The road to Karak-Azgaraz was a winding ribbon of grey gravel climbing toward the clouds, leaving behind the rotting green of the Bretonnian valleys. The air grew thin, icy, sharp as glass in the lungs.
Geneviève stopped for the night at Col-des-Roches, the last human outpost before the domain of the Dwarves. It was not a village, but a precarious cluster of skin tents and wooden shacks inhabited by charcoal burners, fur trappers, and desperate souls seeking fortune in the abandoned mines. The arrival of a knight in full armor, black and devoid of crests, brought silence to the camp. Geneviève dismounted. Her shod boots sank into the dirty snow.
She sat at the edge of the central fire, far enough not to have to interact, close enough to steal a little warmth. She watched. It had become her only form of intimacy. On the other side of the fire, a young woman was rocking a baby wrapped in rough wool blankets. A man, likely the father, handed her a bowl of steaming soup, brushing her hand. They exchanged a tired, complicit smile. A moment of absolute tenderness in the middle of the frozen nowhere.
Under the helm, Geneviève felt a pang in her chest that had nothing to do with the tight bandages. It was envy. An acidic, painful envy that burned her throat. She looked at her metal-gauntleted hands. Those hands had snapped rats' necks and burned undead flesh with holy fire. But they could not caress. They could not comfort. If she touched that child, she would frighten him with the coldness of steel.
Geneviève realized, with sudden horror, that she was forgetting the sensation of skin against skin. She was forgetting what it meant to be looked in the eye without fear or respect, but only with affection. She had become a monument to herself. Sir Gilles was the hero the world wanted, but Geneviève was starving to death inside there, screaming in a soundproof room of iron. She wanted to stand up, take off her helm, show her dirty face and say: "I am cold too. I am scared too. Please, let me sit near you." But she remained motionless. The Rust Knight is not cold. The Rust Knight needs no one.
She resumed her journey at dawn, her heart heavier than her armor. The mountain pass narrowed, becoming a ledge overlooking an abyss where an underground river roared hundreds of meters below. Fog rose from the chasm, dense and unnaturally green.
Geneviève slowed down. The horse was nervous, foaming at the mouth. The nausea of Detect Evil hit her like a punch to the stomach. It was strong. Too strong. In front of her, on the road, she saw a figure. A dwarf? No, it was too small. A child, curled up against the rock, crying.
Gilles' instinct screamed: Trap. Geneviève's instinct screamed: Save him.
She dismounted, sword in hand. She approached cautiously. "Hey," she croaked with her fake voice. The figure turned. It was not a child. It was a bundle of rags held together by sticks, with a swollen bladder of pulsating green gas in place of a head. Geneviève moved to back away, but it was too late.
From the rocks above her, the whistle of projectiles in flight was heard. Not arrows. Glass spheres. Skaven Poison Wind Globadiers. The spheres shattered around her, releasing clouds of chlorine gas and warpstone. The horse neighed in terror, its lungs burned instantly, and threw itself into the void, dragging with it the supplies and the hope of escape.
Geneviève was enveloped by the green cloud. The gas tried to enter the helm. She held her breath, closing eyes that watered furiously. Her exposed skin burned as if dipped in acid. Blindly, she swung her sword. She felt something impact against the blade. Flesh. Squeaks. They were on her. Skaven with leather and brass gas masks, armed with hooks to drag her down.
She could not breathe. If she inhaled, her lungs would melt. Her muscles ached from lack of oxygen. She fought with the fury of a caged animal. She cut, struck, pushed. She felt bones break under her gauntlets. But they were too many, and she was blind.
A hook grabbed her ankle. Another latched onto her pauldron. They pulled. Geneviève lost her balance. The weight of Thrunbor's magnificent armor, which had made her invincible in a duel, was now her doom. She fell backward. The world flipped upside down. The rock disappeared beneath her feet. She plummeted into the roaring green abyss.
The impact with the freezing water of the underground river was like crashing into a concrete wall. Darkness swallowed her. Water entered the visor, choking her. The armor dragged her to the bottom, a thirty-kilo anchor. Geneviève kicked, struggled, clawed at the water, but the river was stronger. As the current slammed her against submerged rocks, feeling her ribs break one after another, her last thought was not for the Lady, nor for glory. It was for that mother at the fire. At least she died warm, she thought as consciousness faded into black.
Pain. Pain was a vivid red color pulsing behind her eyelids. Geneviève inhaled. The air was stale, tasting of stone dust and mushrooms. She was not dead.
She tried to move, but her wrists were locked. Chains. Heavy, short, bolted to the rock. She opened her eyes. It was dark, lit only by distant braziers casting long, distorted shadows. She was in a vast cavern, worked with geometric precision. Dwarven architecture, but ancient, in ruins.
She felt cold. Too cold. Panic—the real kind, the kind that empties your bowels—assailed her. She looked at her body. The black armor was gone. The chainmail, the gambeson, the boots... gone. She wore only the tattered tunic and rough wool trousers underneath, wet and plastered to her skin. But something else was missing. The weight on her head.
Geneviève brought her chained hands to her face. She touched skin. Nose. Lips. Scars. Short hair that was growing back like soft fuzz. The helm. They had taken her helm.
"She woke up," said a deep, guttural voice that rumbled in the stone like underground thunder.
Geneviève spun toward the shadow. A massive figure emerged from the gloom. It was not a Skaven. He was as wide as he was tall, clad in gromril armor glowing with blue runes. His beard was gray, reaching his knees, braided with gold rings. A Dwarf. But not a smith. A warrior. And in his eyes, there was not the usual grumpy distrust of dwarves. There was a cold, calculating hatred.
He held her helm in his hand. He turned it between his thick fingers as if it were a toy. "Armor forged by Thrunbor of Gisoreux," said the Dwarf, his voice laden with contempt. "I recognize the hand of my renegade cousin. He did a good job hiding the truth."
He threw the helm to the ground. The metal rolled with a hollow clang, stopping at Geneviève's bare feet. The Dwarf approached until his face was inches from hers. He smelled of dark beer and old blood. "We wondered which human noble was crazy enough to attack the Skaven alone in our domain," snarled the Dwarf. "Imagine our surprise when we opened the tin can and found... this."
The Dwarf smiled, but there was no mirth. "Welcome to Karak-Azgaraz, little girl. And now tell me... who sent you to spy on us before I tear out your tongue and check if at least that is real?"