The dwarves set camp a half-mile north of Harbinth’s outer gates, tucked beneath a slope where old cedars leaned in the wind. Pale stone jutted out here and there, green lichen clinging to the cracks like paint left too long in the rain. From their rise, the lights of the city were plain to see. Lanterns flickered at the edge of the wall, and further off the port glowed faintly, fires and torches reflecting against the inlets.

  The ocean shimmered in the dark. Ships moved in and out as if the world had not changed, as if Elzibar had not burned.

  A small fire snapped at the center of their circle. It was the kind of flame made for warmth, not for show. No banners were hung. No carved stones marked their claim. On paper they were only traders, men and women traveling south with talk of new bronzeworks from the mountains and whiskey strong enough to win a deal.

  That was the story. But each of them knew their true task lay ahead.

  Thora Greyfell sat on an overturned crate, her mattock balanced across her knees. She dipped a cloth in oil and rubbed the metal head with slow, careful strokes. She had barely spoken since they entered the coastal lowlands, but her quiet steadiness made her the weight of the group.

  Bram Flintbrace broke the silence first. He tossed a dry twig into the fire and watched it curl to ash. “Still don’t know what we’re looking for,” he muttered. “A whole town wiped away, and not one word on why.”

  “Or how,” said Farin Duskshade, seated cross-legged on a folded cloak. “That’s the part that gnaws at me. Kobolds raid, yes, but they don’t burn out a town like Elzibar. Not without cause.”

  Korrik Helmbarrow spoke from the edge of the firelight, his scarred face half in shadow. “And no one saw them leave. Not one survivor who can say how they came or where they went.” He shook his head. “That isn’t normal.”

  Torli Underpick spat into the dirt. “They’re rats with blades. Clever enough, but not ghosts.”

  The fire crackled, and for a long moment no one spoke. A breeze whispered through the cedars. Sparks lifted into the night and vanished.

  Bram cleared his throat. “Could be nothing larger. Maybe it was one band. Hit hard, moved fast, and then gone. Not an army. Not a war.”

  He said it as if he wanted to believe it.

  Torli leaned forward, the firelight throwing his lined face into sharp relief. “And what about tomorrow?” he asked, changing the subject.

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  Thora finally spoke. Her voice was steady, low, but it carried. “Tomorrow we walk among them. We won’t just pass ourselves as traders. We’ll see the docks. The markets. The guards. Where people whisper when they think no one is listening. That will tell us what Harbinth hides.”

  Korrik’s one good eye glinted. “That’s the measure. If there’s rot under the stone, it will show in the joints.”

  The group fell into silence again. The fire burned lower, coals glowing red.

  One by one, they peeled away from the circle. Bram stretched out near the base of a cedar, hands folded under his head. Farin curled against her pack, cloak wrapped tight. Torli sat for a while longer with his mace across his knees before settling back, his snores soon rising into the night.

  No tents were pitched. Nothing that could be mistaken for permanence. They were here to pass through, to see, to remember, and perhaps to warn.

  As others prepared for rest, Korrik remained alert. He sat sharpening the edge of his axe, slow, steady strokes. Thora noticed the rhythm and moved to sit across from him.

  “You won’t dull it by looking at it so hard,” she said.

  He grunted. “Old habit. Steel listens better when you talk to it.”

  She raised a brow. “And what does it say?”

  “That tomorrow will test us.” He ran the whetstone again, sparks flicking off. “Half of them are green. Brave, yes, but green. They’ve never walked into a city where every stranger could be looking to swindle them, or worse.”

  Thora leaned her mattock against her shoulder. “Then they’ll learn.”

  Korrik looked at her for a long time. “Marn gave you the lead for a reason. You steady them. Keep doing that, and maybe we’ll make it back.”

  The words felt heavy, like both warning and blessing. Thora didn’t answer right away. She thought of the weight on her shoulders, of Marn’s voice telling her she had no thirst for titles. She thought of what lay ahead, the whispers of war, the kobold sigils, the foreign magics stirring beneath the land.

  Finally, she said, “Then let’s see what the measure shows.”

  Korrik nodded once and turned back to his axe.

  One by one, sleep claimed the camp.

  Some dwarves dreamed of home, of halls carved in stone and the hum of forges. Others dreamed of fire, of the ruined shells of towns they’d passed on the way. And some didn’t dream at all, too restless for sleep to find them.

  Above, the stars scattered across the black like chips of silver in raw ore. Dwarves had once mapped them in song, tracing stories in the night sky to remind themselves that even in shadow, they belonged to something greater.

  Bram whispered an old line to himself before drifting off:

  “Stone does not dream, but it remembers the sky.”

  The words lingered in the night air.

  The coals burned low. The cedars swayed. The city lights blinked in the distance, bright and careless.

  And tomorrow, the measure would begin.