chapter 20.1

After a long and grueling journey, one that had taken him through dense forests where colossal roots threatened to trip even the most seasoned traveler and across rocky paths that tested his endurance to the limit, Alcard finally arrived at the grand gates of the Dwarven Empire. These were no ordinary gates—they were monuments to the craftsmanship and might of the Dwarves, towering structures carved from ancient stone, etched with the intricate history of their people. Every chiseled detail told a tale of war, of conquest, and of the legendary ancestors who had built their kingdom deep beneath the mountains.

The entrance was heavily guarded. Rows of Dwarven sentinels stood in disciplined formation, clad in thick, darkened plate armor that looked as if it could withstand the force of a warhammer without so much as a dent. Their helmets obscured most of their faces, leaving only their stern, watchful eyes visible beneath the reinforced visors. Each of them wielded weapons characteristic of their kind—massive warhammers with thick iron shafts, so weighty that no ordinary human could hope to wield them effectively. Though they stood motionless, their sharp gazes followed every movement, ensuring that nothing slipped past their watch.

Alcard dismounted his imposing black steed, the horse standing tall and composed beside him, radiating a presence of quiet dominance. He knew that, as an outcast, his presence in Dwarven lands would be met with suspicion, if not outright hostility. But he had long grown accustomed to such treatment and had no intention of allowing it to unsettle him.

Without any haste, he raised his hands in a neutral gesture, making it clear that he posed no immediate threat. Then, with calculated precision, he reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a sealed document, marked with the official insignia of The Wall.

"I come as an emissary of The Wall," he declared, his voice calm yet firm, resonating with the weight of authority. "I seek an audience to negotiate for steel plating and weaponry from the Dwarven Empire."

One of the Dwarven guards, a figure who seemed to hold higher rank than the others, stepped forward. His movements were deliberate, his expression steeped in scrutiny and unspoken contempt. Taking the letter from Alcard's hand, he unfurled it and began reading, his brows furrowing as he scanned the contents. It did not take long before his lips curled into a smirk, a derisive scoff escaping from deep within his chest.

A low, guttural growl followed, muttered in the harsh and guttural tongue of the Dwarves.

"Outkarn thrû? Kharzul nâr barak, thrakzân thûl-kazral kar-kazad ukh grobin drûkhân ghalûn-rakzân!"

(An outcast again? You wretches never change, always coming to our gates like beggars with outstretched hands!)

At the insult, some of the other guards exchanged glances before breaking into coarse laughter, their voices gravelly, as if their mirth itself was carved from stone. One of them, emboldened by the exchange, stepped forward and added his own scornful remark.

"Grûmarz! Tharân nâr kharzul, khadûn narakh dûrin thrûl-karnâk dholnar thrakzûn uth zanak-drûl kar-Dhurzân!"

(Parasites! If it weren't for you lot, we wouldn't have to waste our resources constantly defending against the horrors from the South!)

Alcard remained unshaken. He could not understand the words, but the mocking tone and the way they laughed made it clear enough what was being said. Contempt and ridicule were things he had long grown used to. Whether it came from humans, Elves, or Dwarves, the stigma of being an outcast never changed. To the world, outcasts were nothing more than remnants of the condemned—exiles who had lost their place in society.

Yet, even as they mocked, Alcard knew the truth. The Dwarves might despise the outcasts, but they could not deny their necessity. The Wall stood as the last line of defense between the horrors of the South and the rest of Middle Earth. Without the outcasts, that line would break, and the chaos that followed would not spare even the Dwarven strongholds. But rather than acknowledge this, they chose to cast blame, preferring to treat those who fought for their survival as nothing more than filth.

The guard who had read the letter finally exhaled, irritation clear in his voice. He gestured lazily to the others, signaling them to open the gates.

"Fine, enter," he said coldly, his voice laced with resentment. "But listen well, outcast—do not think for even a moment that you are welcome here."

With a deep, thunderous groan, the colossal stone doors began to shift. Dust rained down as ancient mechanisms groaned in protest, and a cold wind rushed out from within the mountain, carrying with it the distinct scent of earth and metal. Rows of torches lined the towering walls of the passageway, casting flickering shadows across elaborate carvings that depicted the long and proud history of the Dwarves. Each engraving told a tale—wars won, cities built, kings crowned—monuments to a civilization that had endured for centuries.

Alcard led his horse through the entrance without a word, his expression unreadable. He had expected hostility, and he received it in full. Yet he cared little for their scorn. He was not here for their approval.

As he ventured deeper into the underground city, he felt the weight of countless eyes upon him. The streets of the Dwarven capital were lined with citizens who had stopped in their tracks to stare at him. Some did so with mild curiosity, but most bore expressions of thinly veiled disgust or outright hostility. Whispers spread quickly, though no one dared approach him directly.

He ignored them all. This was not the first time he had walked through a place where he was unwelcome. The sneers, the judgmental glares, the barely suppressed mutterings—it was all the same, no matter where he went.

For now, none of that mattered. He had come for a purpose. He needed to secure the supplies The Wall so desperately required, and more importantly, he needed answers—answers that might reveal the truth behind the fragment that now rested, hidden, within his cloak.

With measured steps, he continued forward, steeling himself for the negotiations ahead. He knew the Dwarves would not make this easy. But then again, neither would he.

****