With the weight of the branches bound to his back and the stone worn smooth beneath his boots, Harbek’s descent went more cleanly than the climb had. He stopped only at the cairns he had marked with charcoal, adjusting each just enough to leave a proper indicator behind.

  At one, he shifted a single stone at the cairn’s base, wedging it against the slope until the weight settled true. He didn’t look back to see it hold. The mountain would decide that on its own.

  The torn soles of his forge boots made each step a careful one. They were never meant for this kind of ground, and the stone reminded him of it often. Still, he kept his footing, passing the fork and entering the pines properly once more. Here, the wind fell away, leaving an unsettling calm in the wake of the howl he’d left behind on the mountain’s face.

  Harbek kept his eyes on the trail as he went, shifting the bundled limbs once more after stooping at the cairns. The weight sat differently now—not heavier, but present in a way stone never was.

  The path accepted him. The weight did not.

  The pines thinned as he descended, giving way to the first signs of ordered ground. Stone steps cut where erosion would have chosen otherwise. Old retaining walls surfaced from the frost, their edges softened by time but still holding. The mountain loosened its grip gradually, as if reluctant to give him back.

  Smoke reached him before sound.

  Not the sharp bite of forge-fire yet—just hearth smoke, low and steady, clinging to the valley floor. It carried with it the faint scent of cooked grain and damp wool. Settled. Worked. Lived-in.

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  By the time he heard the village, his pace had already changed.

  Hammer strikes echoed up the stone, not in unison but close enough to suggest order. A bell rang once—dull, practical, meant for those who needed to hear it and no one else. Harbek adjusted the weight on his back and followed the path as it widened, the cairns giving way to set stone and worn thresholds.

  Emberhollow came into view without ceremony.

  Forges breathed along the lower ring, chimneys coughing smoke into the pale air. Dwarves moved between hearths and workspaces, shoulders hunched against the cold, voices low but constant. No one stopped. No one stared. A few glanced his way, then looked again when they saw what he carried.

  The weight on his back felt different now.

  Not heavier. Just noticed.

  Harbek kept his head down and his steps steady as he passed into the village, the mountain falling quiet behind him.

  The forge smoke hung low in the cooling air, clinging to stone and timber alike. Evening had settled into Emberhollow without ceremony—the day’s work finished, not ended.

  Harbek moved through the familiar paths at an unhurried pace, the weight on his back drawing the occasional glance before eyes turned away again. No one stopped him. No one asked where he had gone. The mountain had answered that question for him.

  He paused once, adjusting the binding at his shoulder where the cord bit into his jerkin. The ache beneath it was deep and honest. Good wood. Worth the climb. Worth the silence it had taken to earn. The forge lay ahead, its glow steady behind the stone walls, patient as ever. Tomorrow, the work would begin.

  Harbek shifted his grip and continued on, the village closing around him in familiar sounds and worked stone. Ahead, the forge waited.

  The mountain was behind him now—but it had not let him go.

  Not yet.