The archives of Stonehearth were colder than the tunnels, and quieter than the dead.
Deep beneath the stone vaults of the Council Hall, the air was thick with ancient ink and the brittle smell of paper that hadn't been touched in generations. Light came from rune-lamps that pulsed with a dull, flickering amber. Somewhere in the dark, a scroll rolled off a stack with a dry whump, and Durgan Flintbrew cursed under his breath.
He adjusted his copper-rimmed goggles and ran a thick hand through his unruly iron-gray hair. His beard—braided in narrow cords tied with rings of burnished tin—was caked in grime. His forearms were stained with soot and ink in equal measure, sleeves rolled high above his elbows as if he might fistfight a manuscript into revealing its secrets.
"This has to be it," he muttered.
His calloused fingers turned a yellowed page, its surface featherlight with age. A symbol caught his eye: a broken hammer over crossed tongs.
His heart kicked.
> Site: Blackharrow Mine. Sealed by decree of High Smith Elnin Emberwright. Cause: Unstable ore contamination, warded anomaly. Do not reopen. Report to Archives 132-A.
Durgan leaned back and exhaled slowly.
"Stonefather's bones…"
He grabbed the scroll and bolted from the archive like a spark from an anvil.
---
The forgehall sang as it always had—a deep, resonant hum like the heartbeat of the mountain. Molten steel roared within the crucibles, casting shadows like leaping demons across the vaulted ceiling. Chains groaned. Hammers rang. Fire danced.
Tharnak Deepdelve stood at the edge of the great forge, unmoving. A broad dwarf, built of stone and sinew, his skin weathered like cracked granite. Black hair framed his face, streaked with the faintest thread of silver, and his beard—long, thick, and split into three tight braids—was bound with rings of dulled mithril.
He wore a steel-ribbed hauberk over worn leather, and hanging from the hook on the wall, resting easy but ready, was the Embersteel warpick known as Pyrebite. The metal shimmered faintly in the glow, its head veined with glowing orange like trapped flame beneath a stone crust.
The weapon was a relic from his younger years—unremarkable to the untrained eye, but forged from ore only found once in a dozen generations.
Durgan found him there, halfway between the hammer's rhythm and memory.
"You look like you're staring into something that might stare back," Durgan said, catching his breath.
Tharnak didn't turn.
"I usually am," he replied.
Durgan held up the scroll. "I found it. Blackharrow's real. We were right."
At that, Tharnak turned.
His eyes, deep-set and gray as a stormy lake, locked on the alchemist. "You're sure."
"Positive. Direct citation from Emberwright's own seal—132-A. There's mention of a sealed ore vein and an unstable enchantment—corruptive, he called it. And you know what that means."
Tharnak said nothing. His gaze drifted to the forge flame, where memories flickered just out of reach.The amber vault collapsing. His father's final stand with Orecleaver in hand as he fought against a massive tunnel-maw, corrupted by a strange power that caused it to rampage across the upper deep roads. The ancient warpick lost along with his father. The grief…
"I'm forming a team," Durgan continued, more carefully now. "Need a fighter, a delver. Someone who's travelled deeper than anyone else. Will you join me?"
Tharnak looked thoughtful as he turned to his trusted weapon hanging from its resting place and moved to rest a callused hand on Pyrebite's haft. He could almost feel the weight of the tunnels already—cool, heavy, familiar. But it wasn't eagerness that gripped him.
It was a call.
"Gather the team," he said. "We leave in two days."
---
The Deepdelver's Hall – Later That Night
The chamber beneath his quarters was small, but sacred. A single lantern flickered beside the low stone altar where the Deepdelve crest had been carved by his grandfather's hands. He sat cross-legged on the floor, Pyrebite laying across his knees.
He'd never been one for prayers.
But the quiet here helped him think.
The name Blackharrow brought with it a weight that pulled at something deeper than fear. The ore, the seal, the mention of Emberwright—it wasn't just another abandoned dig site. This was the kind of place that left scars on the bones of the mountain.
He turned the war pick in his hands. Its Embersteel blade shimmered faintly, as if sensing the pull of something below.
"I don't know what we'll find," he muttered to the stone. "But if this is the way forward, I'll walk it."
He didn't ask for answers.
He asked only for the strength to carry the burden.
---
They met the following dawn in the Deepdelver's war room, standing around a long map table carved with the layered terrain of the underrealm. Runes glowed faintly across its surface, tracking old shafts, forgotten junctions, and sealed veins.
The company was small but formidable.
The dwarf, Kaela Ironroot arrived first, all lean muscle and sharp-eyed precision. Her leathers were dull gray, patch-sewn and worn, with dagger hilts at each hip and a small matte black crossbow strapped to her back. She nodded once, serious as always.
"This'll be like Kargath's Collapse, won't it?" she said.
Tharnak grunted. "With luck, fewer gas leaks and explosions."
Next came Varn Karsten, towering over the others by a head. Human, but no stranger to tunnels, his long coat of riveted mail fell to his knees, and the saber at his side had a reputation that needed no introduction. He scratched his scarred cheek and gave Tharnak a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You know I hate deep delves. Guess I'm coming anyway."
Then Lessa Virel, pale as quartz and twice as quiet. Her robes shimmered faintly with blue-silver threads woven like veins of light, and her gaze swept the room with an arcanist's precision. She nodded to Tharnak.
"I've packed sigil chalk, wards, and my spellcord. If something's wrong down there, I'll feel it."
Tharnak looked them over—measured, steady.
"We leave at dusk," he said. "We're going deeper than anyone has been in centuries, pack with that in mind, now get some rest."
He paused, letting the weight of the journey sink in.
"If Blackharrow's still breathing… we'll be the first to hear it whisper."