The mountains were long behind them now.

  For days, the jagged ridges and narrow passes had been their world, stone walls rising like guardians on every side. But here, east of the spine of Kellen-Tir, the land loosened. Rolling hills stretched out beneath the wide sky, and then those hills flattened into open heath further ahead. Tall grasses swayed in the steady breeze, moving like a sea. The air felt different too, warmer. Somewhere beyond the rise ahead, the eastern shorelands waited, dotted with small farms and, past them, the blue-gray shimmer of the coast.

  Bram Flintbrace dragged his palm across his brow. His beard was damp with sweat, and he gave a low grunt. “Strange, how humans do it. They make lives out here with barely a rock in reach. No metal, no stone, no spine to the land. And still, they build. Poorly, aye, but build they do.”

  “People make do,” Torli Underpick said. The veteran tunnel-ranger chewed thoughtfully on a sprig of pine he had plucked somewhere along the way. “Sometimes that’s all the world gives you. Then it’s about what you do with it.”

  Farin Duskshade chuckled, light and sharp. “You’re saying that like it’s wisdom, Torli. Don’t forget, we live in a mountain. We’ve got stone to waste. Easy for us to scoff at grass huts and wooden fences.”

  That earned a few snorts from the group, and even Bram grinned. The mood lifted. Boots found rhythm in the dirt, and shoulders carried their packs a little easier.

  Most of them had never stepped so far outside dwarven lands. For some, this was the first time they’d seen a horizon that wasn’t cut off by stone. It unsettled them. It thrilled them. It made them whisper when they thought no one was listening.

  The dozen dwarves moved in a staggered column across the heath, weapons sheathed, packs strapped low. Their cloaks were plain, travel-worn, without banners or marks of rank. A few bore clan crests stitched into the fabric, but faded from years of wear. They looked more like wanderers than emissaries, and perhaps that was the point.

  At the rear of the column walked Korrik Helmbarrow. One eye always scanned the ridgelines, his shoulders taut like a bowstring. He had seen war—real war, not the kind that gets carved into stone reliefs back home. His silence was heavier than the packs they carried.

  He finally broke it, speaking loud enough to cut through the laughter. “This journey isn’t meant for fighting,” he said. His voice was gravel, steady and low. “But sometimes a fight doesn’t care what you came for.”

  The others fell quiet.

  Korrik slowed his step, letting his gaze sweep the grass around them. Then he added, “That’s not to sour the day. But it’s truth. Watch your steps. Keep your blades sharp. Just because we came to see doesn’t mean we won’t be seen.”

  They all nodded at that. No one argued.

  There were twelve. Chosen not for titles, not for rank, but for something else. A stonecutter with no wall to build. A smith whose forge had gone cold. A scrivener who had once studied demons in the Archive before the council locked that wing away. Restless hands. Unused minds. They hadn’t asked to go, but when their names were called, none had refused.

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  One morning last week, Balek Hearthgleam had stood before them in the Hall of Echoes, with the king’s quiet blessing still echoing in the chamber. He’d spoken little, but his words lingered even now. Since then, the crew had grown to know each other better than they had before; most were simply acquaintances, or even outright strangers, and learning about each other was the greatest part of the journey so far.

  “You are what remains of the spark,” he had told them. “Don’t let it die under ash.”

  Marn had followed, more practical, his words rough and direct. He’d given them routes, signs, and signals to use if they needed rescue. Then he had called one name above the rest.

  “Thora Greyfell.”

  She had blinked, startled, but did not protest. Daughter of a stonewright, a builder by trade. Not loud, but steady. She spoke little, but when she did, the others listened. There was a weight to her, calm and grounded, like bedrock beneath shifting soil.

  Marn had looked her in the eye. “You’ve no thirst for titles. That means you won’t be blinded by one. Keep them together.”

  Now, as the company neared the crest of the hill, Thora walked near the center, one hand resting on the haft of her mattock. Her eyes stayed forward, but her voice carried.

  “They say the sea looks endless,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Hard to imagine that. Even the deepest tunnel has an end.”

  Bram spat into the grass. “I’d rather face a tunnel collapse than waves taller than a tower.”

  Farin smirked. “Just don’t fall in the ocean, Bram. And remember our story if we start to see humans and one asks why we’re here. We’re looking for humans interested in trade. Nothing more. Most of you lot are too dim to keep a lie going any further than that.”

  That earned more laughter, lighter this time but edged with nerves. The sea was close. They could feel it.

  Korrik drifted closer to the front. His single eye flicked to Thora. “You’re quiet,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

  Thora took a slow breath. “The mountain,” she admitted. “I keep thinking about what Balek said. That we’re the spark. What happens if we’re snuffed out before we even reach where we’re going?”

  Bram frowned. “You always think like that?”

  “Not always,” Thora said. Her grip tightened on the mattock. “Just enough.”

  Korrik gave a grunt that might have been approval. They walked on.

  When they reached the crest, the land before them opened wide. The grass rolled down toward scattered farms, tiny dots of brown and green stitched together. Beyond, the blue-gray stretch of the sea caught the sunlight, glimmering like hammered silver. It went on and on, farther than their eyes could reach.

  For a long time, no one spoke.

  At last, Bram said quietly, “By the Stonefather… it really doesn’t end.”

  Farin chuckled, but there was awe in it too. “Looks like it might swallow the world whole.”

  Torli spat the pine sprig into the dirt. “Best not to test it, then.”

  The group lingered, staring out at the horizon. Some felt small. Others felt curious. For Thora, the sight pressed down on her chest, both frightening and thrilling. The mountain was far behind them now. Ahead was something vast, something unknown.

  She thought of the words Balek had spoken again. You are what remains of the spark.

  And she wondered, standing in the grass with her kin beside her, whether a spark could survive this wide, wild world.