Lunrik pushed himself away from the wall, weariness momentarily forgotten, and followed Kaelith deeper into the oppressive darkness, away from the faint grey light filtering in from the glacier. Kaelith produced a small pouch from her belt containing flint and steel, along with carefully prepared pitch-pine shavings. In moments, she coaxed a tiny, flickering flame to life on a small bundle of resinous twigs – not enough for warmth, but providing a pool of dancing orange light that pushed back the absolute blackness.
She led him to the back wall of the cave section they occupied. Here, the natural ice glaze coating the rock was thinner, almost transparent in places, or perhaps worn away over untold centuries. Beneath it, etched deep into the dark, dense stone, were the markings she'd described.
They were unlike anything Lunrik had ever seen. Not the flowing spirals of Dravenwolf nature carvings, nor the crude clan sigils of Ashfang or Frostmane, nor even the intricate mana-weave patterns sometimes found in Silverhowl enchantments. These were lines of absolute precision, geometric, interlocking patterns of sharp angles, squares, triangles, and complex knotwork that spoke of mathematics and engineering rather than artistry or magic. They covered a significant portion of the wall, forming what looked like a deliberate, complex design, partially obscured by ice and shadow. It radiated an aura of immense age, purpose, and implacable solidity.
"Faelan spoke of legends," Kaelith whispered, holding the small torch closer, her breath misting in the cold air. "Tales of the Under-Mountain folk, the dwarves of Grimfang Deep. Masters of stone and metal, enemies of intrusion. He said their gates were sealed centuries ago, after conflicts with surface dwellers… maybe even ancient Banehallows."
Alaric's ghost stirred, offering fragmented confirmation. Grimfang Deep… Isolationist… Fiercely territorial… Legends of impenetrable defenses, mechanisms powered by the mountain's heart… Lycador considered them irrelevant, historical footnotes. But Magdra clearly didn't.
"Could this be… an entrance?" Lunrik breathed, running a gloved hand over the icy surface covering the carvings. The stone beneath felt unnaturally smooth, precisely cut. "One of the 'old dwarf-holes' the trapper mentioned?"
"Maybe," Kaelith said, her gaze troubled as she scanned the intricate patterns. "Or just a boundary marker. A warning. Or… something else." The sheer precision felt deliberate, not decorative. It felt like… machinery, embedded in stone.
As Lunrik leaned closer, examining a section where interlocking gears seemed depicted beneath the ice, a low groan echoed from near the cave entrance. Both he and Kaelith spun around instantly, extinguishing the small torch, plunging them back into near darkness relieved only by the faint entrance light.
Eryndor. He was stirring.
They moved quickly, silently back towards the front of the cave. Eryndor Frostmane was pushing himself weakly upright, his eyes fluttering open, wide with confusion and residual terror. He looked around the dim, unfamiliar cave, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Where… where am I?" he stammered, his voice hoarse. His gaze fixed on Kaelith, then shifted to Lunrik, recognition slowly dawning, followed immediately by stark panic. "You! The Dravenwolf omega… Ashfang… the dragon!" He scrambled backwards, trying to put distance between himself and them, his movements clumsy with weakness and fear. "Get away from me!"
"Easy, Eryndor," Kaelith said soothingly, keeping her voice low and calm, holding up her hands in a non-threatening gesture. "You're safe, for now. We pulled you off the glacier. The Ashfang are gone. The dragon is gone."
"Gone?" Eryndor repeated, his eyes darting frantically towards the cave entrance, expecting perhaps Vorlag's brutal face or the dragon's fiery maw to appear. "Vorlag… Magdra… they wanted the passes… the Whispering Ice Pass…" He trailed off, shivering violently, clutching his head. "She thinks… my grandmother's tales… maps…"
Whispering Ice Pass. The name struck Lunrik. Likely the specific route Magdra sought, believing Eryndor held the key based on Frostmane ancestral knowledge.
"We're not Ashfang, Eryndor," Lunrik stated firmly, keeping his distance but trying to project reassurance he didn't feel. "We have the Stigma too." He resisted the urge to show the mark, knowing it might frighten the unstable Frostmane heir further. "We were trying to help you back there."
Eryndor stared at them, his mind clearly struggling to process the chaotic events on the glacier. He saw Kaelith's steady Dravenwolf presence, Lunrik's intensity which lacked the Ashfang cruelty he'd endured. Doubt warred with ingrained fear. "Help me? Why? Everyone… everyone wants us dead… or worse…" His voice cracked.
Before Kaelith could offer further reassurance, another sound intruded, cutting through Eryndor's panicked breathing. It wasn't from outside. It came from deeper within the cave, from beyond the wall with the Dwarven markings.
A faint, rhythmic scraping sound. Stone on stone. Followed by a low, metallic clank.
Lunrik and Kaelith froze, exchanging alarmed glances in the dim light. Eryndor whimpered, huddling closer to the cave wall despite his fear of them.
The sounds were subtle, easily missed over the howl of the wind outside, but undeniable. They weren't natural cave sounds of dripping water or shifting ice. They sounded… mechanical. Purposeful.
Was the cave deeper than Kaelith thought? Did the markings conceal a passage that wasn't sealed after all? Or worse, were they not alone in this supposedly empty refuge? Had they stumbled into an active, guarded outpost of Grimfang Deep?
Alaric's ghost screamed silent warnings: Dwarven defenses! Traps! Automatons! Retreat!
Lunrik felt trapped. Leaving the cave now meant facing the potential dangers outside – the regrouping hunters, possible Ashfang reinforcements, the unpredictable dragon. Staying meant confronting the unknown, potentially hostile presence deeper within the cave, suggested by the Dwarven markings and the chilling mechanical sounds.
He looked at the Dwarven carvings again, visible now only as faint lines in the gloom. He thought of Magdra's ambition, the Whispering Ice Pass Eryndor had named. Could the mechanism they heard be related? Was something activating?
The scraping sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic clicking.
Kaelith drew her knife silently, her body tense, ready for anything. Eryndor stifled a sob.
Lunrik gripped the cold, unfamiliar energy rifle he'd retrieved. It felt useless, alien, but it was the only potential weapon he had besides his own claws, which felt woefully inadequate against whatever ancient defenses or inhabitants might lie deeper within.
Their sanctuary had become a trap. The echoes under the ice were no longer just dripping water, but the potential sounds of awakening dwarven machinery or patrols, adding another layer of imminent peril to their desperate situation. They had to choose: face the known dangers outside, or venture deeper into the echoing darkness towards the unknown legacy of Grimfang Deep.