General Marn stood outside the great hall for a moment before he entered. He could hear distant echoes from the throne room, voices of guards speaking quietly to each other. His stomach tightened. He knew that nothing about the discussion ahead would be easy. Too much had happened in too little time. Too many lives had already been taken, and too many dwarves were choosing sides.

  He pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

  The hall was large and cold, lined with tall stone pillars carved with the history of Kellen Tir. King Thoman Flintmantle sat on his throne at the far end, his posture rigid. His hand gripped the armrest so tightly that the skin on his knuckles had turned pale. The king was not an old dwarf, but the strain of the past days had placed years onto his face.

  Balek Hearthgleam stood near him, leaning on his staff. His beard was braided neatly, but his eyes were tired. He had been the king’s advisor for longer than most of the guards outside had been alive, and he wore the weight of his duty with a kind of quiet sadness.

  General Marn approached the dais, stopped a few paces from the throne, and bowed. When he straightened, he did so with a careful breath.

  “My king,” he began, “I have spoken to every captain who was present at the square. I have spoken to every soldier who was in reach of the violence. And I have questioned the guards who were stationed along the north and east roads. There is only one conclusion I can give you.”

  The king leaned forward. His jaw was tight, as if bracing for a blow.

  “No order was given to attack the protesters,” Marn said. “None of our men acted on a command. And all of my troops are accounted for.” He paused, letting the next words land with the weight they deserved. “The soldiers who struck first were not ours.”

  Silence filled the hall, heavy as an iron gate.

  Balek closed his eyes for a moment. “So we are dealing with impostors,” he murmured. “Disguises. False uniforms. People who want bloodshed.”

  “Yes,” Marn replied. “They acted with purpose. They waited until tensions were high, then pretended to be royal soldiers and struck the crowd. Before my men could seize them, they vanished. They were trained. Well enough to slip away in chaos.”

  The king did not speak at first. He looked down at the stone floor, his thoughts turning in circles. Marn could almost see them. The thought of the dead dwarves had sunk into Thoman’s mind like copper sunk deep into the ground. He knew that the kingdom would not forget what had happened. Rumor had already outrun the truth.

  When the king finally lifted his head, his voice was tight. “Deepbrand will use this,” he said. “He will twist what happened until people believe the crown ordered the violence.”

  Balek nodded, gripping his staff a little harder. “He already has, I fear. The talk in the taverns has changed. People speak with anger, not fear. The fact that impostors acted so cleanly will not matter. People believe what they see. And they saw soldiers swinging blades at unarmed dwarves.”

  General Marn felt frustration rising in him again. He had gone over every detail of the skirmish until his head ached. The pieces fit together too well. Whoever planned the attack knew the kingdom. They understood dwarven pride, dwarven suspicion, and the anger that came whenever someone claimed to speak for the people.

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  Balek stepped forward. “We can still act,” he said. “We need criers in every settlement, announcing that the attackers were frauds and that the crown seeks to find them. Offer them a chance to surrender. Tell the people that those who turn themselves in will be spared death so long as they confess who hired them. It will show both truth and mercy.”

  Marn gave a small nod. “And we need soldiers ready. Even with words spreading, we cannot assume that Deepbrand or others like him will stay peaceful. This is the kind of spark that starts wars.”

  The king let out a long breath. “We cannot march against our own people,” he said.

  “No,” Marn agreed, “but we can be prepared if they march against us.”

  Before anyone could reply, the doors opened again.

  Gadrik Strongstaff stepped into the hall, brushing dust from his cloak. The journey from the mines to the mountain crown was long, and his clothes showed the strain. His expression was grim.

  He bowed. “My king.”

  “Rise, Gadrik,” Thoman said. “What news do you bring?”

  Gadrik joined the group near the dais. His voice was troubled. “The guilds are turning against each other,” he said. “Some blame the crown. Others blame the workers who protest. And some blame the golems. I saw fights in the streets. Not large ones, but angry. The kind of anger that grows.”

  The king’s shoulders lowered slightly. “So it has already spread that far.”

  “Yes,” Gadrik said. “And more than that. There are whispers that Deepbrand’s supporters want to sabotage the golems. There are also dwarves who say the crown protects the machines more than it protects its own people.” He shook his head wearily. “If soldiers march into the tunnels, many will see it as a threat.”

  Marn’s eyes sharpened. “And if we wait,” he said, “we risk giving Deepbrand time to gather more allies. We risk letting him control the message. And we risk more violence.”

  Gadrik turned toward him. “General, I respect you. I know you want to protect this kingdom. But if you send soldiers into a crowd right now, you will push more dwarves into Deepbrand’s arms.”

  Marn’s jaw tightened. “I am not talking about attacking our people. I am talking about preparing for when someone attacks us. There is a difference.”

  “Is there?” Gadrik asked quietly. “Not to the dwarves who already think they have been struck on purpose.”

  The air grew heavy again. The hall seemed colder.

  The king raised his hand. Both dwarves fell silent.

  When Thoman spoke, he did so slowly, choosing each word with care. “This kingdom is not a hammer to be swung. It is a home. And right now, that home is dividing. If we step too quickly, we will drive a deeper crack. If we wait too long, the crack will widen on its own.”

  Balek stepped closer to the throne. “We must act on both fronts,” he said. “Strength and kindness together. A hand that is firm but not closed.”

  Marn looked at the king. “What do you command?”

  King Thoman stood. His voice carried through the chamber with steady force. “We will gather our allies quietly,” he said. “We will prepare the army without sounding the alarm. And we will spread truth and comfort through the kingdom. Not lies. Not threats. Truth.”

  He looked at each of them in turn.

  “We must guide our people. Not frighten them.”

  Gadrik bowed his head. “A wise choice, my king.”

  Marn hesitated. Then he nodded too, though the worry in his eyes did not fade.

  The king took a slow breath. “But understand this. If Deepbrand seeks war, if he forces our hand, I will defend this kingdom. I will not watch it crumble.”

  No one disagreed.

  No one dared.

  Because in that moment, they all felt the same fear, even if none of them said it aloud:

  Civil war was no longer a distant threat. It was a shadow that now stood at their gates.