For two months, snow covered the peaks of the Pale Sisters, isolating Karak-Azgaraz from the rest of the world. For Geneviève, they were the hardest and happiest months of her life.
She was no longer a guest. She had become a project. Thorgard Stonehammer had decided that if this human was to fight alongside the Dawi, she had to learn not to die like a human. "You have the heart of a lion, girl," he had told her on the first day of training in the Granite Gym, spitting black tobacco. "But you fight like a drunk in a tavern brawl. You use too much energy. Here, we learn to fight like the mountain. The mountain does not dance. The mountain stands still and breaks whatever strikes it."
Geneviève learned discipline. Every morning, before the artificial dawn of the oil lamps, she trained with the Longbeards, the clan veterans. They taught her to use the weight of her armor not as a hindrance, but as a weapon. They taught her to plant her feet so that not even a charging boar could move her. They replaced her wide, desperate movements with short, economical, and brutal strikes. She learned to half-sword (gripping the blade with one hand for more leverage), and to use the guard and pommel to smash helms. Her body changed. The chronic hunger of the previous months was replaced by a high-calorie diet of mutton stew, cave mushrooms, and thick ale. Her muscles became more compact. Her shoulders broadened just enough to perfectly fill the plate Thrunbor had forged. She was no longer just a brawler blessed by luck; she was a soldier.
But while iron tempered her body, the silence of the depths honed her spirit. Karak-Azgaraz was an ancient place, and the stone resonated with a subtle magic. Geneviève discovered that her connection to the Divine was changing. It was no longer just an explosion of rage in moments of danger. It had become a constant source, a warm hum beneath her skin.
It happened during a guard shift in the lower crypts, where the ancestors rested. Geneviève felt a dark presence at the edge of her perception. A shadow, a residue of necromancy filtering through the rock. Instead of drawing her sword, Geneviève simply raised a hand. She did not shout. She said a single word, in Khazalid (the language of the dwarves), which she had learned from Thorgard. "Duraz." (Stone/Constancy). A shockwave of white light, silent and circular, expanded from her. The shadow shrieked and dissolved into vapor, terrified by the purity of that aura. Geneviève looked at her sword. The blade began to glow with a faint, golden light. It was not a reflection. It was she who was imbuing the weapon with sacred power. She had learned to transform her will into physical law.
The dwarves began to call her Rinn-Gromthi. The Lady of the Ancestors. They knew she was a woman. They had seen her hair grow back, now an ash-blonde bob framing a hardened but serene face. And it mattered to no one. For the Dawi, honor has no gender.
Peace ended on a Tuesday, during the "Changing of the Guard." Geneviève was in the Common Hall, sitting next to Thorgard, laughing at a dirty joke about Elves the dwarf was telling. She had a tankard of ale in her hand and, for the first time in five years, she was not wearing her helm in public.
The sound came from below. It was not an explosion. It was a continuous, screeching sound, like a gigantic drill piercing the world. Zzzzzzzzzzz-CRACK.
The floor of the Common Hall shook so hard that tankards fell from the tables. The great runes of protection carved into the hall's entrance arch flashed red, then died. Thorgard went pale. "Warp-Grinders," he whispered. "They have breached the runic defenses."
A horn sounded. Grim, deep, terrible. The King's Horn. DOOOOOOOOM. DOOOOOOOOM.
"TO ARMS!" roared Thorgard, flipping the table. "IT IS AN INVASION!"
Geneviève needed no orders. She slipped on her helm. The click of the visor closing was the sound that ended the chapter of peace. The human face disappeared. The war machine was back.
They ran toward "Sector 7," a deep mining zone. When they arrived at the balcony overlooking the great internal quarry, the scene was a nightmare. The living rock wall had been perforated in dozens of places. Huge machines of brass and green wood, the Warp-Grinders, were vomiting toxic smoke as they widened the breaches. And from the holes, like blood from an open wound, poured the Skaven. Thousands. A tide of brown and black fur, rusty armor, and banners bearing the symbol of the Horned Rat.
But they were not just common rats. Geneviève saw huge creatures, armored Rat Ogres smashing through the miners' barricades. She saw Jezzails (snipers with long rifles) positioning themselves on rocky ledges. And in the center, carried on a floating platform supported by slaves, was a Screaming Bell. A magical monstrosity emitting tolls that made ears bleed and minds go mad.
The dwarves were forming a shield wall on the lower level, but they were outnumbered fifty to one.
"Thorgard!" yelled Geneviève over the din of battle. "If that Bell keeps ringing, it will bring down the cavern vault! We must destroy it!"
Thorgard looked down. There were five hundred meters of descent through ramps infested with enemies. "It is in the middle of the army, girl! It is suicide!"
Geneviève drew her sword. The blade ignited with white light, vivid as a star in the darkness of the cavern. "Then it is a job for us," she said, her calm and terrifying voice amplified by the helm. "Gather the Ironbreakers, Captain. Let's show these rats how a mountain dies."
Thorgard looked at the human. He saw she was not trembling. He saw that her aura was already beginning to push away the fear from the hearts of the nearby soldiers. The dwarf smiled, a savage grin showing gold teeth. He raised his axe. "KHAZUKAN KAZAKIT-HA!" (Look out! The dwarves are on the warpath!)
"FOR THE LADY AND FOR THE ROCK!" replied Geneviève.
They launched themselves down the ramp. Not walking. Charging headlong into a sea of monsters, while the Screaming Bell tolled the end of the world.