Dust hung in the air of the old record room, floating in soft clouds whenever someone turned a page or shifted a scroll. The space was cramped, with stone walls that sweated with mountain chill and shelves that looked as if they had been carved directly into the rock centuries before. Oil lamps rested in iron brackets, their warm light flickering over stacks of parchments that had yellowed to the color of bone.

  Gadrik Strongstaff stood at the center table with his hands pressed against its edge. His thick fingers were already stained with ink and dust from hours of searching. He had lived his whole life surrounded by trade ledgers and political statements, but tonight he felt more like an explorer than a guild advisor. In front of him lay tomes and scrolls written in the old iron-script, a style only a few dwarves still understood. Each page crackled when handled, and every symbol seemed to carry the weight of a forgotten age.

  Three aides worked beside him. Tovin, the youngest, whispered the lines as he read them, sounding out the shapes that twisted across the pages. Caldra, older and more patient, took notes with deliberate care, her quill scratching steadily. The last man, Jorren, paced between shelves, pulling down anything with the forge-mark burned into its spine.

  Every few minutes, one of them would make a small noise of excitement. Every time, it turned out to be nothing more than lists of pickaxes, orders for mining lamps, or instructions for maintaining the upper furnaces.

  Gadrik rubbed his face with one hand. His thoughts felt heavy, almost as heavy as the mountain above this very archive. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was searching for something that had never been real.

  Bram believed in the Hammer of Tir Terrum. Farrin believed too, though with her it was careful belief, the kind built through instinct rather than old stories. Balek spoke of the Hammer with certainty, as if he had seen it with his own eyes. And Torli, though he never said it aloud, walked and fought like someone who knew old legends were sometimes only forgotten truths.

  But legends were easy to chase and hard to catch.

  Gadrik stared down at the open ledger in front of him. The page recorded an inventory of iron stocks from nearly three hundred years ago. Nothing more.

  He closed it gently and leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked under him. He let out a long breath.

  Is the Hammer real? Or am I wasting time while the kingdom cracks around us?

  The oil lamps flickered as a draft crept through the cracks near the ceiling. Gadrik lifted his gaze to the beams overhead. Above those beams was stone, and above that more stone, and above that the full weight of Vorr Angrun. The mountain had stood long before Kellen Tir was ever carved from its bones. The dwarves called it the Bones of the World for a reason. It did not care for kings or rebellions or ancient relics.

  Yet somewhere in those bones might be a secret powerful enough to reshape the future.

  A voice broke his thoughts.

  “Sir. Another stack for you.”

  Jorren stepped forward holding a bundle of scrolls, tied loosely with old twine. The twine snapped the moment Gadrik lifted them from the aide’s hands.

  “These were behind a shelf,” Jorren said. “Nearly lost to dust.”

  Gadrik nodded his thanks and spread the scrolls out carefully. The parchment was brittle, so he handled them like delicate glass. The ink had faded to a blotchy brown, but the shapes and curves of the iron-script were still there if one looked closely enough.

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  Tovin came to his side. “I can read that bit,” he offered.

  Gadrik smiled a little. “Go ahead.”

  The young dwarf squinted. “That word there… darrum. That is iron.”

  “And here,” Caldra said, stepping up beside them, “that looks like tharn gorruk. A master’s forge.”

  Gadrik felt a spark inside him, faint but real. “Good. That is good.”

  He unfolded the largest sheet. It took several moments because the edges crumbled at the slightest pressure. When the parchment finally lay flat, he saw a faded map. Most of the lines were thin shadows, but some landmarks remained clear enough. A mining road. A cluster of tunnels. And a deep chamber marked with a symbol he had not seen in many years.

  It was the mark of the Old Forges. The ones that had been sealed off when mining in the lower mountain became too dangerous. According to records, several collapses had occurred in those tunnels. Officially, the forges had been closed for safety.

  But dwarves had long memories. Closed did not mean destroyed. And dangerous did not mean abandoned.

  Caldra leaned over the map. “This section… no one has mined there since before my grandfather’s time.”

  “Longer,” Gadrik said softly. “Much longer.”

  He traced the shape of the deepest chamber. The mark there was nearly gone, but he recognized it. A circle with three lines pointing inward. The symbol for the Heart Forge. The forge where the greatest works of the ancient masters had been shaped. The Hammer of Tir Terrum, according to legend, had been finished there.

  For the first time in many nights, Gadrik felt a genuine thrill rise in his chest. It startled him. He was not a young warrior running headlong into adventure. He was a man who preferred quiet reasoning and cautious steps. Yet something inside him stirred, something that had been buried for a long time.

  “This is it,” he murmured.

  Tovin blinked. “Sir?”

  “This map,” Gadrik said, lifting it as carefully as if it were a newborn. “This could lead us to the last living forge built for working Starfall iron.”

  Jorren exchanged a look with Caldra. “If the forge still stands,” he said.

  “And if it does not,” Gadrik replied, “then perhaps the path to it still holds clues.”

  He folded the map slowly, placed it in a leather satchel, and straightened. His back ached, but the pain felt distant now.

  “Prepare your notes,” he told the three aides. “We will bring them to the king as soon as possible.”

  He stepped away from the table and walked toward the door, then paused. “Jorren, send a runner to find Bram Flintbrace. He will either be with the mages or arguing with someone outside the training yard. Tell him Gadrik needs him at once.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As Jorren hurried out, Gadrik turned back to the remaining aides. “We will also need climbing gear. Ropes, hooks, lantern fuel, chalk, and a full tool pack. And a healer on standby. We may need one.”

  Caldra frowned. “Sir… are you planning to go down there yourself?”

  Gadrik met her gaze. “I cannot ask others to risk the deep tunnels if I am not willing to stand beside them.”

  Tovin swallowed. “If the forge is there… what do you hope to find?”

  Gadrik placed a hand on the satchel. “Answers. Materials. Maybe a secret that was meant to stay buried. Or maybe a weapon the kingdom will soon need more than anything.”

  He looked up toward the ceiling again, imagining the endless stone above, the quiet pressure of a mountain that had seen all the ages of the world.

  Somewhere in its depths, something waited.

  “It is time we stopped simply remembering legends,” he said softly. “And started finding them.”

  The aides watched him for a moment, then returned to their work with renewed focus.

  Gadrik stepped into the colder hallway outside the record room. His steps echoed through the stone passage, steady and sure. For the first time since the unrest began in Kellen Tir, he felt as though he was walking toward a real truth rather than running from uncertainty.

  If the Heart Forge still existed, it would not stay hidden for long. And if the Hammer of Tir Terrum had survived the fall of kingdoms, then whatever force sought to seize control of Kellen Tir might not be working alone.

  He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and headed toward the main stairs. The mountain breathed its cold breath through the halls. It felt almost like a warning.

  Or perhaps, he thought, it was an invitation.

  Either way, Gadrik Strongstaff intended to answer it.