The heavy cell door slid open with a final pneumatic hiss, revealing not Forgemaster Borin, but two different dwarves. They were clad in the same functional, dark grey uniforms as the checkpoint guards, devoid of the heavy armour worn by the Cog Gate sentinels, suggesting a different role – internal security, perhaps, or wardens. They were shorter than Borin, stockier, with stern, impassive faces framed by neatly braided beards, one dark brown, the other fiery red. Their eyes, sharp and observant, immediately fixed on Lunrik, assessing him with cold neutrality. They carried no obvious weapons, but their stance radiated quiet competence and authority within this domain.
"Prisoner designated Surface-Gamma-Three," the brown-bearded dwarf stated, his voice flat and official, lacking Borin's gruffness. "You will accompany us. For questioning."
There was no room for refusal in his tone. Lunrik rose slowly from the metal slab, careful not to make any sudden movements that could be misinterpreted as aggression. His bruised ribs protested, and his ankle throbbed, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, masking the apprehension churning within him. He met the dwarf's gaze steadily. "Where?" he asked, keeping his voice even.
"To the Chamber of Inquiry," the red-bearded dwarf replied curtly. "Now."
They stepped aside, gesturing for Lunrik to exit the cell. He walked out into the corridor, keenly aware of the two wardens falling into step immediately behind him. He glanced towards Kaelith's cell door as they passed, then Eryndor's. Both remained sealed, silent. Were they being questioned simultaneously? Or was he the primary focus, perhaps due to the Banehallow connection Borin had identified?
They marched back down the sterile corridor, retracing the path to the lift platform. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic thud of their boots on the metal floor. Lunrik's mind raced, trying to anticipate the nature of the interrogation. Would it be physical? Magical (did dwarves use magic beyond their runic technology)? Psychological? He tried to recall fragments of Alaric's knowledge about dwarven customs, but information on Grimfang Deep was scarce, mostly relegated to fearful legends and dismissed rumors among surface dwellers. Isolationist. Technologically advanced. Deeply distrustful of outsiders, especially werewolves and Banehallows. That was the sum of it. Not encouraging.
They reached the lift, and the brown-bearded warden pressed a complex sequence of runes on the control panel. The lift arrived silently and opened. They stepped inside, and the warden selected a level much higher up – level thirty-five, according to the glowing indicator. The doors closed, and the lift ascended smoothly.
Level thirty-five felt different from the detention block. The corridors here were wider, the lighting warmer, the walls panelled with dark, polished wood inlaid with intricate metalwork instead of stark steel. The air smelled cleaner, carrying faint hints of polished wax and old parchment. There were fewer guards visible, replaced by dwarves in scholarly robes or intricate guild attire moving with quiet purpose. This felt like an administrative or perhaps judicial level.
They were led down a long corridor lined with heavy, ornately carved wooden doors bearing dwarven runes Lunrik couldn't decipher. They stopped before one particularly imposing door, crafted from dark, iron-banded wood, marked with the symbol of a balanced scale held within interlocking gears.
The red-bearded warden knocked twice, a precise, metallic rap. A low voice from within responded in guttural Dwarven. The warden replied briefly, and the heavy door swung silently inwards, operated by some unseen mechanism.
The wardens gestured for Lunrik to enter, then followed him inside, taking up positions just inside the door, their stance watchful but unobtrusive.
The room was not the stark interrogation chamber Lunrik had braced himself for. It was more like a formal council room or study, albeit one carved from solid rock deep within the mountain. The walls were lined with shelves holding heavy, leather-bound tomes and intricate mechanical models. A large, polished stone table dominated the center of the room, its surface etched with complex star charts or geological maps. Several high-backed chairs, ornately carved, were placed around it. The air was still and quiet, imbued with a sense of immense age and gravitas.
Seated behind the table were three dwarves. In the center sat an elderly dwarf with a magnificent, floor-length white beard braided with silver rings, his face a network of deep wrinkles, his eyes possessing a startlingly sharp, ancient wisdom. He wore robes of deep blue velvet, embroidered with silver gears and stars. To his left sat Forgemaster Borin, his expression as stern and unreadable as ever. To his right sat another dwarf, female, with sharp features, dark hair severely pulled back, wearing the intricate bronze insignia of what Lunrik guessed might be the Guild of Artificers or Engineers. Her eyes, like Borin's, were sharp, analytical, missing nothing.
The elderly dwarf in the center regarded Lunrik silently for a long moment, his gaze penetrating, seeming to weigh Lunrik's very soul. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft, yet carried immense authority, echoing slightly in the stone chamber. His Lykandran was flawless, tinged only with the faintest, archaic accent.
"Welcome to Grimfang Deep, surface dweller," he said, his tone neutral, neither welcoming nor hostile. "I am High Loremaster Thrain, Speaker for the Guild Council in matters external. Beside me are Forgemaster Borin of the Gate Wardens and Master Artificer Gyra of the Kinetics Guild. You have… disturbed our isolation."
Lunrik inclined his head respectfully, sensing the immense power – political and perhaps personal – radiating from the High Loremaster. "My arrival was not by choice, High Loremaster. We were fleeing threats on the surface."
"So Forgemaster Borin informs us," Thrain said, steepling his fingers, his ancient eyes fixed on Lunrik. "Threats involving Ashfang werewolves pursuing a Frostmane heir for knowledge of ancient passes. And… unknown hunters wielding advanced energy technology, specifically scanning for 'Banehallow emissions'." He paused. "You were identified by Forgemaster Borin as potentially bearing the Banehallow curse."
Lunrik met his gaze, deciding evasion was pointless. "I bear the Heir's Stigma, yes," he admitted quietly. "As does the Frostmane captive. My companion does not." He corrected his earlier gamble, hoping directness might serve him better now.
Thrain nodded slowly, as if confirming something. Master Artificer Gyra leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes gleaming with intense interest. "The energy rifle your companion retrieved from the fallen hunter leader," she interjected, her voice crisp and precise. "Preliminary scans indicate a technology unlike anything conforming to known surface magical principles or standard dwarven kinetics. Its power source is contained, shielded, and highly sophisticated. Its discharge pattern… intriguing. Who are these hunters, werewolf? Where did they acquire such technology?"
"We do not know," Lunrik answered honestly. "We encountered them for the first time near the glacier. Dark uniforms, no insignia, disciplined, silent. They track werewolves, specifically heirs, using scanners. Their motives are unknown."
"And the Banehallow emissions?" Forgemaster Borin rumbled, leaning forward. "What significance does that hold for them?"
"Again, I do not know," Lunrik said, choosing his words carefully. "The curse… resonates. Perhaps their technology detects that resonance. Why they seek it, I cannot say. Perhaps to study it? Weaponize it? Eliminate it?"
High Loremaster Thrain remained silent, observing Lunrik intently. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice soft but carrying weight. "The Banehallow line has a long, unfortunate history intertwined with the Skyrend Peaks, and occasionally, with the borders of Grimfang Deep. Ambition, betrayal, cursed blood… these themes echo through your generations, surface dweller. Magdra Ashgrim seeking ancient passes into our domain is… predictable, if unwelcome." He paused. "But this new element – technologically advanced hunters specifically targeting your cursed lineage using methods unknown even to us – this is… novel. And deeply concerning."
He leaned back slightly. "Your immediate fate, and that of your companions, rests on the information you provide, and its veracity. We must understand the nature of this external threat, especially if it involves technology capable of detecting specific bloodlines or energies near our borders." His gaze hardened slightly. "Cooperation will be met with… consideration. Deception, however, will be met with the full weight of Grimfang justice, which is as unyielding as the mountain itself."
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Lunrik knew he was walking a knife's edge. He needed to provide enough information to satisfy their concerns, particularly about the unknown hunters, without revealing the true depths of his own identity, the rebirth, or the full implications of the curse and its origins. He had to convince them he was merely a pawn, a hunted heir caught in events beyond his control, while subtly guiding their focus towards the external threats that genuinely did concern them. The interrogation had begun, the questions carved not in flesh, but in ancient stone and dwarven suspicion. His answers would determine whether they left this mountain kingdom alive, or became permanent additions to its forgotten depths.