Life flickers and dies in my hands; that is the reality, even if it is only these moles. Once, they were food; now, they are nothing but half-rotted chunks of meat, their colors and scents so putrid that I wouldn't bring them home no matter how much hunger my people endure. I am a dwarf, which means we look at what we eat even if it's a worm—we can't go around stuffing the first thing we find into our mouths, even if it means I must dine on the "mushrooms of misery" once again. I must reserve the real food for those who still have hope, those fighting in Skyrock. I am only here to fulfill my mission before moving on.
The hallways and halls clear out bit by bit. Many of these structures are over two thousand years old; when my boots ring out, it feels as if the echo itself is attacking me. But it isn't so. Those who want me dead are hundreds of enemies: animals that lived in these places and have mutated. I harbor no illusions; I know where they come from. They stem from the infection generated by the Hellmarks. In these months, I advance alone. My people have a different struggle; they need to reconcile. It isn't easy being a dwarf, let alone living always under the suspicion that you'll have nothing left by tomorrow. Limestone will have to manage… but through all that, what shall I do with Moon-Reflection? He isn't a bad combatant, but he has followed me too far. I am close to facing the dragon—that cursed spawn that has allowed so much corruption and so many enemies to infiltrate his territory. If it was hard before to face the reality of knowing my son is gone, today I must sink my mace into bearded faces. My shield shatters skulls that once wore helmets—not just dwarves I never knew; by their beards, I can see representatives of almost every clan still active in this place. Now, I am eating a stew on the outskirts of my worst nightmare: Esmeralda lies sealed less than fifty meters from my position.
Known as the City of Smiths, its studies were highly prized throughout the rest of the dwarven community. Even with the political turmoil, they were the ones who created the Great Dwarven Encyclopedia; they shared the culture of minerals and were the only ones who preserved those precious, invaluable chromium-filled crystals. It was a city everyone spoke of, but no one had visited in centuries. Apparently, some subterranean creature had massacred everyone involved. The few who had survived—my father used to tell—went to plead for help, but no one wanted to support them in reclaiming their lands. In my old man's opinion, it was to avoid the loss of life, but now I know the truth. This city gave them everything with full hands; the mere idea of returning so much power to the few who had escaped was madness in the eyes of the merchants. So, they sent them from city to city, letting them die a little more in the process. Mother used to say they were lazy for not wanting to work outside their forges; now I'm not so sure. A smith always wants to remain a smith, and out of ego, they weren't allowed to be. Most died in misery. Some tried to return on their own, attempting to recover what was theirs with sticks and stones. The strange thing is, no one recovered it. As far as I remember, many went; no one returned. It is said the authorities killed those who tried to enter by force, arguing that whatever hid there might attack them and invade the tunnels in the process. The truth is, they wanted the wealth for themselves… though I don't know if they succeeded. Behind those doors lies the greatest genocide of my race. To think we even made a song about it.
As my steps bring me closer, the lyrics pile up. If I don't let them out, they will stay inside me, and I won't be able to truly face my enemies. So, first with a voice cracked from lack of water, and then raspy from my tears—the memory of the pain reminded me why I hated so much—I accompanied myself to the door:
*"Behind the door was their home,
Behind walls of stone, the emerald shone.
In their hands was their strength,
But courage was not enough that time.
Not many were those who went there, No promise was enough.
The blood of House Esmeralda
Was spilled by dwarven solitude.
The vacuum of the forge accompanies them,
Charge two coins for a broken hammer,
The only weapon the homeless wielded. Behind the stone door,
the dwarf sent his brother to death.
No one did anything.
Nothing was left to be done.
The bones in Esmeralda await us,
Those who abandoned their brothers.
Dwarven courage lies buried
Behind the door along with them,
Far from home, we buried them."*
Looking at the door, I finally understand why they couldn't pass. There are handprints of those who lost their fingernails trying to get in; broken pieces of armor, tied perhaps with leather to keep them together, but offering nothing for defense. The gate itself is enormous, easily over four meters high, made of solid stone. A slot with runes sits at the front; only the leaders of House Chrome could open or close it. They died first. However, being close, I notice that a small hole was dug between the two leaves, in the stone floor, with bare hands… One last tear falls. My hammer is charged with the explosion rune. I hope whatever lies behind those doors wants to attack me. I carry so much pain and hatred for my race, for the dragon, for the lich, and for my own weakness and selfishness, that they will regret facing me.