The map room reeked of mildew and age. When Luenor stepped through the threshold, the metal door creaked ever so softly against the stone walls. He quickly closed it behind him, locking the door. He sighed with relief. Tables and walls were covered in scrolls and drawings: maps of the forges, routes through the mountains, and drafts of the infinitely intricate mechanisms behind the Skyshard Blades.
Luenor walked hurriedly, memorizing the locations of the primary egresses, the forge chambers, and the subterranean reservoirs that operated the vents. He took note of the guard posts; but most importantly, he located a storage vault. It was marked with the rune of secrecy, and while he didn't know exactly what it held, it would certainly be valuable—be it a hoard of materials, blueprints, or scraps with inspiring possibilities.
Just as the adrenaline surged in him and he turned to leave, he felt the mana distort around him: a presence. Someone was coming. He ducked into the corner just as the door creaked open. The guard stepped inside, whistling. Luenor grabbed a pre-owned torch from the wall and as if he were a fucking master in improvisation, he craned it forward and slammed it against the guard's skull. The man crumpled silently.
But the act did not go unnoticed.
Elsewhere in the forge, two guards who were patrolling stumbled upon an unconscious comrade. Chaos erupted, and within moments, a red alarm was flashing throughout the halls. Bells chimed, and lights turned red.
Back in the innermost chambers of the forge, Hunter and Chote were hidden inside crates as they were pushed by workers down the rail system. Chote, through a crack in the crate, watched as dwarves and humans worked side by side, with steam hissing from pipes and molten metal ovaling and pouring into molds—it would harden into Skyshard Blades. In the barrens of the mold, the blades still projected strange shapes, but they looked like they would be beautiful.
One curious blacksmith raised the lid of one closest crate, but Hunter was quicker and punched him out cold. When several guards came rushing in, Hunter took them all out savagely.
All the workers froze in fear until Chote awkwardly climbed out of the crate and timidly waved.
The older dwarves were shocked into silence and began mumbling to each other in Dwarvish. Hunter turned to the man the group had been taking orders from, the forge-master, and said as plainly as he could, "This one's here to learn. Please tell him everything about these blades." The man hesitated—but the arrival of another dwarf brought him around. "Or else...."
Then the alarm sounded.
Panic spread. The dwarves ran for their stations. Hunter cursed and gripped Chote's shoulder. "Stay out of sight. Learn. I'll take care of the rest."
Far away from the forge, there were side streets in the city of Carrowhelm. Tio sped through the puddles and ash, escapably light on his feet like a shadow. He had seen a caravan of armored knights, undoubtedly from the capital, passing through the city towards the castle of Marquess Mellon. This isn't good. It was supposed to be quiet tonight, especially in the Lowlands.
He barreled through the door of the makeshift HQ and danced straight to Gurt and Dion. "Knights! From the forest! Headed to the Marquess!"
Dion was clearly the leader because he was the only one that stood up. He had just returned from the noble district where he had cut it close.
Backstory: Dion had escaped an extremely close call himself. He had seen Maynard get pinched, and while he was free, a maid, perhaps catching onto his disguise, was also leading him right up to the guard post. Luckily, some child from the Lowlands bumped into the maid pretending to be lost, momentarily stunned her while Dion pushed between her and the guards. He was on the roof before she could raise an alarm, miles away from the guards, with the help of Ross, and some of his other buddies from the Lowlands, who of course led the guards the wrong way.
He was safe now and had grown himself accustomed to the merchant ledgers and related documents when they annexed some gangs. The majority of the illegitimate gangs were those which had extorted traders and shopkeepers. This was the old paperwork they would keep for leverage.
One name kept appearing—Rehnic Valdros.
A shady merchant with no shopfront, no direct transactions. He only appeared as an intermediary. Cross-referencing the dates, Dion noticed that every time Linlin's name appeared in city gossip or trade talk, Rehnic's name showed up in accounting ledgers of Mellon's men. He wasn't just a nobody. He was the bridge between Linlin and the Marquess.
Dion was about to take the information to Luenor when Tio arrived.
In the belly of the forge, Luenor was crouched by the guard's body. Voices echoed from the halls, searching parties. The red alarm was no fake, it was full alert.
He readjusted the helmet tightly and made his way through the tunnels, choosing to traverse shadowy passages, and walking beams straddling molten rivers. He needed to regroup with Hunter and Chote soon before they were forced to move into danger again.
Elsewhere in the forge, Hunter had darted into silver smoke and steel. He left Chote behind, where Chote slipped into shadows, trusting the dwarf to keep his head down. As alarms rang and guards went about locking down the exits, Hunter muttered, "This may be our only shot."
Back in the city, Marquess Mellon examined the new stack of papers laid before him. The popular explosion happening in the lower wards—previously blamed on the cult of Alofonso—was once again evidenced. The same magical residue used in the cult's beloved last attack some decades past, way up north.
"What are they doing here… all this time?" Mellon murmured to himself.
Just then his trusted knight Bobby came, huffing and panting. "Sir! The forge! Someone has infiltrated the forge!"
Marquess immediately got up from his seat and barked an order to Bobby, "Ready the knights, we are going to meet our intruders."