Gadrik said. “But the talk’s turning darker. Some say the golems have no souls. Others say no king has the right to replace his people with stone. I’ve tried to calm ‘em. Told ‘em progress is what keeps Kellen-Tir strong.”

  “Did they listen?”

  Gadrik looked away. “Not much.”

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  Balek exhaled, the sound deep and tired. “We’ve seen this before, Thoman. Long before your reign. When the deep mines first filled with steam and gears, half the clans swore it was heresy. They came around in time, but this feels different.”

  “How so?” the king asked.

  “Because now they’ve got nothing to do,” Balek said, voice rising slightly. “A dwarf without work is a keg left in the sun. He’ll sour before the day’s done. You can’t feed a people with wages alone. They need to make something that lasts.”

  King Flintmantle sat back. “You speak as if I haven’t tried. The workshops are open. The schools teach tradecraft to anyone who’ll learn it.”

  Balek met his eyes. “But to build what, sire? When every forge has a golem and every tool swings itself? The lads want to matter, not just live under roofs built by stone hands.”

  The room fell quiet again. The torches crackled softly, and somewhere deeper in the hall, the faint hum of machinery echoed, the sound of the golems moving through the lower tunnels, hauling ore and timber without rest.

  Gadrik cleared his throat. “They say the golems don’t sleep or eat, so why should a dwarf? They can’t see their own worth anymore. I’m afraid some’ll do somethin’ stupid, try to prove a point.”

  Marn stepped forward, his boots echoing. “I’ll send a few of my men. Quiet types. They’ll mix with the workers, share a pint, listen. We’ll find out who leads this Hammer before it becomes a real threat.”

  “No arrests,” the king said firmly. “Not yet. We’re not at war with our own people.”

  “Aye, sire,” Marn said, inclining his head. “Just listening.”

  Gadrik hesitated. “Beggin’ your pardon, Majesty, but if we could just give them some real work again, I think it’d ease things. Let ‘em build something new. Something they can take pride in.”

  Flintmantle rubbed his temple, feeling the weight of every word. “The trouble, Gadrik, is that the golems don’t fail. They don’t argue, don’t strike, don’t tire. They’ve built a hundred years’ worth of progress in a tenth of the time. I can’t turn them off because some of my kin feel restless.”

  “I know, sire,” Gadrik said softly. “But if we don’t find them a place to stand, they’ll make one.”

  Balek tapped his cane once on the floor. “He’s right. The golems were made to serve dwarves, not replace them. You may think they make life easier, but one day you’ll wake up and find the forges empty, not because the machines broke, but because no one cares to light them anymore.”

  The king’s expression tightened. “So what would you have me do, old friend? Smash the golems? Throw away the progress we’ve made?”

  Balek shook his head. “No. But perhaps let them see that the King of Kellen-Tir still values the strength of a living hand. There’s talk of rebuilding the southern outpost, the old fort near the border. Let them do it. Give them hammers and stone, and let them remember who they are.”

  Marn frowned. “That area’s unstable. Too close to the fault line.”

  “Then it’ll be a challenge,” Balek said. “And dwarves love a challenge.”

  Flintmantle didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the crown beside him. The gold caught the firelight, glinting like the veins in the stone walls.

  “I’ll consider it,” he said finally. His tone was quiet, but not uncertain.

  He turned to Gadrik. “Keep your ear to the ground. If the Hammer grows bolder, I want to know before they act.”

  “Aye, your Majesty,” Gadrik said, bowing. “And thank you.”

  He turned and left, boots echoing down the long hall.

  When the others were gone, the throne room grew quiet again. The torches hissed and spat, and the fire in the stone brazier burned low.

  King Flintmantle sat there for a long time, staring into the embers.

  He thought about the faces of the men who had built this hall. How proud they’d been, singing as they carved each pillar. He thought about the hum of the golems now echoing through the mines, steady, efficient, tireless.

  And he wondered, not for the first time, if Kellen-Tir’s strength had come from its machines… or from the hearts of the people who once gave those machines purpose.

  He reached for his crown, held it for a moment, and then set it down again.

  Outside, deep beneath the mountain, the golems kept working.

  And somewhere in a tavern far below, voices began to rise, the sound of hammers striking the table in unison, calling themselves the sons of the stone.

  The Hammer of Tir-Terrum had begun to beat.