The next day, Kael strode toward the outskirts of Ironswill, where the caravan awaited. The town's towering stone walls loomed behind him, carved directly into the mountain face, casting long shadows over the winding roads leading out into the great Deep Roads.

  These ancient tunnels stretched for hundreds of thousands of miles, a labyrinth of interconnected passageways spanning the entire continent of Cavalcade. Once a marvel of engineering and a testament to Dwarven craftsmanship, they were now darkened by time, their grandeur slowly eroding under the weight of countless ages.

  As Kael approached the caravan, he took in the scene before him. Three sturdy carriages stood in a line, their thick wooden frames reinforced with iron bands and adorned with intricate Dwarven engravings. Each one was laden with crates and barrels, Zeveron’s merchandise packed tightly within. The faint scent of oiled leather and fresh timber mingled with the cool, mineral-rich air of the tunnels.

  Kael’s crimson eyes flicked to the figures gathered near the carriages. Six dwarves were busy with last-minute preparations, their low, gruff voices blending into the ambient hum of the Deep Roads. Among them, Kael spotted Zeveron, his bald head and thick beard unmistakable even from a distance. He stood apart from the others, clasping his hands and grinning broadly as he noticed Kael’s approach.

  “Ah, there’s my man!” Zeveron called, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Right on time, Kael. Come, let me introduce you to the crew.”

  Kael descended the short slope, his long coat trailing behind him. As he approached, the chatter among the dwarves died down, and they turned their attention toward him. He felt their eyes on him but detected no malice or suspicion in their gazes—just curiosity and maybe a hint of respect. Unlike most mortals, dwarves seemed indifferent to his nature as an Ashen, a magically augmented soldier feared and distrusted by many. It was a small comfort, one that Kael wasn’t used to.

  Zeveron clapped him on the shoulder, a broad grin on his face. “Everyone, this here’s Kael. He’s the one I told you about—the best swordsman I know and sharp as a dragon’s fang.”

  Kael gave a faint nod, his gaze sweeping over the group. The first four dwarves were clad in heavy armor, their plates polished and adorned with clan markings. Weapons hung at their sides—axes, war hammers, and a crossbow slung over one’s back. Their faces were weathered, their eyes hard but not unkind.

  “These fine lads are from Ironswill’s mercenary guild,” Zeveron continued, gesturing to the armored dwarves. “Top of the line. That’s Thran, Boric, Gavrin, and Huldar. If anyone tries to give us trouble on the road, they’ll regret it.”

  The mercenaries gave curt nods, their expressions stoic. One of them—Thran, Kael guessed—offered a hand, his grip firm when Kael shook it.

  “And over here,” Zeveron said, motioning to a younger dwarf standing slightly apart from the others, “we’ve got Gazelle.”

  Kael’s gaze shifted to the lone female dwarf. She had a leaner build than the others, though her arms and shoulders were still corded with the strength typical of her kin. Her brown hair was tied back in a loose braid, and her golden eyes gleamed with a mix of determination and curiosity. She wore practical traveling attire—sturdy boots, a leather coat over a linen shirt, and a satchel slung across her shoulder.

  “Gazelle’s my apprentice,” Zeveron said proudly. “She’s got a sharp mind for business and a knack for negotiation. Just starting out, but she’ll make a fine merchant one day.”

  Gazelle stepped forward, offering a polite nod. “Pleasure to meet you, Kael,” she said, her voice smooth but firm. “Zeveron’s told me a lot about you.”

  Kael inclined his head. “Let’s hope I live up to the stories,” he replied, his tone neutral.

  Gazelle smirked faintly, glancing at Zeveron. “He seems modest. Didn’t expect that from your tales.”

  Zeveron chuckled, scratching his beard. “Kael’s not one for boasting. He lets his blade do the talking.”

  Kael crossed his arms, his sharp gaze settling on Zeveron. “If you’re done with introductions, we should get moving. The longer we linger, the more attention we’ll draw.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Zeveron said, his jovial tone turning serious. He turned to the group, clapping his hands. “All right, everyone! Final checks! Make sure the carriages are secure, weapons are ready, and supplies are in order. We leave in ten minutes.”

  As the dwarves sprang into action, Kael took a moment to scan the surrounding tunnels. The entrance to the Deep Roads loomed ahead, a gaping maw of darkness framed by ancient stone arches. Intricate carvings lined the walls, their details faded with time but still hinting at the glory of a bygone age.

  Kael adjusted the hilt of his sword at his side, his mind already shifting to the journey ahead. Dulgal awaited them, a place of horrors and secrets best left buried. This caravan wasn’t just carrying goods—it was carrying its passengers toward a place that might never let them leave.

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  The caravan rumbled through the yawning expanse of the Deep Roads, the steady creak of wagon wheels and the clatter of hooves the only sounds to break the oppressive silence. The tunnels stretched endlessly ahead, their sheer size a humbling testament to the skill and ambition of the dwarves who had carved them millennia ago. Towering stone arches supported the ceiling high above, their surfaces etched with ancient runes and geometric patterns now dulled by time and neglect. The walls, too, bore signs of age, their once-crisp carvings eroded into indistinct shapes by centuries of wind and dripping water.

  Kael walked alongside the lead wagon, his boots crunching against loose gravel and broken stone. His crimson eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the monotony of the view. The tunnels were vast, yet eerily uniform, with no landmarks to distinguish one stretch from another. Every few hundred paces, a series of carved Dwarven glyphs would mark the way—names of forgotten clans, warnings about disused paths, or simple directional indicators. But even these began to blur together, the repetitive symbols a stark reminder of how endless this labyrinth truly was.

  “Does it ever change?” Kael muttered, half to himself.

  Zeveron, seated on the bench of the lead wagon, overheard and glanced down at him. “Not much,” the dwarf admitted with a wry smile. “That’s the Deep Roads for you. Beautiful, in their way, but damned repetitive. Easy to lose your sense of time down here if you’re not careful.”

  Kael grunted in acknowledgment. He had already felt the pull of the tunnels’ oppressive sameness. Without the sun or stars, without even the faintest variation in the air or light, it was easy to imagine these paths stretching into eternity. The only illumination came from the lanterns mounted on the wagons and carried by the dwarves. Their golden light cast long, flickering shadows on the walls, making the carvings seem to writhe and twist like living things.

  Behind him, the mercenaries trudged in stoic silence, their armor clinking softly with each step. Gazelle walked a little ahead of them, her sharp eyes scanning the path for any signs of danger. She seemed unaffected by the monotony, though Kael couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, felt the growing weight of the tunnels’ endless repetition.

  “Is it always this... quiet?” Gazelle asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

  Zeveron nodded. “Aye. The Deep Roads haven’t been busy in centuries. Used to be you’d hear the sound of wagons, miners, merchants... Now, it’s just us and the echoes.”

  Kael glanced over his shoulder at the younger dwarf. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Quiet doesn’t mean safe.”

  Gazelle frowned but said nothing, her grip tightening on the lantern she carried.

  The caravan continued onward, the scenery unchanged. Massive pillars rose intermittently along the sides of the road, their surfaces covered in spiraling patterns that seemed to tell stories of ancient triumphs and tragedies. Kael’s eyes lingered on one such pillar, its carvings depicting a great battle between dwarves and some serpentine beast. The details were faded, but the ferocity of the scene was clear.

  “Every inch of these tunnels has a story,” Zeveron said, noticing Kael’s gaze. “If only we had time to learn them all.”

  “Stories don’t help much when something’s lurking in the dark,” Kael replied, his voice flat.

  As if on cue, a faint sound reached their ears—a distant, rhythmic tapping echoing from somewhere deep within the tunnels. The group froze, the mercenaries drawing their weapons instinctively. The sound grew louder for a moment, then faded, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

  “What was that?” one of the mercenaries, Thran, asked, his voice low.

  Zeveron shook his head. “Could be anything. Echoes play tricks down here. A cave-in miles away, maybe. Or...”

  “Or something else,” Kael finished, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  No one moved for a long moment, tension thick in the air. Then Zeveron took a deep breath and waved a hand. “Let’s keep moving. Standing around won’t do us any good.”

  The group pressed on, but the tapping sound lingered in their minds. The tunnels seemed darker now, the flickering lantern light unable to push back the shadows as effectively as before. Kael tightened his grip on his sword, his senses on high alert.

  The caravan came to a halt at the crossroads, the creaking of the wagons and the nervous shifting of the draft animals filling the tense silence. Kael stood beside Zeveron, his crimson eyes scanning the dimly lit checkpoint ahead. A small outpost had been set up here, an unexpected sight in the depths of the Deep Roads. Torches mounted on the stone walls cast flickering shadows across the scene, illuminating a group of armed guards.

  Zeveron’s face had turned pale, his brow furrowed with worry. "There shouldn’t be a checkpoint here," he muttered under his breath. "Not this close. Something’s off."

  "Calm yourself," Kael said evenly, though his sharp gaze never left the guards. "Panicking won’t help. Let’s see what they want."

  Zeveron huffed but nodded, adjusting his coat and stepping forward as the caravan rolled closer. One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a patchy beard, raised a hand to signal them to stop.

  "Halt!" the guard barked, stepping into their path. His armor clinked as he moved, the insignia of a nearby kingdom crudely etched onto his breastplate. He held up a hand as he scrutinized the group. "State your names, your business, and what you’re transporting."

  Zeveron squared his shoulders, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I am Zeveron Ironhand, a merchant of Ironswill. This is my caravan, heading to Dwellershollow to deliver goods to a client."

  The guard studied him with narrowed eyes before stepping closer. "You’ll need to provide proper identification and traveling papers."

  Zeveron froze for a moment, confusion flashing across his face. "Traveling papers? I’ve never needed papers to pass through the Deep Roads before. What nonsense is this?"

  The guard’s lips twisted into a smug grin. "Times have changed, dwarf. If you don’t have the required papers, you’ll need to turn back. And the merchandise stays. It’ll be repurposed for the war effort."

  The words struck Zeveron like a hammer blow. His face turned red, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "War effort? That’s a bloody shakedown, you filthy son of a cave rat! My goods are mine, and no jumped-up brigand in a guard’s uniform is going to take them!"

  The guard’s grin disappeared, replaced by a cold glare. "Watch your tongue, dwarf. You’re a hair’s breadth from losing more than your merchandise."

  Zeveron stepped forward, his voice rising. "Oh, is that so? Why don’t you crawl back to whatever pit you slithered out of and tell your mother—"

  "Enough," Kael interrupted, his voice calm but firm.

  The guard turned his attention to Kael, narrowing his eyes at the imposing figure. "And who are you supposed to be?"

  Kael didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he raised his hand, his thumb, index, and pinky fingers curled while his ring and middle fingers extended. His voice was quiet but carried an undeniable weight as he spoke the activation word: "Mindras."

  The air seemed to hum faintly as the spell took hold. The guard’s angry expression melted into one of dazed confusion, his eyes losing focus. He blinked several times, as though trying to remember where he was.

  "What... just happened?" the guard mumbled, looking around.

  Kael stepped closer, his tone measured and steady. "I just handed you our traveling papers. You checked them and confirmed they were in order. You also agreed that our merchandise is not to be touched. Everything is clear, and you’ve given us permission to proceed."

  The guard nodded slowly, his expression still hazy. "Yes... yes, that sounds right. You’re good to go."

  Kael glanced toward the other guards, who had started approaching at the sound of Zeveron’s outburst. The lead guard turned to them, raising a hand to wave them off.

  "Everything’s fine," he called out, his voice firm but distant. "The caravan is cleared to pass. No interference."

  The other guards hesitated but ultimately nodded, returning to their posts.

  Kael stepped back, letting his hand drop as the spell faded. The lead guard blinked again, seeming to come to his senses, but by then, the caravan was already moving forward.