The grand hall of the Bank of Ironswill was a marvel of dwarven craftsmanship, a testament to their mastery of stone and metalwork. High vaulted ceilings loomed overhead, carved with intricate runes that shimmered faintly with golden light, as though the words of their ancestors were alive. Massive pillars of polished granite lined the room, each wrapped with spiraling bands of gold and inlaid with gemstones that caught the light of the great crystal chandeliers hanging above. The floors, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the intricate mosaic of the ceiling, depicting scenes of dwarves mining, forging, and trading—the lifeblood of their society.

  The air was filled with the sounds of commerce: the low hum of dwarven voices as workers turned in pay notes to receive their hard-earned wages, the clinking of coins being weighed and counted on scales, and the occasional sharp tap of a clerk’s quill against stone tablets as they recorded transactions. Rows of teller windows lined the far wall, each manned by stern-looking clerks dressed in finely tailored suits. Their eyes scanned each pay note with scrutiny, their hands moving with practiced precision as they counted out stacks of gold coins or scribbled ledgers with meticulous care.

  Near the back of the queue, a young dwarf boy clung to the hem of his mother’s dress, his small hands clutching the rough fabric as if it were a lifeline. He was barely into his early years, his round face fresh and unweathered, with only the faintest whisper of stubble on his chin—a promise of the beard to come. His wide, curious eyes darted around the hall, taking in the splendor and the bustle, though his grip on his mother’s dress betrayed his nervousness.

  His mother, a sturdy woman with tired but kind eyes, clutched a folded pay note in her hands, her knuckles white from the pressure. She glanced forward anxiously as the line shuffled closer to the teller’s counter, her expression a mixture of determination and apprehension.

  The boy’s gaze wandered as they waited, his attention eventually falling on a towering figure a few paces away. The man was a stark contrast to the rest of the hall, his presence almost otherworldly amidst the golden splendor. Dressed in a heavy black cloak that seemed to drink in the light, he stood perfectly still, a single gloved hand holding a pay note. His broad shoulders and imposing height made him stand out among the dwarves like a shadow among flames.

  The boy’s wide eyes traveled up to the man’s face, partially obscured beneath the hood of his cloak. For a moment, there was nothing, just an unnerving emptiness in the shadows. Then, as if sensing the boy’s gaze, the man turned his head. Two glowing red eyes emerged from the darkness, sharp and unyielding, like embers burning in a deep cavern.

  The boy froze, his breath catching in his throat. Those eyes seemed to pierce straight through him, burrowing into his very soul with an intensity that made his heart pound. The boy quickly turned his gaze forward, staring resolutely at the hem of his mother’s dress, his small hands gripping the fabric even tighter. He refused to look back, though he could still feel the weight of the man’s eyes lingering, like the chill of a deep, dark cave.

  Kael gave a soft chuckle of amusement, turning his attention back to the line ahead. The chubby dwarf in front had just finished his business, waddling away with a small pouch clinking at his side. Kael stepped forward with his usual unhurried grace, his black cloak shifting lightly with his movement.

  He approached the teller, a stout female dwarf with chestnut braids bound in intricate loops and a no-nonsense demeanor softened only by her warm, hazel eyes. Her station was immaculately kept, the polished oak counter adorned with a brass nameplate that read **“Eldra Ironstamper”** in neat runes.

  Kael placed the signed pay note onto the counter, sliding it toward her with a gloved hand. Eldra took the note with a nod, her fingers deft as they unfolded and examined the document. She squinted slightly, double-checking the signature and seal, then gave a satisfied grunt. With practiced ease, she grabbed her stamp, dipped it in ink, and pressed it firmly onto the paper. The stamp left behind the ornate insignia of the Bank of Ironswill, a crest depicting a pickaxe crossed with a hammer beneath a crown.

  The note stamped, she filed it away in a drawer and turned to her register, her hands moving with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had performed this task a thousand times over. From a compartment lined with velvet, she withdrew sixteen gleaming Dwarven gold coins. Each was thick and weighty, with the unmistakable shimmer of pure, unalloyed metal. The coins bore the sigil of the Eight Kingdoms: a mountain peak encircled by a ring of runes.

  Eldra began counting the coins aloud as she laid them in a neat row on the counter, the sound of heavy gold hitting the polished wood ringing clearly in the bustling hall. “One… two… three...”

  Kael nodded appreciatively, but as she reached the sixteenth coin, he spoke. “Mind exchanging that into Cavalcade currency?”

  Eldra arched a brow, a playful smirk curling her lips. “Sure, handsome,” she replied, her tone light with good humor. She winked at him before reaching under her counter for a small brass scale and a scroll covered in conversion rates.

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  Placing the first Dwarven gold coin on one side of the scale, she carefully measured its weight against a standard counterweight etched with precise markings. The scale tipped, balanced, and settled with a soft clink. “Right, one Dwarven gold coin equals about five Cavalcade Cilfa coins,” she murmured, running her fingers along the scroll to confirm.

  She removed the gold coin from the scale and replaced it with another, repeating the process until all sixteen had been weighed and logged. With each coin measured, she withdrew stacks of Cavalcade Cilfa coins from her register, the smaller, shinier currency jingling as she laid it out in neat piles.

  “Let’s see… sixteen gold coins at five Cilfa apiece comes to eighty Cavalcade Cilfa,” Eldra said, her voice carrying a rhythmic cadence as she counted the Cilfa coins into bundles of ten. “Ten, twenty, thirty…” Her hands moved quickly but precisely, her fingers calloused from years of handling heavy coinage.

  When she finished, she pushed the final pile toward him, her hazel eyes sparkling with professional satisfaction. “All set. Eighty Cavalcade Cilfa, just as requested.”

  Kael nodded and slid the Cilfa coins into a leather pouch at his belt. “Efficient as ever,” he remarked, his voice smooth.

  “Only the best at Ironswill,” Eldra replied with a grin, tapping the counter lightly. “Anything else for you, or is that all?”

  “That’ll do,” Kael said, tipping his head slightly in thanks before turning away, the weight of the coins barely registering against his augmented strength as he strode toward the exit. Eldra watched him go for a moment before returning to her work, muttering something under her breath about the mysterious charm of tall, brooding customers.

  Kael stepped out of the bank's grand gilded doors and into the bustling streets of Ironswill, his black cloak sweeping behind him as he moved. The city unfolded before him like a masterpiece carved into the very bones of the earth. Every building, road, and statue bore the unmistakable mark of dwarven craftsmanship, their surfaces polished to perfection and adorned with intricate runes and engravings that seemed to tell stories of the kingdom’s history and glory.

  The roads were made of smooth, interlocking stone tiles, their edges lined with glow crystals embedded in ornate brass fixtures. These crystals emitted a soft, warm light that cast a golden glow across the streets, illuminating the pathways with an inviting brilliance. Despite being deep underground, the light was sufficient to mimic the warmth of day, yet never harsh, maintaining the comforting ambiance of perpetual twilight.

  Kael paused for a moment, tilting his head back to take in the breathtaking sight of the cavern ceiling far above. It arched over the kingdom like the heavens themselves, easily half a mile high. Thousands—no, millions—of glittering gemstones were embedded within the stone, catching the light of the glow crystals below and refracting it in dazzling displays. The effect was mesmerizing, creating the illusion of a starry night sky that stretched endlessly overhead.

  The streets were alive with activity. Dwarves of all shapes and sizes bustled about, their voices a lively symphony of trade negotiations, casual chatter, and hearty laughter. Merchants called out from colorful stalls, hawking everything from weapons and armor to rare spices and finely woven fabrics. Children darted between the crowds, their youthful laughter mingling with the deeper timbres of their elders.

  Massive stone statues dotted the city, each depicting legendary dwarven kings, queens, and heroes of old. Their expressions were stern yet proud, their features carved with such detail that it seemed they might come to life at any moment. These towering monuments served as both inspiration and a reminder of the kingdom’s enduring strength.

  Kael moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his tall, imposing figure parting the sea of shorter folk around him. Dwarves gave him curious glances, their eyes lingering on his black cloak and the long sword strapped to his back, but none dared approach. The Ashen warrior exuded an aura of quiet danger that kept even the most inquisitive at bay.

  As he walked, he allowed himself a rare moment of appreciation for the beauty of Ironswill. The Underworld was a marvel, an entire other world beneath the surface of Cavalcade, and Ironswill stood as a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of its creators. Despite his usual detachment, Kael couldn’t help but admire the way the dwarves had turned stone and shadow into something so vibrant and alive.

  As Kael moved through the bustling streets of Ironswill, a deep, jovial voice rang out above the clamor of the crowd.

  "Kael, you old Sob! Is that really you?"

  Kael stopped in his tracks, turning to locate the source of the voice. His crimson eyes settled on a stout figure weaving through the crowd with surprising agility for his stocky build. It was Zeveron, a bald, grey-bearded dwarf in his middle years. His beard was neatly braided, its strands streaked with silver, and his bright blue eyes shone with warmth and mischief.

  The dwarf’s face split into a wide grin as he approached, his thick leather vest creaking with each step. His arms, corded with muscle from a lifetime of hauling goods, were spread wide in greeting.

  “By the stones of the mountain, it *is* you! I’d recognize that grim posture anywhere!” Zeveron declared, clapping his calloused hands together.

  Kael allowed a small smile to touch his lips, a rare expression of warmth for the Ashen. He extended his gloved hand, and Zeveron grabbed it with both of his, shaking it heartily.

  “Zeveron,” Kael said with a slight nod. “It’s been a while.”

  “That it has, lad, that it has!” Zeveron said, his grin widening. “And you’ve not aged a day. Damn Ashen luck, eh? Meanwhile, I’m collecting wrinkles and grey hairs faster than a gemsmith collects debts!” He let out a hearty laugh, drawing a few curious glances from nearby dwarves.

  Kael chuckled softly, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement. “I see your sense of humor hasn’t dulled.”

  “Not a chance!” Zeveron slapped Kael’s arm good-naturedly. “Now, come on. What brings you to Ironswill? Let me guess—a bounty? A beast? Or just passing through, leaving chaos in your wake?”

  Kael smirked faintly but didn’t answer directly. Instead, he glanced around at the crowded street. “Just handling business. What about you, Zeveron? Still peddling goods to anyone with coin?”

  “Aye, that I am,” Zeveron said, puffing out his chest. “Business has been good—though not as good as seeing an old friend.” He gestured to the side, where a sturdy tavern with a carved wooden sign reading *The Gilded Tankard* beckoned. “Come on, Kael. Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for the man who saved my caravan from those blasted goblin raiders.”

  Kael hesitated for a moment, glancing at the tavern. The idea of a drink was tempting, though he rarely indulged. But Zeveron’s genuine warmth was hard to refuse.

  “Alright,” Kael said with a nod. “One drink.”

  “One? Hah! We’ll see about that!” Zeveron laughed, clapping Kael on the back as he led the way to the tavern. “Come, let’s catch up properly. You’ve got to tell me what you’ve been up to since we last met. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a proposition for you—one that involves a little danger, a lot of coin, and plenty of ale to celebrate when we’re done!”

  Kael followed, the corners of his mouth curving ever so slightly upward. Danger and coin were his bread and butter—and with Zeveron, there was never a dull moment.