Torli Underpick stood on the high pass where the wind scraped across the stone like a rasp. It was colder here than he liked, but he had chosen the post himself. The higher he climbed, the clearer the view became, and he needed clarity more than comfort these days. His old armor pinched at the shoulder when he breathed too deeply, and the weight of his mace pulled on muscles he no longer trusted as much as he once had, but he stayed where he was.

  The mountains around him rose in layers of gray and white, ridges piled behind ridges until they vanished into a low ceiling of cloud. Small patches of dried scrub clung to cracks in the rock, shaking in the wind. The pass itself twisted along the cliff face like a scar and narrowed so tightly in places that two dwarves could not walk side by side.

  Torli watched the trail below with his one good eye. The other had long ago lost most of its sight, leaving the world slightly blurred around the edges. That had bothered him once. Now he thought of it as a reminder that time had teeth. Time took pieces from a dwarf whether he agreed or not.

  He pulled his cloak tighter and tapped the head of the mace against his boot. The cold bit into his fingers, but he ignored it. He had learned long ago that the mountain did not care how a dwarf felt, so he tried to return the favor.

  He had been sent to watch the northern approach. Word of the unrest in Kellen Tir had reached even the outer ridges. Deepbrand’s new movement had grown louder each day. Anger traveled like fire, feeding on anything left dry and unattended. Torli had hoped the young dwarf’s talks of purging the golems would fade in time. Instead they had gained followers.

  Civil war. Torli tried the words in his mind again. They felt heavy and wrong. Dwarves had fought giants and trolls and kobolds and even men, but the idea of dwarves killing dwarves struck something deep inside him. Something old and sad.

  His breath came out in a slow cloud as his thoughts wandered back to Harbinth. He remembered the day well. Kobolds had come in numbers so large the sky had seemed to ripple with them. The bell tower had rung so loudly his ears had rung for two days after. Bram had been little more than a boy then in terms of being tested in battle, though strong as a draft horse, and Farrin had been sharp as a new-forged axe. Together they had held the west gate until the end.

  Torli had cracked six kobold skulls that morning alone. By the end of the battle his arms had trembled so badly he could not lift a cup. The memory brought something like warmth to his chest. He wondered where Bram and Farrin were now. He hoped they kept their wits about them. The world had grown more dangerous than he liked.

  A faint shift in the distance pulled him back to the present. He narrowed his eye, studying the trail. Two shapes moved up the path, slow and steady. They wore green and brown cloaks that blended with the rocks. At first he thought they might be hunters or passing traders, but something about the way they moved put his nerves on edge. They seemed cautious, like they were waiting for a signal he could not see.

  He stepped forward until he stood in the center of the path. His boots scraped against the stone. As the two dwarves drew closer, Torli rested the mace against his shoulder. It was not a threat. It simply made things clear.

  When the strangers were close enough to see him fully, they stopped. One raised a gloved hand in greeting.

  “Hello there,” the first dwarf said. His voice sounded friendly, but it was the kind of friendly that felt practiced.

  Torli stared at the two of them. “Where are you from?” His voice came out hard and plain.

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  The second dwarf shifted his weight. “Hill clan,” he said. “East of the border.”

  Torli nodded once. “And what business brings you to Kellen Tir?”

  The first dwarf gave a slow shrug. “Trade, maybe. We heard the city was lively these days.”

  Torli did not blink. “That so? What do you trade with bronze on your belts?”

  The wind carried the silence between them. A single hawk cried far above, its call bouncing against the cliff walls. The two dwarves looked at each other, and Torli saw something change in their eyes. A decision made without words.

  The second dwarf’s jaw tightened. “There is no point talking.”

  Swords flashed as both drew short blades from their belts. Torli felt his heartbeat thump once, heavy and measured. He did not want this. But he knew better than to step aside. If these two reached the city with Deepbrand in their heads, they would not bring peace with them.

  The first dwarf lunged high, blade cutting for Torli’s shoulder. Torli blocked with the haft of his mace, the strike echoing through his arms. He stepped back only far enough to catch his balance, then swung low toward the dwarf’s legs. The younger dwarf hopped backward, boots skidding on the loose gravel.

  The second came in fast from Torli’s right. Torli twisted his body, guiding the blow toward his vambrace. The blade rang against metal, sending a sting down his arm. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, forcing space between them.

  They fought in a tight knot, blades scraping, boots slipping, breath turning to mist. Torli felt the old ache in his knees flare with each shift of weight. He felt the burn in his shoulders. But he also felt the steady pulse of experience that lived in his bones. He had been in more fights than these two had likely seen in their lives.

  A sharp sting ran across his forearm as one blade sliced his skin. Warm blood trickled down toward his wrist. He grunted but kept moving. Pain was familiar enough that he did not bother reacting beyond that.

  He swung his mace in a tight arc, catching the second dwarf square in the shoulder. The crack of impact echoed off the stone. The dwarf stumbled back, clutching his arm. Torli stepped toward the first attacker, crowding him against the cliff wall. The dwarf swung wildly, panic in his eyes. Torli raised the mace and struck him in the jaw. The hit sent him sprawling to the ground.

  The second dwarf roared and rushed back in. Torli ducked under the swing, felt the blade scrape his vambrace again, and drove the iron head of his mace into the dwarf’s ribs. The dwarf folded with a grunt and fell to his knees.

  Both dwarves lay breathing hard on the cold stone, neither able to rise. Their blades lay several feet away, knocked loose in the struggle. Torli stepped back, chest heaving, the mace still held firm. His arm throbbed and his breath came ragged, but he stayed standing.

  He stared down at them for a long moment. These were dwarves. His own kind. He would not kill them unless he truly had no other choice. That line mattered to him. It had always mattered.

  Finally he spoke, his voice rough but steady. “Listen well. If either of you value your lives, you will turn around right now and go back to your homes.”

  The first dwarf groaned and tried to sit up. Torli placed a boot gently on his chest to hold him still.

  “Forget the name Deepbrand,” Torli said. “Forget his cause. Forget whatever promises he made. Men who build their cause on hate do not lead you to glory. They lead you to graves.”

  The two dwarves looked at him with a mix of fear and confusion. Torli let out a slow breath.

  “Go home,” he said again. “Go while you still can.”

  He stepped away, letting them rise if they were able. Slowly, painfully, the two dwarves gathered themselves. They staggered down the trail without a word, blood marking their path like a warning to anyone else who might follow.

  Torli watched until they were small shapes in the distance. His arm ached and the wind cut through his cloak, but he stayed rooted to the stone for a long time.

  “Deepbrand,” he muttered. “What trouble are you stirring now.”

  He lifted his gaze toward the north, toward the peaks that hid the restless kingdom. Whatever storm was building, it was growing fast. And Torli Underpick, old bones and all, would be ready to meet it.