The night was thick with smoke and the scent of stale ale. The Emberfang Tavern, a rugged drinking hole on the outskirts of the city, roared with the laughter of mercenaries, thieves, and wanderers who had long since abandoned the notion of polite company. The wooden beams, blackened from years of torchlight and pipe smoke, seemed to absorb the noise rather than echo it.
At the far end of the tavern, near the dimmest lantern, a lone figure sat hunched over the bar. A tattered hood concealed his face, and his broad, stocky frame gave him the presence of a man who had spent his life wielding steel rather than words. His arms, thick as oak branches, rested heavily on the counter as he reached for another mug. And another. And another.
He drank like a man with nothing to lose, the froth of his ale dripping into his unkempt beard. The bartender, a wiry man named Joren, watched nervously as the stranger downed his tenth mug. "This fella better pay," Joren muttered under his breath.
By the fifteenth mug, concern turned to dread. No one drank that much without either passing out or breaking something. Joren swallowed, wiping sweat from his brow. Then the stranger moved.
He leaned forward, his hood casting a shadow over his face. The flickering candlelight barely caught the outline of his thick, square jaw and the hint of scars across his weathered skin. He reached into his cloak with slow, deliberate movements, then placed something onto the bar. A gold coin. Joren exhaled in relief—until he saw it.
The coin was old. Ancient. The markings on it were unlike any currency he'd ever seen, the sigil of a long-lost kingdom carved into its surface. It was thick, heavier than any gold he'd ever handled. But the thing that made his blood run cold wasn't its rarity. It was the unmistakable craftsmanship of dwarven hands.
Joren hesitated, glancing at the stranger with a mixture of curiosity and unease. "Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The hooded figure finally spoke. His voice was like stone grinding against stone, thick with an accent few had heard in centuries. "Is it enough?"
Joren swallowed hard. It wasn't a matter of the coin's worth. It was a matter of where it came from. Joren's fingers trembled as he lifted the heavy coin, his eyes darting between the stranger and the ancient currency. "Where the hell did you get this?" he asked, voice hushed, wary of drawing attention. "Where are you from?"
The hooded figure didn't answer. He simply rose from his seat, his thick boots scraping against the wooden floor as he turned away. The heavy cloak swayed with his movements, revealing brief glimpses of chainmail underneath, worn but unyielding.
Joren opened his mouth to press further, but the stranger was already walking toward the exit, his presence cutting through the tavern's drunken haze like a blade.
Then, just as he reached the door—"Oi." A voice, slick with arrogance. A group of five men stood in his path, their smirks sharp as daggers. Bandits, or worse—deserters from some failed war. Their leathers were mismatched, their belts heavy with stolen coin purses and dull blades. The leader, a wiry man with a jagged scar running from his temple to his cheek, stepped forward, arms crossed. "You've been throwing gold around like it grows on trees," he sneered. "How about you share some with the less fortunate?"
The tavern quieted. Chairs scraped as some patrons shifted away, knowing all too well how these encounters ended. Joren wiped his hands on his apron, muttering a curse.
The hooded figure didn't react at first. He simply stood there, his posture unbothered, as if he hadn't even heard them. But then—He exhaled.
Not in fear. Not in frustration. But in annoyance. Scarface misread the silence as hesitation and grinned. "Didn't you hear me, old man? I—"
The hooded figure moved. Fast. Before Scarface could finish his sentence, a fist like solid stone slammed into his gut. A sickening crunch echoed through the tavern as Scarface doubled over, his body nearly folding in half. He wheezed, spit and bile flying from his lips as he collapsed to his knees.
The next man barely had time to react before a boot came crashing into his shin. Bone snapped. He screamed, tumbling sideways as his leg buckled beneath him.
The third one, a burly brute armed with a rusted hatchet, roared in rage and swung wildly. The hooded figure sidestepped, fluid and precise, letting the axe pass harmlessly by. Then, with terrifying ease, he grabbed the brute's wrist and twisted.
A sickening pop rang out. The brute howled, his weapon clattering to the floor as he clutched his now dislocated arm. The last two hesitated. They should have run. Instead, one of them drew a dagger, lunging forward. Big mistake.
The stranger caught his wrist mid-thrust, fingers like iron clamps. A sudden yank sent the bandit stumbling forward, straight into a crushing elbow strike to the jaw. Teeth shattered. Blood sprayed. The bandit collapsed like a ragdoll.
The final man, young and barely out of his teens, took one look at his fallen comrades and dropped his knife. "S-Shit—" He turned to run.
A hand snatched the back of his collar and slammed him against the tavern wall. The force nearly knocked the wind out of him. He looked up, gasping—And for the first time, saw the stranger's face.
Not entirely. The hood still cast a shadow, but now up close, he could see the scars, the sharp, piercing eyes, and—The beard.
Thick. Braided. Decorated with faded metal rings. A dwarven beard. "P-Please…" the young bandit stammered.
The dwarf narrowed his eyes, then let go. The bandit crumpled to the floor, too terrified to move.
The tavern was silent. Every pair of eyes was locked onto the hooded stranger, who simply adjusted his cloak and turned back toward the door. Joren exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Scarface groaned from the floor, clutching his stomach. He coughed, spitting out something red. "Y-You… You're a damn dwarf…"
The hooded stranger paused. Then, without turning back, he muttered a single word "Aye."
As the heavy wooden door creaked shut behind him, the hooded dwarf stepped into the moonlit streets. The desert night was cool, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the day. He moved with purpose, his boots crunching against the sand-strewn cobblestone as he approached a lone donkey tethered outside the tavern.
The beast let out a soft huff, its ears twitching as its rider swung himself into the worn saddle. With a flick of the reins, the donkey began a slow, steady march forward, hooves sinking slightly into the sand.
The moment he left the lamplight of the tavern's porch, the night seemed to swallow him whole. The dunes stretched endlessly before him, silver under the starlit sky. With each step, he became less distinct—until finally, he was just a shadow moving against the vast desert expanse.
And then, he was gone. Inside the tavern, silence lingered for only a moment before chaos erupted. Joren slammed his hands on the counter. "Did you see that?" he barked, wide-eyed.
"The hell was that?!" another man blurted.
"A dwarf," someone muttered, voice hushed, as if speaking the word too loudly might summon the stranger back.
"That can't be! Dwarves are gone—"
"—extinct since Grey Mountains fell—"
"Then what in the gods' names was he?!"
The argument exploded. Some swore it was a trick—maybe a short, broad-shouldered man with a heavy beard, posing as one of the long-lost folk. Others were convinced they'd just witnessed a true relic of the past.
Joren, still gripping the dwarven coin in his trembling fingers, felt a cold shiver creep up his spine. "If dwarves are still out there…" he murmured under his breath, barely audible over the shouting.
The room fell into an uneasy silence. All eyes turned to the man in the corner—the only one who hadn't spoken until now. His heavy mug slammed against the wooden table, the dull thud cutting through the chaotic murmurs like a blade.
He leaned forward, shadows clinging to his rugged face as he slowly scanned the room, taking in the uncertain expressions of the drunken patrons. Then, with a voice as rough as gravel, he spoke. "You're all barking like scared mutts," he growled. "Acting like you just saw a damn ghost."
No one dared to interrupt. The weight of his words settled over them like a storm rolling in. "That wasn't just any dwarf," he continued, his tone dark, calculating. "That coin he dropped? Dwarven gold. Not just some old relic—but freshly spent."
A few men exchanged nervous glances. "Which means one thing." He leaned forward, his smirk almost dangerous. "Grey Mountains isn't just an old ruin." He paused for effect, letting the tension mount. "It's still got gold. More than you could spend in ten lifetimes."
The room stilled. Everyone knew the legend. The fall of the dwarves, the mountains of gold buried beneath the ruins, the dragon that had claimed it all. And then—the prophecy. A descendant of the Ancient Kings would one day rise to reclaim their homeland.
The man took a long, slow swig from his mug before setting it down with a smirk. "If that dwarf's heading to Grey Mountains…" His eyes gleamed with something between greed and ambition. "And if he's really one of the lost sons of the Ancient Kings… Then we'd be fools not to follow him."
He spread his arms, looking at the gathering of mercenaries, outlaws, and desperate men. "Think about it," he pressed. "That mountain—that gold—could belong to us."
A murmur rippled through the tavern. Hesitant, uncertain—but intrigued. He leaned back, satisfied. "You all want a share?" He grinned. "Then we help the dwarf. And when his kind takes back their throne…" His smirk deepened. "...we take our cut."