The screams from behind the stone doors had yet to die down.
The voices echoed off the obsidian walls, bouncing and stacking on top of one another. The most repeated word wasn't always clear, but the tone was unmistakable.
Execution.
The Dwarf King sat on his throne, his stout figure leaning slightly forward. Both hands rested on the stone armrests. His gray beard hung tiredly against his chest.
The white-runed warhammer remained propped beside him, untouched.
His faded red eyes stared straight ahead at Grigori and Adrian, who stood in the center of the room, their hands bound by rune-etched chains. Grigori stood tall, refusing to bow his head. Adrian stood a half-step behind him, face pale, his eyes darting wildly in every direction.
The Dwarf King remembered his firstborn son.
Killed at the eastern gates sixty years ago, his body obliterated by the Iron Empire's steam cannons.
His second son died twenty years later. The same corridor. The same swords.
