CHAPTER IV
Through the Deep Ways
The Deep Ways were older than Kharondel, older than the High Tower, older even than the kingdoms whose names were now dust in forgotten chronicles. They had been carved in the First Age, when dragonfire and dwarf-hammers still rang together in uneasy alliance, when the bones of the world were softer, and magic flowed like blood through open veins of crystal and stone.
Alaric and Lysa walked in silence at first, their footsteps echoing softly along the vast, curving tunnels. The walls were smooth but marked with ancient runes, worn by time yet still faintly luminous, like embers buried beneath ash. Above them, the ceiling arched high and dark, supported by pillars shaped like intertwined serpents and wings—symbols of the old pact between sky and stone.
The air was cool, tinged with the scent of mineral and distant water. Somewhere far below, something vast and slow breathed, its rhythm so deep it could be felt more than heard.
"How far do these tunnels go?" Alaric asked at last, his voice sounding small in the immensity.
"Across half the world, if the old maps are true," Lysa replied. "They link the great forges of the south to the mountain halls of the north, and beyond that, to places no living race now remembers. The dwarves sealed many of them after the Dragon Wars, but not all."
Alaric tightened his grip on the star-forged dagger Elyndor had given him. Its runes pulsed faintly, responding to something in the depths, as though the stone itself whispered to the blade.
They had not gone far when the first sign of danger appeared.
The crystals set into the walls began to flicker, their steady glow wavering like candlelight in wind. A low hum filled the passage, rising in pitch until it became a thin, keening whine.
Lysa halted. "The ley-lines are disturbed here. Something is moving through them. Something… hungry."
A shape detached itself from the darkness ahead.
At first it seemed like a trick of shadow, a ripple in the air. Then it coalesced into a form: tall, gaunt, with elongated limbs and a head crowned by curved, horn-like protrusions. Its body was composed of shifting stone and shadow, veins of dull red light pulsing within as though molten rock flowed beneath a cracked shell.
"A Rift-Warden," Lysa breathed. "A guardian construct from the First Age. They were meant to protect the Deep Ways from intruders… or from whatever tried to escape them."
The creature's eyes flared, twin points of ember-red. It raised one massive arm, and the air around its hand warped, as though space itself were being crushed.
"Run!" Lysa shouted.
Alaric did not argue.
They fled down the tunnel as the Rift-Warden's roar shook dust from the ceiling. Behind them, stone shattered as its fist struck the wall, sending fragments skidding across the floor. The temperature rose sharply, and the runes along the passage blazed, reacting to the surge of ancient power.
A side corridor opened to their left, narrow and steep. Lysa veered toward it, pulling Alaric with her. They stumbled into darkness just as a wave of heat and force swept past the main tunnel, the Rift-Warden's blow collapsing part of the archway in a thunderous cascade.
The side passage spiraled downward, its steps slick with condensation. At its end, they emerged into a vast cavern.
Their breath caught.
Before them lay an underground city.
Towering stone columns rose like the trunks of petrified trees, supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. Bridges of carved rock arched over chasms filled with glowing mist. At the center of the cavern stood a colossal anvil, cracked and blackened, yet still radiating a faint, golden warmth.
"The Heart Forge," Lysa whispered. "One of the Dragonforges of the South. I thought they were all destroyed."
"They were abandoned," came a deep voice from the shadows. "Not destroyed."
Figures emerged from behind the columns—short, broad-shouldered, with braided beards and eyes that gleamed like polished steel in the dim light. They wore armor of dark metal etched with glowing runes, and carried hammers and axes that hummed with restrained power.
Dwarves.
At their head stood one whose beard was streaked with silver and whose helm bore the crest of a crowned mountain.
"I am Thargrim Stonevein, Forge-King of Dwarrowdeep," he said. "And you, surface-walkers, have strayed into halls that have not known the tread of men for two centuries."
Lysa bowed slightly. "We seek passage, not plunder. The seals are breaking. The dragons are stirring."
A murmur ran through the dwarven ranks.
Thargrim's eyes narrowed. "So the old fears wake at last. And who is this boy, who carries star-forged steel and smells of ember and storm?"
Alaric felt a strange warmth spread through his chest, as though an unseen fire answered the dwarf's gaze. "My name is Alaric Thorne. I seek the ruins of Kaer'Thalan… and the truth of what is returning to the world."
For a long moment, Thargrim studied him in silence. Then he nodded slowly.
"The blood of the Dragonforges runs in you," the Forge-King said. "I have not felt its resonance since the last Emberline prince walked these halls, before the fall of the High Circle. If you are truly of that lineage, then the Deep Ways will not bar your path."
He turned, gesturing toward the Heart Forge. "But first, you must hear what the stone remembers."
As they approached the great anvil, the air grew warmer, and images began to shimmer in the mist above it—visions of towering dragons wreathed in flame, of dwarves and men standing together, of mages weaving vast circles of light around a colossal, winged form bound in chains of starfire.
"Vorthraxx," Lysa murmured.
"Yes," Thargrim said. "The Eternal. We helped bind him. We helped forge the chains. And we swore that if the seals ever weakened, we would not hide again in our halls."
He looked at Alaric. "The Fire-Road leads through Kaer'Thalan, into the Ironspine Mountains, and to the place where the Dragon King sleeps. Many will die before it ends. But the world may yet be saved… if the one who walks the path of ember and crown does not turn aside."
Alaric felt the weight of those words settle upon him like a mantle of flame and stone.
Far above, unseen, the shadow of vast wings passed across the moon.
And deep within the earth, the Heart Forge flared, as if answering a call it had not heard in two hundred years.