Sample: Prologue & First Three Chapters

Prologue — The Prisoner

The cave was deafeningly silent-save for the rhythmic drip... drip... drip of water falling from the ceiling. Each drop echoed against the stone, a heartbeat in the darkness.

Centuries of erosion had hollowed the rock, loosening soil and shale until the faintest shard of what lay buried beneath was revealed-the soul gem.

In the blackness, an ant wandered in search of food. Its leg brushed away the last grain of dirt clinging to the gem's crust. That tiny touch stirred what had slumbered for millennia. A presence older than memory shivered awake.

The ant froze. In that instant, its spark of life was drawn away. To most, it was nothing-a single mote snuffed out. But to the demon within, it was everything. From emptiness came a flicker of power. His will stretched inches from the gem, fragile but alive. He would wait for the next living thing to wander near.

Years passed. The shard gleamed faintly now-a lure in the dark. A blind cave mouse crept closer, whiskers trembling. The demon's meager strength brushed the creature's mind, tugging it forward. Whether it came to gnaw or explore mattered little. The moment claw touched crystal, its life winked out.

For the first time in millennia, the prisoner tasted more than nothing. The bindings had weakened, if only slightly. His reach grew-to feet instead of inches. Something larger, something stronger, might loosen them further.

Time bled onward. Then came a new sound: claws skittering on stone. From the deeper tunnels crept a gloomcrawler, a pale, many-legged beast whose bulbous eyes saw nothing but whose senses drank the dark. Its mandibles scraped the floor as it crept toward the gem's faint glow. The demon's will, bolstered by stolen sparks, stretched outward. He brushed the creature's simple mind, coaxing, commanding. It hesitated-then obeyed. One hooked claw struck the shard.

The gem drank greedily. The gloomcrawler convulsed, limbs thrashing until it fell still, its husk curling inward like a withered leaf. A faint claw mark remained etched in the crystal's surface- the first scar of rebirth.

Within the prison, the chaos demon swelled with dark satisfaction. Each death fed him, stretched his reach, taught him patience. His whispers now brushed the dreams of the weak- seers, prophets, madmen who mistook his murmur for revelation. Yet he could not command them. Not yet.

If only I could touch something stronger, the thought coiled through the dark, something with magic in its blood.

With such a host, the bindings would crumble. His will would slip beyond stone and shadow, into minds, into flesh, into the living world.

And when that day came, all of Atheron would kneel in silence.

Chapter 1 — Havenmoor

Several days' march to the south of the mountain lay the town of Havenmoor. It was small, quiet, and easily overlooked, a collection of timbered homes and stone workshops gathered around a modest square. Yet it was remarkable in one respect: dwarves, elves, gnomes, halflings, and humans lived there together. Some called it a glimpse of a better age; others said such harmony could never last.

The river bent around Havenmoor like an arm, its water green-brown and quick over stones. Roofs were shingled in slate or thatch, windows leaded with tiny panes that caught the morning light. The square itself was cobbled and slightly uneven, and when it rained, puddles gathered exactly where everyone expected them to.

The bell tower leaned just enough to make visitors uneasy and locals fond. A sign over the baker's door, "Hearth to Hand," squeaked whenever the breeze changed. Chimneys smoked lazily, carrying the scent of pine ash and rising bread into the early sky.

The night air was still, but Mira Underbough tossed beneath her quilt as if caught in a storm. Her small halfling hands clenched the blanket, her breath ragged. In her dream she stood in darkness that smelled of ash and stone.

A single red light pulsed beneath the ground like a buried heart. When it flared, a voice without words brushed her thoughts, ancient, hungry, certain. She tried to scream, but the sound sank into the black.

Mira woke with a gasp, the echo of that pulse still thudding behind her eyes. Sweat dampened her curls, her chest rising and falling too fast. The mantle clock ticked softly, mocking her with its ordinary rhythm.

"A dream," she whispered to the empty room. "Just a dream."

Her voice sounded smaller than the shadows allowed. She sat very still, letting the silence of the house settle back into place: the soft creak of the rafters, a mouse thinking better of the floorboard, the far-off hush of the river. The darkness behind her eyelids wanted to be red again. She opened her eyes instead.

She reached for her journal but hesitated. The quill hovered above the page, trembling. Red light, gem, no, an eye... None of it felt right. The memory faded even as she fought to hold it. With a sigh, she closed the book and blew out the candle.

"Tomorrow," she told the blank page, as if promises kept time better than clocks.

Morning crept gray and heavy with mist. Havenmoor smelled of fresh bread, coal smoke, and river water. Birds called from the thatch, the same notes repeated until they faded into the hum of morning life.

Captain Dorian Hale had already made his patrol twice before sunrise, his armor dull from use and his eyes sharp as cut stone. The people of Havenmoor trusted him, though most found his manner too rigid for festival day. He watched the caravans entering the gate, noting every crest and color. "No one wants a repeat of the border raids," he muttered to a young guard before turning toward the square.

Mira's bakery was already warm, the oven humming with familiar comfort. Her hands worked from habit, kneading, folding, brushing flour from her sleeves, but her mind drifted back to that dream. She checked the heat with her palm, the way her mother had taught her, feeling for the living breath of the fire, not just its blaze. The oven exhaled steadily, brick-warm and patient.

"Good," she murmured. "Steady is best today."

The walls glowed faintly gold as the first light seeped through the shutters. A loaf cracked open in the oven, sighing as steam escaped, and the simple sound steadied her.

A neighbor leaned through the open door, a human woman with kind eyes and flour on her cheek. "You all right, Mira? You look pale."

"I'm fine," Mira said quickly. "Just short on sleep."

"Well, rest tonight. The feast will keep you busy enough."

The woman sniffed appreciatively. "Saints, that smells like sense. Two seed loaves when you've got them?"

"You'll have them," Mira said, smiling for real. After the woman left, she dusted the bench and shook out her wrists. The dough pushed back at her palms like a stubborn child, elastic and alive.

The feast, Havenmoor's founding celebration, was the highlight of the year, when the five races gathered to honor the fragile peace that kept the town alive. Yet this year the air itself felt tense, like a held breath before a storm.

Out in the lane, someone argued about the price of nails. A cart wheel hit the same loose cobble it always hit and rattled the same complaint. The ordinary sounds of a town beginning its day-hammer strikes, vendors shouting, children chasing one another-seemed sharper, brighter, as though the day itself had been tuned too tightly.

By midday, the square was alive with color and noise. Halfling bakers carried baskets of steaming rolls; dwarves set up anvils to display polished tools; elves hung banners that shimmered green and gold; gnomes tested clockwork lanterns that glowed brighter than any candle. Children ran underfoot, their laughter mixing with the clang of hammers and the hum of trade.

A pair of human guards strolled by, helmets tucked under their arms. "If the speeches run long," one muttered, "I'm eating my own plume."

"Don't," the other said. "You'll choke on the pride." They both snorted, then straightened as an elven dignitary passed within earshot.

Mira wiped her palms on her apron and set a tray of honeyed knots to cool in the window. The mist had burned away, and the square now gleamed in richer tones-banner gold, dwarven steel, and the soft browns of fresh bread cooling in baskets.

For all its cheer, Mira sensed unease. Dwarves muttered that humans delayed payment for iron shipments. Elves frowned at the black smoke curling from human forges. Gnomes whispered that halflings were too sentimental to keep ledgers straight. Mira had lived long enough to know such whispers were the first cracks in stone.

At the forge, Master Garrun Stonevein argued with a human merchant over the price of nails. Sparks flashed as he pounded a glowing bar flat, his voice booming through the market. "You tell Lord Vale his coin is as thin as his patience!" he barked. Two traders paused near Mira's door, voices low.

"...I'm telling you, the road north isn't safe," said the first. "The road is never safe. It's a road," said the second.

"Tracks as wide as my hand," the first insisted. "And not boar."

Mira set out a plate of samples. Both men took them without breaking their argument. Bread softened edges, but it did not erase them.

She carried a tray of loaves to the long communal tables, settling near the end where she could watch unnoticed. Across from her, a dwarven trader grumbled to an elf with copper hair. "Humans promise silver and pay with words," he said.

The elf smiled thinly. "And dwarves never met a coin they didn't polish twice before parting with it."

"Only once," the dwarf said. "The second polish is to see if their face appears in it." He lifted a brow toward the human steward counting tallies three benches down.

The dwarf snorted, but the laughter that followed was brittle.

From a nearby bench, a halfling boy tossed crumbs to a pair of sparrows. "You think the peace will last, Pa?"

The older halfling shrugged. "So long as the ale does."

Someone farther back added, "Then keep the barrels rolling," and several voices answered, "Aye!" like a toast they needed to believe in.

Laughter rippled through the crowd, too loud, too quick. Mira looked down at her plate. The food was good, but her stomach refused it.

She rose to fetch water and nearly collided with a human apprentice from the smithy, his cheeks blackened, his eyes bright. "Sorry, miss!"

"You're fine," she said, steadying the jug. "Busy day?" "Master says so," he puffed. "Says busy means safe."

Mira nodded as if that were a blessing and not a bargain.

As twilight bled across the hills, a faint shimmer caught her eye, a crimson glint on the horizon, there and gone again. For an instant her pulse froze. The same color.

Her fingers tightened around the cup until the wood creaked. She blinked, and the ridge was only a ridge again. Light off slate, a trick of air.

A gnome beside her, his hair a sooty blond and his goggles perched askew, followed her gaze. "Strange hue, that. Almost like fire caught in glass. “Mira’s lips parted. "You saw it too?"

He nodded absently. "Fizzleburn, tinkerer by trade, professional hazard to ceilings. Lovely evening for omens, eh?"

Despite herself, Mira laughed softly. "If that's an omen, I'd rather not know what it means."

"Knowledge is never the enemy," Fizzleburn said, then paused. "Except when it explodes."

Their laughter drew curious glances but eased the tightness in her chest. Still, when the music swelled again and the dancers joined hands, Mira's gaze kept drifting to the darkening hills. The red flash had felt alive, watching.

Fizzleburn tipped his goggles up. "If you see it again, fetch me. I have a lens that might behave usefully before it becomes dangerous."

"That's not encouraging," she said.

"I'm a realist with hopeful tendencies." He bowed, nearly knocking his forehead on the table, and darted off toward a stall where a gnome argued with a dwarf about the correct number of rivets for anything that mattered.

At the edge of the square stood Envoy Syllara Moonglade, an elf draped in pale silver robes that shimmered faintly in the lantern light. She spoke to no one, her gaze fixed on the horizon where mist met the hills. Some whispered she saw omens there, signs written in the clouds.

Later, as lanterns lit the square, a hush spread through the crowd. At the edge of the festival stood a figure wrapped in travel-stained robes, a wandering bard with a silver lute slung over his back. Without a word, he began to play.

The melody was simple but old, rising and falling like a heartbeat. His voice joined it, soft but clear:

"Five hands built this haven fair, Five hearts bound it true;

But should their faith be sundered bare, The flame will burn them through."

When the song ended, no one spoke for a moment. Then applause burst out, too relieved, too eager. Mira felt the words coil around her like smoke. *The flame will burn them through.*

A human woman near the front crossed herself in the way of the river-folk. A dwarf muttered, "Bad luck to sing of fire on feast night." The bard bowed again, expression unreadable, and melted into the margin of the square as if he had always belonged to edges.

Matron Bera Underbough oversaw the halfling bakers, her apron dusted in flour and her scarf bright as spring moss. "Peace is kneaded, not forged," she joked as she broke bread for the crowd.

Later, when she saw Mira's troubled expression, she rested a flour-coated hand on her arm. "Dreams can frighten or warn, dear. Either way, they mean the world is about to change."

Mira left the table and walked to the fountain at the square's center. The moon shimmered on its surface, turning the water red for a heartbeat before the reflection shifted back to silver. She knelt, touching the cool stone edge.

Coins, bright and dull, winked on the bottom where wishes went to sleep. Her mother's wish lay somewhere among them. She had tossed it three summers ago for health, and health had not listened. Mira pressed her palm to the stone until it ached.

By the fountain, Tinkmaster Pindle Cogswright barked at two gnomish apprentices adjusting a clockwork lantern rig. Tiny gears spun as he muttered about inefficiency and candle ratios. "You burn one lumen too high and the shadows take offense!" he snapped. When the lights flickered to life, he nodded in satisfaction, unaware of the sparks beginning to leap between distant rooftops, an omen of what was to come.

Mira turned as Fizzleburn approached, wiping soot from his sleeve even though there had been no fire. "Strange thing," he said quietly. "All that joy, yet everyone keeps glancing to the hills. You feel it too, don't you?"

"Yes," Mira admitted. "Something is coming."

He nodded, serious now. "Then we'd best be ready when it gets here." "Ready how?" she asked.

"By believing our eyes before our pride," he said, surprising her with the steadiness of it, "and by having a plan that involves fewer speeches and more sand buckets."

Above them, a distant rumble rolled across the night, the faintest tremor, almost mistaken for thunder. But the sky was clear. Mira looked toward the mountains, where the darkness seemed to pulse once, red and deep as the memory of her dream.

She wasn't the only one who heard it. The elven banner-bearer turned his head a fraction. The human steward miscounted and swore under his breath. A halfling child climbed into her father's lap and did not ask why.

The noise faded. Laughter rose again, cautious and forced. Havenmoor's lights glowed bright against the gloom, pretending the shadows weren't watching.

"Bad ground sometimes," someone said to no one in particular. "Hollow places." "Rock settles," another agreed, much too quickly.

That night, long after the feast had ended, Mira sat awake by her window. The hills were black shapes under the moon. No red glimmer marked the horizon now, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something waited beyond sight, something patient, older than any peace their town could build.

A horse stamped twice in a nearby stall. The bell rope knocked once against its board and then was still. From far downriver, a boatman sang a line of a work song and then thought better of a second.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "If it was a warning, please, let us listen before it's too late." The wind slipped through the shutters, carrying with it the faint scent of ash. She lay back and pulled the quilt to her chin. Sleep came, then wavered, then came again like a cautious guest. The last thing she felt before it took her was the steady breathing of the oven below, warm through the floorboards, as if the house itself promised to hold heat a little longer against whatever cold might be coming.

Chapter 2 — Stonecross

Three days' march northwest of Havenmoor, another vision would affect the town of Stonecross. Stonecross had always been a human town, and proud of it. Built where two old trade roads met, its walls had been raised by calloused human hands, its fields plowed by their sweat.

Dwarves might pass through on business, elves might skirt its edges, but few lingered long. Outsiders were tolerated so long as they spent coin quickly and left just as quickly.

The people of Stonecross liked to say their walls kept out orcs and goblins, but in truth they kept out anything that did not fit neatly into a human measure of the world.

Even now, as rumors of visions spread, suspicion colored every mention of dwarves, elves, gnomes, and halflings who claimed to share the dream.

In taverns and workshops alike, men spoke lower than usual. The markets were still busy, but the noise had changed, not cheerful barter, but wary talk pressed between coin counts. Even the wind that rattled the shutters seemed to listen.

Not but a few hours after the midnight watch patrolled the streets, Eldris woke gasping, sweat chilling his skin. He pressed his palm against the table where parchment lay scattered, half finished words scrawled in his restless hand: fire, mountain, chosen. The crow feather mantle lay waiting, and he drew it over his shoulders, whispering, "The voice calls us. The voice calls men first."

For a long moment he stared at the ink glistening in lamplight, the edges of each letter trembling. Outside, the watch bell tolled once, a hollow sound swallowed quickly by fog.

He tried to recall the precise vision and felt it slipping, like water between fingers. A room of stone, a glow below the floor, a pressure in his chest that was not pain, a command without words. He gathered his quills and parchment and set out for the tavern.

The streets were slick with dew, his boots whispering on cobble. From the forge row came the fading scent of quenched iron. From the baker's quarter, a ghost of heat that made his stomach tighten. The silence of his small home had been too deafening. The tavern, though rowdy, let him think.

When he entered, the air was thick with pipe smoke and laughter half forced by ale. The Copper Flagon always smelled of spilled beer, leather, and the iron tang of men who worked with tools heavier than their words. The hearth spit pine sap with tiny pops. A serving girl threaded through the press with a tray held high and an expression that did not invite foolishness.

Eldris took his usual corner. The crow feather mantle draped across his shoulders made him look broader, shadowed. He ordered wine and cleared parchment space with the flat of his palm. Above the clamor of dice and mugs came the strum of a lute. A bard's voice carried just enough to hush the nearest tables.

"The mountain holds a deeper song than stone that rings within these walls," the bard sang, his voice rising, half music, half the sound of fate.

"In Ironvein's dark and dusty heart, where the dwarven hammers beat, A miner woke, his hands blood starred, from stone cold sleep and heat. He'd crushed his pick of weathered steel, his fingers raw and stained, For in his sleep, the truth he'd feel, the prophecy explained:

The earth did split, not for the ore, no silver vein did glow,

But hell's hot tongue and molten roar, a fire that burned the bone from flesh below! He swore the strike that broke his rest was not his strength alone,

But the Mountain's will, within his breast, carved out of ancient stone."

A few miners muttered uneasily into their mugs, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling beams. One man crossed himself with calloused fingers. Another set his tankard down with care, as if sudden noise might invite something to listen.

The lute thrummed lower.

"And westward, where the moonlight sleeps, upon the moss and pine," the bard went on, his voice softening to a whisper, "a different dreamer weeps.

An elven maid beneath the moon, woke in the dew and chill,

She dreamt the roots would perish soon, the forest hushed and still. She saw the ancient, sacred groves all blackened, bowed, and low,

A voice she heard that sweetly roves, promising power, warning woe. Fair and foul in the same breath it spun, of ruin soon to claim,

Crying out, 'The fight is won, if you but speak the Wildwood's name!'"

The tavern shifted with whispers. Some scoffed, some crossed themselves, others drank harder. Chairs scraped as men leaned closer to one another. A dice game paused and did not resume.

Eldris listened in silence, jaw tight. If dwarves and elves too had visions, then perhaps the call was not his alone. The thought curdled in him. He drained his cup, fire and fear burning together in his chest.

A gruff farmer slammed his mug down. "Elves claim their dreams are clearer than ours," he said. "They have always thought themselves better."

A younger man muttered from the corner, "And dwarves want coin for every tale. If their gods sent visions, they would charge us at the gate to hear them."

Laughter rippled, short, mean, half relief. The serving girl rolled her eyes and kept moving. The barkeep polished the same cup until it shone.

Eldris rose slightly, the feathers of his mantle brushing the lamp's glow. "The elves speak of clarity," he called, voice steady but edged. "But their clarity has always looked down upon us. Will you bow?"

A voice jeered from the back, "Not to pointy ears."

The crowd laughed, hands slapping tables. Encouraged, Eldris's tone sharpened. "The dwarves weigh every word in gold. Their hammers rise only when their purses are full."

A tradesman spat into the dust. "Stone grubbers. Let them keep their coin. We will keep our land."

More agreement, louder this time. Tankards struck tabletops in a rough rhythm.

Eldris felt the room tilt with him, the way heat tilts a forge. "The mountain's call is not for the proud nor the greedy," he said, voice rising, "but for the strong. For man. For those who work the earth and bleed upon it."

Cheers erupted, some from belief, most from drink. But belief would grow in that soil. He felt it even as the bard let his last note die, the string buzzing a fraction out of true.

Late into the night the mistrust of old allies began to bloom like mold. Jokes grew sharper, stories grew crueler, and a few men who would have shared bread with a gnome last month spoke as if they had never done so. It was not until the town guards stomped in to enforce last call that the fever broke. The laughter was brittle again, like glass cooling too quickly.

Eldris half stumbled home, parchment clutched to his chest. The streets shimmered under lantern haze. The moon was a dull coin caught in cloud. Somewhere a dog barked twice then fell quiet, as if scolded by the dark.

As he walked, he muttered to himself, rewriting the speech that had already begun to take shape. He could not stand by and allow dwarves or elves to claim whatever this power was and lord it over men. Tomorrow was market day, a crowd ready for words, hungry for reason to feel chosen.

The square of Stonecross pulsed with life the next morning. Market stalls clattered, the smell of grain and forge smoke filled the air. Children darted between wagons, dogs barked, blacksmiths hammered in the distance.

The rhythm of commerce held the town together like a heartbeat. A woman haggled over onion bundles with the same fierceness she saved for prayer. A cooper thumped hoop into place and nodded to his apprentice without looking.

But when Eldris mounted the steps of the hall, the rhythm faltered. Heads turned. Conversations died in mid coin count. Even the pigeons on the eaves paused their shuffle.

He stood tall, hands clasped, crow feathers gleaming. "You have heard the whispers," he began, his voice carrying with practiced strength. "The dreams. The visions. A great power stirs beneath the mountain. Some hear it faint, some strong. But who among the races has spoken of it first. Who has carried the visions in truth."

Faces leaned closer. Even the children quieted, sensing spectacle. A boy climbed into a cart for a better view and his mother did not pull him down.

"It is we," he declared, raising one hand skyward. "It is man who is chosen."

A murmur ran through the crowd, doubt, awe, and pride in uneven measure. The miller frowned. The butcher smiled like a man hearing news that confirmed his guesses.

A farmer called out, "The elves say the mountain is forbidden. That no hand should touch its heart."

Eldris's eyes burned. "Then why does its voice reach human ears. Why do we dream while others deny. The elves hoard their secrets, the dwarves their gold, the gnomes their toys, the halflings their soil. But we, we are the ones the mountain calls."

He let the pause hang, then struck the next words like iron. "Because we are unafraid to listen."

Cheers burst from the younger men, fists raised, echoing against the stone facade. Not all joined. An old woman kept her arms folded. A mason exchanged a worried glance with his wife. The guard captain shifted his weight like a man who dislikes crowds yet must hold them.

"If orcs hear the call as well," someone shouted from near the well, "what makes us different from them."

"Difference lies in destiny," Eldris shot back without missing the rhythm. "Orcs seek ruin, goblins crave fire, trolls hunger for eternity. They twist the voice for destruction. But men, men build, men lead, men carry the torch forward. It is ours to claim, lest it be stolen."

More voices rose, "The halflings dream too," and, "The dwarves will claim it first with their stone walls."

Eldris lifted both arms. "Halflings dream of soil, dwarves build walls to hide. Men carry the fire. The mountain does not wait. If we falter, we forfeit the gift. If we stand, we claim what was promised. The voice is not for elves, dwarves, or gnomes. It is for us. It is for man."

Applause rolled unevenly, a wave that did not quite know whether to crash or recede. The baker's boy cheered because everyone else did. A scribe scratched notes in a ledger he would later pretend were accounts.

"Will you lead us, Eldris," a tanner called, half mocking, half sincere. "You with your feathers and your wine."

"I will speak what is given me," Eldris answered, keeping his chin high. "And I will not let other tongues speak it for us."

A few men shouted assent. Others looked away. The town went on breathing, though it felt different.

By evening the square was quiet again. The stalls packed away, only shadows lingered. A bent broom leaned against the hall step where someone had forgotten it. The sun bruised the western clouds purple and gray.

An elder approached the steps, leaning heavy on his staff. His beard was gray, his eyes steady. The smell of rain threatened though the sky stayed dry. He had walked Stonecross's streets longer than Eldris had been alive.

"You preach boldly," the elder said. "But take care. Visions are not chains to bind truth. Prophecy bends easily to ambition. A man may believe himself chosen and still lead his people to ruin."

Eldris forced a smile, though his jaw clenched. "And if I speak true. If the call is meant for us alone."

The elder's eyes narrowed. "Then it will prove itself without your shouting." He turned and left, staff striking stone, each tap echoing longer than seemed possible. A stray dog followed two paces then thought better of it.

Eldris remained on the steps long after dusk. The torches guttered. The market smell of bread and smoke faded to damp dust. He looked up at the mountain ridge barely visible in the haze. "It will prove itself," he whispered. "I will see to it."

His words fell flat in the empty square. He spoke them again, softer, to convince the part of himself that still doubted.

That night the vision returned, but changed.

This time the throne was crowded. A dwarf raised a hammer. An elf crowned in flame sang in tongues he could not understand. Gnomes worked with sparks. Halflings sowed glowing seeds. Their hands pushed him back as he reached. He tried to force his way through and felt the floor harden beneath his feet, slick and cold. He woke gasping, fury shaking his limbs.

"If they claim it," he whispered, clutching his quill, "man will be nothing. Less than nothing. Their pets. Their slaves."

He sat, chest heaving, as moonlight struck the inkpot. A fly drifted lazy circles around the lamp and bumped the glass with a faint, foolish sound.

On his parchment he scored through the words the call is for all until the page tore. Beneath it he wrote in bold strokes: The call is for man first.

Ink bled thick, like blood. He wrote again: Unity is illusion. Destiny belongs to those who seize it. If others hear, it is only to test our resolve.

He set down the quill, watching the ink shine wet and dark. "Better to seize a lie," he muttered, "than to be enslaved by another's truth."

Sleep would not come. He lay awake, counting the space between the watch bells. When the fourth struck, the silence was broken by a faint rhythm. At first he thought it his heart. But it grew louder, steady, carrying across the hills.

Drums.

Eldris rose, mantle wrapped tight, and stepped to his window. Ravens gathered on the roofline, black wings silhouetted against the moon. Each beat of the drum echoed in his chest. He did not feel fear. He felt inevitability.

"The call has come," he whispered. "And it will be ours.” He stood there until his legs ached. Then he sat and wrote the opening of another speech, the letters too neat for a man so tired.

In Havenmoor, another felt the mountain's whisper.

In a cluttered workshop lit by sputtering lamps, a young gnome startled awake with a shout. Fizzleburn's hair stood on end, already wild from smoke and grease, and his heart hammered in his chest. The dream clung to him, a mountain split by fire, a hum of power so vast it shook the ground, gears and levers whirring around it like stars caught in orbit.

He grabbed a scrap of parchment and scribbled furiously. Designs to hold it. Harness it. Yes, a dynamo large enough to drink the very fire of the mountain. His quill scratched calculations in margins, notes half legible. He talked to himself because his thoughts sounded sturdier when spoken aloud.

"At least five thousand arcane lumens," he muttered. "Maybe more. I could generate that with a triple reactive compound of saltpeter and ether flux, mixed with, no, no, that ratio will crack the housing."

There was a boom. A small flask on the bench burst into sparks, singeing his sleeve. He yelped and stomped the tiny fire with a rag that smelled of oil and onions. He coughed, waving smoke from his face, eyes watering.

"No, no, too unstable," he rasped. "What could power it, what could possibly." He stared at the diagram until the lines blurred and doubled. He drew a circle, then another, then a gear that refused to sit where it belonged.

His head sank onto the desk at last, exhaustion dragging him down. The parchment smoldered where droplets of chemical fire had landed. He slapped it out without looking. A spring released itself with a cheerful ping and rolled under a cabinet where nothing good ever returned from.

As his eyes closed, the dream returned.

The same mountain. The same fire. The same voice, calling not only to men, dwarves, elves, or halflings. It called to him, a gnome, with a promise not of crowns or soil, but of invention. It did not speak in words. It spoke in hum and pressure and the feeling of potential before a mechanism moves for the first time.

Fizzleburn twitched in his sleep, whispering, "Power needs a cradle." He reached for a pencil that was not there, his fingers tracing lines on the tabletop. Outside, Havenmoor slept under a sky that pretended to be calm.

Back in Stonecross, a final bell sounded. Eldris did not sleep. He watched the dark and waited for morning to give him a crowd.