As the three travelers crossed the mountain pass and stepped through the dwarven gates, echoes filled the stone halls. The pounding of hammers rang through the tunnels, and the red glow of forges painted shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of fire, metal, and stone—the legacy of a thousand years of labor and war.
They were led down a long corridor until at last they reached a vast hall, crowned with a high dome. At its center stood a massive stone table, surrounded by armored dwarf lords. The walls bore carvings of ancient victories: giants forced to their knees, goblin hordes crushed beneath axes, dragons struck down by hammer and spear.
At the far end sat the king, his beard flowing down to his chest like silver. His gaze was stern, yet full of wisdom. The council fell silent, every eye fixed on Mamir and his companions.
The king's voice echoed like thunder:
— "Strangers from Harland… speak. Why do you press against the gates of our mountains?"
Mamir stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
— "We seek neither to seize your lands nor disturb your peace. We ask only passage north, to the Elven Kingdom. The world is threatened by Ostomas's shadow. To fight it, we need weapons born of Elven light. Our road must pass through here."
At his words, mutters rose among the council. One dwarf lord slammed his fist upon the table.
— "Elven light? What is that to us? Our steel has kept our darkness at bay for ages. Why should dwarves open their gates for your cause?"
Mamir's eyes hardened. He drew a deep breath, then raised his voice so it carried through the hall.
— "I am Mamir, son of King Visernes of Harland. But not his alone… my mother was Kirarya Turok."
The chamber erupted with whispers. Some lords leaned forward, startled; others sat back, their faces struck with awe.
The king slowly rose to his feet. His eyes locked on Mamir's, and for a moment, they wavered with both shock and a trace of sorrow.
— "Kirarya… So her son stands before me. The fire of the Turoks runs in your veins."
Mamir's heart pounded.
— "All I was told of my mother was this: that she sought the Elves' light in Elandur… and that she died for it. Is that the truth?"
The hall grew heavy with silence. The king narrowed his eyes, then spoke with a weight that seemed to sink into the very stone:
— "Death… is not so simple a word, Prince. Your mother did not die. Kirarya was betrayed—taken by the servants of darkness. They dragged her into the place men call the Hell of Elandur—a prison beneath the earth, where the foulest of creatures dwell. None who enter have ever returned."
Mamir's fists clenched, his voice trembling but resolute.
— "Then she lives… in chains."
The king inclined his head.
— "If she does, she suffers still. To free her is to walk into the maw of death itself. Yet if you succeed… you will earn not only the respect of the dwarves, but their loyalty as well. Then, and only then, shall we forge our steel and march at your side, Mamir of Harland."
The hall was silent once more. Runya covered her mouth in shock, while Ener's eyes burned with grim determination. Mamir closed his eyes briefly, hearing his mother's name echo in his heart. When he opened them again, they shone with fire.
— "Then my path is clear. I will free my mother. And I will break this shadow before it consumes us all."
A faint, sorrowful smile crossed the king's face.
— "The fire of the Turoks… it burns in you still."
The great doors creaked open behind them. Mamir bowed low in respect. His mother's fate was no longer a mystery—it was a challenge. Before the road to the Elven Kingdom, there lay another path. One that led downward, into the Hell of Elandur.