The Dwarven War Council was a semicircle of obsidian and iron. Three days had passed since the trio entered the coldness of the mountains. The elders sat with their beards braided in gold, their eyes colder than the ore they mined. For hours, Yami and Ryan pleaded. They spoke of the "peace tax," of the burning villages, and of Gorr's shadow stretching a net that was casting over the trade routes.

  "The surface is a place of shifting sands, blowing winds, and raging storms, Young Chief of Nowhere," the High Arbiter droned. "Men die, and men are born. The mountain still remains. We will not spill a drop of dwarven blood for the fleeting feuds of a 'hearth-spark' quarrel; the tantrums of an infant race. You are but blinks in the eye of the stone. We do not draw steel for the disputes of those who won't live to see our next generation grow a proper beard."

  Ryan stood, slamming his fists on the marbled stone table to a roar of graveled grumbles from the shocked dwarves around them.

  “What will it take for you to see what Gorr is doing?” Ryan shouted, his inner furnace flaring. “Do you honestly believe he will be satisfied with what he has? He has already spilled dwarven blood, or have you forgotten?”

  More hushed grumbling from the others.

  “YOUNG CHIEF,” the Arbiter stood with his face reddening, raising his voice; spittle flying from his lips. “YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO THIS COUNCIL IN THIS MANNER! YOU ARE A GUEST HERE, AND YOU BEST REMEMBER THAT.”

  Ryan didn’t flinch at the Arbiter's shouting. He leaned in further, the heat from his "inner furnace" making the air between them shimmer.

  “You’re right, Arbiter.” he paused to compose himself. “My apologies. I ask only that you consider these words. A spark is brief,” Ryan said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that cut through the Arbiter's echoes. “But even the smallest spark can find the gas in a deep-vein of a mine. You sit here counting centuries like they’re coins in a vault, convinced the mountain will shield you forever. But stone doesn't just remain; it erodes.”

  He swept his gaze across the gold-braided elders, his eyes burning like a forge’s fire.

  “You say we won’t live to see your next generation grow their beards? You’re likely right. We’ll be dead and dust blowing in the wind. But if you let Gorr finish what he’s started, it won’t be dwarven hands braiding those beards. He’ll be shaving them from your corpses to line his boots. By the time you decide this 'infant race' has a point, your kingdom will be no more. You’ll just be a tomb that took three hundred years to finish.”

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  The silence that followed was thick, like the heavy fog of a swamp. The Arbiter’s face remained flush, but the fire in his eyes died down into something heavy and gray. He smoothed his braided beard with a steady hand and settled back into his obsidian throne, the stone creaking under his weight. "You have a forge in your chest, Young Ryan, and a tongue of sharpened iron," the Arbiter said, his voice returning to its hollow, rhythmic drone. "There is a weight to your words; a sharpness we have not felt in these halls for many an age. You will make a fine Chief one day, if perhaps not, a King, provided the world does not break you first."

  He paused, his gaze drifting to the shadows in the high rafters, staring at the dancing flames above. He stroked his braid and pondered his words carefully.

  "But beards are not grown on speeches, and the foundation of the world does not tremble for the fear of boots. Stone erodes, yes; but it takes an eon for the winds and rain to claim a mountain, and your Gorr is no eon. We will not move for a fire in the blood, nor will we chase every surface-spark that flickers in the dark. Our gates remain barred. We will not assist."

  He struck his staff against the floor, the sound echoing like a closing tomb.

  "This council is adjourned."

  The heavy iron doors groaned shut behind them, the boom echoing through the stone corridors like a funeral bell. Ryan’s hands were still trembling, the "inner furnace" within him cooling; the lava crusting in the coldness of the halls. He didn't look at the silent guards flanking them; he only saw the floor, the polished obsidian reflecting his own failure.

  "A king," Ryan spat the word like it was poison on his tongue. "He calls me a king while signing our death warrants. What good is a 'tongue of iron' if it can't move a single mountain?"

  Yami stopped, his heavy boots grinding against the stone. He reached out, his weathered hand, scarred from years of battle and lessons shared with Ryan, clamping firmly onto the young man’s shoulder. The grip was an anchor, pulling Ryan back from the edge of his rage.

  "Look at me, Ryan," Yami said, his voice a low, gravelly contrast to the Arbiter’s drone. "The Arbiter is old. He has forgotten that even the tallest mountain started as a shifting grain of sand. He sees the stone, but I see the forge."

  He squeezed Ryan’s shoulder, a gesture that had anchored the boy a thousand times since his father’s fall.

  "Your father didn't lead men because he was 'eternal' like these fossils. He led them because he was the spark that gave them warmth when the world went dark. You didn't fail in there. You made those old men remember what it feels like to be afraid of the wind. They’ll be thinking of your 'boots' tonight while they sleep in their tombs."

  Yami leaned in closer, his eyes reflecting a pride that no dwarven council could grant.

  "We didn't come here for their permission to fight, Ryan. We came for their steel. If they won't give it, we'll find another way. You’re already the Chief he said you'd be. Now, let’s go show Gorr that a 'hearth-spark' is enough to set his world on fire.”

  “Is now the time to tell him of our plan?” Ryan thought as a pride filled tear ran down his chin.