Morning arrived without the cheers of victory.
There were no celebrations, no parades—only the lingering exhaustion etched onto the faces of everyone who had survived the night.
The small convoy moved out, leaving the Dwarven underground city and making their way up the tunnels toward the surface. The steam-carriage they rode didn't belong to the Dwarves. It was a vehicle seized from the retreating Iron Empire forces, its steel wheels still caked in volcanic dust, a slow trail of white vapor puffing from its smokestack.
Two elite Dwarven guards stood by the carriage doors, overseeing the departure. They didn't speak, simply ensuring everyone boarded without issue.
Roland stood at the front of the carriage, staring at the gate far at the end of the tunnel. His white shirt was still grimy, the wound on his left shoulder not fully healed, yet his face showed no signs of pain.
Rianor stood beside him, his left arm hanging limply, the Bracer completely dead.
