Farrin sat at the long oak table with her hands clasped in front of her. Her voice had only just stopped echoing through the stone chamber. She had spoken for nearly half an hour, walking the mages through every detail of what the warband believed they might face in the coming weeks. She explained how certain relics could influence the mind, how curses could travel from object to person, and how the enemy they hunted used quiet manipulation rather than open force. She described past encounters or information she had gleaned talking to magisters at the college, as well as information she gained from Azandra, breaking them into simple steps. She warned them about traps, illusions, and how easily a peaceful neighbor could become something dangerous without realizing it.

  She had said what needed to be said. She did not regret a single word of it.

  But now came the part she disliked. She had to wait. The mages were already leaning together, opening thick books, muttering short spells to test theories, and scribbling quick notes with tapping quills. Their energy filled the room in a restless hum.

  Farrin leaned back in her chair and tried to keep her expression calm. She did not want them to think she was impatient. She was not useless here, she reminded herself. She had offered clarity. She had given them direction. That mattered. Still, sitting still while others worked was not a dwarven strength. At least, not for most dwarves she knew.

  She glanced around the stone room. The walls were carved with symbols from old dwarven houses, polished smooth by countless hands over the years. The scent of parchment and warm lamp oil drifted through the air. The steady scratching of quills created a rhythm that might have been soothing to anyone else. For her, it stirred something restless inside her chest.

  She tried to steady her breathing and let her thoughts wander. It surprised her when they drifted to home.

  The ache came suddenly, sharp enough that she almost frowned. She had spent more than two years away from Kellen-Tir, far from the familiar tunnels where she had grown up. She remembered long marches across human farmlands, nights sleeping beneath open skies where the wind carried strange smells and sounds. Humans lived in such noisy places. Their markets burst with bright colors and shouting traders. Their food was filled with spices that stung her tongue and watered her eyes. Their music, played on strange pipes and drums, always made her foot tap without permission.

  All of it was interesting. Even pleasant at times.

  But it was not home.

  Home sat deep within the mountain. Home was stone pressing in from all directions, solid and comforting. Home was the way the walls sang faintly when miners worked in the deep levels. Home was a clay bowl filled with porridge, ground from grains grown in the mountain terraces. She could see it clearly in her mind. Warm porridge with a curl of fresh cream drifting across the top. The smell of it always reminded her of childhood mornings, when she and her brothers raced to the table before the steam faded.

  She almost felt the warmth of a heavy mug in her hands. Stout beer, dark as midnight, with foam clinging to the rim. She used to drink it with her grandmother after long training days. Her grandmother claimed that stout settled the spirit and sharpened the mind. Farrin had believed her.

  A small smile tugged at her lips.

  Then, completely without warning, her thoughts drifted toward another topic. One she rarely allowed herself to consider.

  Marriage.

  The idea startled her so completely that she blinked. She would never have called herself the kind of dwarf who dreamed about households and family life. She was a soldier. A scout. A fighter. She had lived with weapons for so long that she could not imagine a morning without checking a blade or tying on armor. The idea of sitting at a hearth, kneading dough or dusting shelves, made her shrug. It did not seem like something she was meant for.

  But then she wondered. Could she learn? Could she want to?

  She did not know how to cook anything more complicated than thick gruel. And some days her patience wore thin quicker than she liked. She could picture herself trying to explain something important to a future husband, only to snap in frustration when he missed her point. The thought made her grimace. She had seen enough broken partnerships to know how quickly anger could turn people away from each other.

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  Still… she found herself wondering if there was someone out there who might appreciate her as she was. Someone who would not mind her blunt speech or her long absences on missions. Someone who would laugh with her at the end of a hard day.

  She shook her head sharply. The thoughts felt too soft, too dreamlike for a time like this. There were more pressing matters. Darker matters. Somewhere within the kingdom, a sorcerer was weaving spells meant to destroy her people from within. If she ever wanted a peaceful life, she would have to fight for the chance first.

  Her gaze shifted back to the table of mages. One of the younger men, a slim fellow with half-moon glasses and a hairline already retreating, was jotting down notes so quickly his wrist trembled. Another mage, a woman with tightly braided hair and a stern expression, flipped through pages while muttering arcane comparisons under her breath. They both glanced her way now and then, as if seeking permission to ask something.

  Farrin sat up straighter. The time for woolgathering was over.

  She cleared her throat quietly. “Do any of you need clarification on the last part of my report?” she asked.

  The mage with the glasses looked up first. “The part about the relics changing behavior. Could you explain again how quickly it can happen? Does it begin slowly or all at once?”

  She nodded. Good question. “It depends on the relic. Some press on the mind gently. A person might feel more irritable, or more protective of something they should not care about. Other relics work suddenly. Almost like a spark finding oil. I saw one man shift in a matter of hours. His wife said he went from worried to aggressive between sunrise and midday.”

  The mage wrote that down carefully. “And can it be undone easily?”

  Farrin paused. “Not easily. But it can be undone if caught early. If the relic is removed and the person is given time to recover. That is why we must move quickly when we find signs of influence.”

  Another mage, the woman with the braids, closed her book. “Your description of the enemy worries me. A sorcerer who stays hidden. A person who prefers whispers to open battles. It reminds me of some older records. Sorcerers who built their power through fear rather than force.”

  Farrin studied her. “You believe we are facing someone like that.”

  “I believe it is possible,” the woman said. “But we need more information. That is why your scouting accounts are helpful. Every detail matters.”

  Farrin nodded again. She felt a small sense of pride. It was not like swinging an axe or holding a shield wall, but it still felt like something she was good at.

  Another voice spoke up behind her. “Farrin.”

  She turned to see Bram approaching through the doorway, carrying a small stack of papers and wearing a look that mixed worry with excitement. His heavy boots echoed on the stone floor. Bram always entered a room like he expected danger to be hiding behind the nearest shelf.

  She raised an eyebrow. “What is it now?”

  “You should see what Gadrik found,” Bram said. “It might be important. Something about the old forges. And something about maps.”

  She could hear the quiet urgency in his voice. Not panic, but importance. The kind of importance that could shift the direction of their entire mission.

  Before rising, she gave the mages one last look. “Continue your research. Send for me if you find anything that matches what we have seen so far.”

  The woman with the braided hair bowed her head slightly. “We will.”

  Farrin stood and followed Bram out into the hallway. Her boots clicked against the stone. The sound echoed along the corridor like a familiar song, steady and sure.

  As they walked, Bram asked quietly, “You looked tired earlier. Are you all right?”

  She hesitated. He did not usually ask her questions like that. “Only thinking,” she said. “About home.”

  Bram gave a slow nod. “I miss it too.”

  They walked in silence for a while longer, but this time it was a comfortable silence, like two people walking the same road even when they did not share the same thoughts.

  They reached the turning where the tunnels split. Bram gestured toward the deeper passage that led toward the archives.

  “Gadrik is waiting,” Bram said. “He thinks we might have finally found something real.”

  Farrin felt her heart give a small, steadying beat. Work. Purpose. Clarity. These were things she understood.

  She stepped into the deeper tunnel, the stone cool beneath her hands as she brushed the wall lightly.

  No matter where her thoughts wandered today, she knew she was not done fighting. Not yet.

  “Then let us see what he found,” she said.

  And together, they entered the archives, ready for whatever truth the mountain still kept hidden.