The Hollow Mountain

"A fortress is not defined by its walls, but by the morale of the garrison. If the soldiers are dead inside, the gates are already open." —Gaidan, Field Notes from the Forge Wars

Gaidan - The Foundry District

Gaidan hated heights. He hated the cold. And he particularly hated being hauled up a chimney like a sack of turnips by a barbarian.

But as he stood on the rusted iron gantry overlooking the Foundry District of Glimmerdeep, his physical discomfort vanished, replaced by a cold, professional dread.

He had fought the Dwarves in the Forge Wars. He knew their rhythm. A dwarven city was a loud, boisterous, argumentative place. It should smell of roasted meat and spilled ale. It should sound like a brawl in a brewery.

This place sounded like a clock.

Below him, thousands of workers moved in perfect, synchronized silence. The clang of hammers on anvils was rhythmic, a metronome of industry that didn't speed up or slow down.

"It’s too quiet," Gaidan whispered, cradling his throbbing arm against his chest. "A quiet soldier is a terrified soldier. Or a dead one."

"They aren't dead," Elara murmured, her eyes glued to her scanning device. "But their Etheric signatures are flat. No spikes of emotion. No fatigue. They are in a trance state."

"The Sanguine," Aga growled, gripping the railing until the metal groaned. "They smell like the ones in the alley. But... colder."

"We can't stay here," Gaidan said, his tactical mind taking over. "We are exposed. High ground is useless if you have no cover. We need to get down to street level, find a blind spot."

"And then what?" Faren asked, his voice trembling as he looked at the crimson-robed overseers patrolling the floor.

"Then we find the Resistance," Gaidan said.

"Resistance?" Zalim asked, arching an eyebrow. "You assume there is one."

"There is always a resistance," Gaidan said, turning toward the service ladder. "Dwarves are stubborn and Gnomes are excitable. You can kill them, but you can't break all of them. Come on."

The Blind Alley

They descended into the city, moving through the shadows of the massive pneumatic pipes. Gaidan led them, his good hand resting on the pommel of his dagger. He moved with a hunched, grace, checking corners, signaling halts. Aga mimicked him perfectly, a wolf learning to hunt in a stone forest.

The streets were eerily clean. No trash. No beggars. Just endless rows of workers marching toward the mines, their eyes glazed and unblinking.

"Don't look at them," Gaidan whispered to Faren. "Don't engage. To them, we are just shadows."

He was looking for a sign. A specific mark. During the war, the Gnome engineers—the brains behind the Dwarven brawn—had used a system of "hobo-code" to mark safe houses and supply drops. A gear with a missing tooth. A wrench crossed with a hammer.

He found it near a shuttered tavern called The Iron Lung.

Scratched into the stone lintel, barely visible under the soot, was a symbol: A cracked cog.

"Found it," Gaidan muttered.

He led them down a narrow alley behind the tavern. It ended in a dead end, a pile of scrap metal and discarded boiler parts.

"A dead end?" Elara hissed. "Gaidan, the patrols are circling back."

"It's not a dead end," Gaidan said. He stepped up to a massive, rusted ventilation fan set into the wall. It was silent, choked with grime.

He reached through the blades and found the hidden latch. He pulled. With a groan of protest, the entire fan assembly swung outward on hidden hinges.

"Inside," Gaidan ordered.

They scrambled through the opening, spilling into a small, cluttered workshop that smelled of grease, strong tea, and ozone.

The fan swung shut behind them, plunging the room into gloom.

Click.

A bright beam of light hit Gaidan in the face.

"Give me one reason not to weld your eyelids shut, human," a gravelly, female voice said from the darkness.

Gaidan didn't flinch. "Because you still owe me a drink, Bolla. And I know you don't waste good flux on eyelids."

There was a pause. The light wavered.

"Gaidan?" the voice asked, skeptical. "The Brawler of Black-Ridge?"

"Retired," Gaidan corrected. "Now I'm just a tourist."

A gas lamp flared to life.

Standing on a workbench, holding a heavy-duty Etheric welding torch modified into a rifle, was a Gnome. She was barely three feet tall, wearing oil-stained coveralls and a pair of goggles that magnified her eyes to comical proportions. Her hair was a shock of white static, standing straight up.

Bolla. The finest saboteur in the Iron Peaks.

She lowered the torch, squinting at him. Then she saw his broken arm. Then she saw the giant woodsman, the desert warrior, and the two scholars.

"By Stone," she spat, hopping down from the bench. "You look like a traveling circus that got kicked out of hell. What are you doing in Glimmerdeep, you idiot? The mountain is sealed."

"We noticed," Gaidan said, slumping against a crate. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain in his arm was returning with a vengeance. "We're hunting the Sanguine. The crazy ones in the red robes."

Bolla let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Hunting them? You don't hunt the Sanguine here, human. You hide from them. They own the place."

"What happened, Bolla?" Gaidan asked. "Where is the King? Where is the Army?"

Bolla busied herself at a workbench, grabbing a wrench and nervously tightening bolts on a half-disassembled automaton splayed out on the workspace.

"King Aurum?" she muttered. "Gone. Locked himself in the keep three months ago. Said he had a 'vision.' Said the Stone King spoke to him."

"Root," Aga whispered.

"Aye," Bolla said. "Next thing we know, these 'Consultants' show up. Red robes. Smooth talk. They told the King they could increase production. Make Glimmerdeep the richest nation in history. All they needed was access to the Deepest Dark."

"And the workers?" Elara asked, gesturing to the door. "Why are they... like that?"

"The water," Bolla said grimly. "Or the air. Or the food. We really don't know. It started slow. Just... focus. People worked harder. Didn't want to go home. Then they stopped talking. Then they stopped sleeping. Now? They're just gears. Meat gears."

She looked at Gaidan, her magnified eyes wide with fear.

"I'm the only one left in this sector who can still act, Gaidan. Me and a few rats. Everyone else just... digs."

"What are they digging for?" Zalim asked from the shadows. His voice was soft, but it made Bolla jump.

"Some heart," Bolla said. "That's what the Consultants call it. They aren't mining ore anymore. They're digging a shaft straight down, past the magma, past the roots of the mountain. They're looking for the Heart of the World."

"No," Elara said, realizing the truth. "Not the world. The King."

Aga stepped forward. "We need to get down there. To the mines."

Bolla looked at him like he was insane. "The mines? That's a one-way trip, big man. The elevators are guarded by the Gold-Guard. Automatons. Nasty ones. And the Sanguine... they have these... things. Stone giants that bleed."

"We've met them," Aga said, patting the hilt of his sword. "We broke them."

Bolla stared at him. Then she looked at Gaidan.

"Hermit’s lantern! He's serious, isn't he?"

"Dead serious," Gaidan said. "We're going to stop them, Bolla. But we need a way down. A way the Sanguine don't watch."

Bolla chewed on her lip. She looked at her half-finished bot. She looked at the welding torch. Then she sighed, a long, rattling sound.

"The Ore-Chute," she said. "It's a gravity-feed system for the slag. It bypasses the elevators. It's steep, it's hot, and if the mag-brakes fail, you'll be a smear on the wall at terminal velocity."

"Perfect," Zalim said, a smile touching his lips.

"I can hack the brakes," Bolla muttered, grabbing a tool belt. "But you'll need a sled. And you'll need a distraction."

"I can provide the distraction," Zalim said. "My blade is... bored."

Gaidan pushed himself off the crate. He looked at his motley crew. They were tired, wounded, and walking into the heart of a mountain possessed by greed.

"Suit up," Gaidan ordered. "We're going down."