So here I am, Gromli Flintfoot, banned from the mines until further notice—courtesy of that tiny little incident where I tried to reshape half a cavern’s worth of rock and nearly turned myself into a geological pancake. Fair enough. It’s probably safer to practice on the surface anyway, where I can’t accidentally bury myself alive.

  But does that mean I get a break? Of course not. Master Borduk Ironbraid (hereafter referred to as “the grumpiest rock guru in existence”) sets me up in a little clearing outside the village, hands me a hammer that’s only slightly less chunky than he is, and points at a pile of small stones.

  “Break ’em,” he growls, in that voice that sounds like gravel under a wagon wheel, “but try to do it with your magic. Safely.”

  The logic is, if I can carefully manipulate the mana matrix in a pebble, I won’t risk collapsing an entire mineshaft on my head. Win-win, right? So, bright-eyed and bushy-bearded (metaphorically, I’m still a kid, so my “beard” is more like hopeful fuzz), I get to work.

  My job: take little rocks, turn them into even littler rocks. Not exactly the heroic quest I dreamed of, but hey, I’m a dwarf. Breaking rocks is apparently in the blood. I set the first stone on a flat surface, raise my hammer, and gently tap it. Bonk. Nothing special happens—just a small chip. So I push a bit of mana into my arms, focus on the stone’s matrix, and try again. Bonk. Another chip.

  This goes on for a while. Bonk. Chip. Bonk. Chip. Groundbreaking stuff, I know. But then I notice something weird: the mana lines inside the stone start to wiggle each time my hammer strikes. With every hit, the flow shifts in a slightly different pattern. It’s like some cosmic light show in miniature.

  I get curious (dangerous pastime, I know) and start messing with the tempo of my strikes. Instead of a steady thunk-thunk-thunk, I try something like a little syncopated groove. Bum bum bum… bum ba bum. Don’t judge—I was bored, okay?

  “Huh,” I mumble as I watch the mana lines respond. “So if I add some funky beats, the matrix dances differently…”

  Suddenly, it clicks: maybe I can shape the rock through rhythm. I mean, if dwarven runes are all about channeling energy, maybe a dwarven drum solo can do the same thing. Worth a shot.

  I start tapping out a pattern on the stone, letting the mana lines ripple in time with the beat. Bum bum bum. Hammer goes bonk, the stone shifts. Bum ba bum. Hammer goes bonk again, chips flake off in neat little shards. The more I focus on aligning my mana with the rhythm, the cleaner the stone’s shape becomes. Before I know it, I’ve transformed a jagged lump of rock into a near-perfect sphere.

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  I stare at my newly minted rocky basketball, super proud of myself. “Holy crap, I just invented Dwarven Karaoke for Rocks,” I think. Because obviously I’m the first dwarf in history to do this—at least in my own mind. (Don’t quote me on that; there’s probably some centuries-old dwarven legend about a rhythmic blacksmith. But hey, I’ll take my fleeting ego boost.)

  The best part? It’s fun. I crank out spherical rock after spherical rock, humming to myself while hammering away, losing track of time. I start to imagine dwarven line dances, big halls full of dwarves banging out perfect stone shapes to the beat of a drum circle—yeah, maybe I’m getting a little carried away, but come on, it’s way cooler than just “bonk, chip, done.”

  Naturally, that’s when Master Borduk decides to appear, arms folded, eyebrows knit together like two angry caterpillars. He surveys the scattered spheres around me—dozens of them—and I can practically see the question marks floating above his head.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” he barks.

  I grin, chest puffed out in triumph. “Making rocks!” I exclaim proudly, holding up a flawless stone orb like I’ve just discovered the key to immortality.

  Borduk’s face twists into a scowl so intense, I’m pretty sure it could turn coal into diamonds. He presses a gnarled hand over his face and lets out a deep, world-weary sigh.

  “Aye, I can see you’re making rocks, but who told ye to craft a set of perfect stone balls? You’re supposed to be learning fine control, not… organizing a dwarven bowling league!”

  He actually says that, word for word, which only makes me more excited about the idea of dwarven bowling. But I keep that to myself because I have a hunch he might explode if I suggest it.

  I’m standing there with my little stone orbs lined up like trophies, feeling like I’ve just invented a new form of dwarven art. Borduk, on the other hand, looks like he’s contemplating how many ways to bury me in said spheres. Eventually, he uncovers his face and shoots me the stern lecture I was expecting.

  “Listen well, lad. Rhythm or no rhythm, you’ve got to learn how to direct mana carefully—without burning through your reserves. Next time, focus on the fundamentals. Understand?”

  I nod, though I can’t help feeling a tiny bit of pride in my spherical accomplishments. Sure, maybe it’s not the conventional method, but I am mastering the control of earth magic, right?

  Borduk grudgingly relents and pats one of the spheres.

  “I’ll admit,” he growls softly, “they’re… decent. But don’t go turning the entire forest into round stones, hear me?”

  I beam at that half-compliment. For a moment, I can almost feel the corners of his mouth twitch—like maybe, just maybe, he was impressed. Then, of course, the scowl returns.

  So that’s my day in a nutshell: prohibited from the mines, relegated to surface-level rock smashing, and accidentally discovering that a little musical flair can turn me into a dwarven Michelangelo. Sure, Master Borduk isn’t exactly thrilled about my improvisational methods, but I’m learning heaps about controlling mana. And frankly, these stone spheres are kinda rad. Maybe I’ll open an avant-garde dwarven art gallery someday.

  But first, I’ve gotta survive Borduk’s training—and maybe avoid covering the entire mountainside in perfect spheres. Baby steps. Or dwarven steps, anyway.

  Hammer goes bonk.