chapter 20.2

After a long and arduous journey, traversing winding mountain paths and narrow rocky trails, Alcard finally arrived at a small Dwarven settlement near the empire's main mining hub. Unlike human villages bustling with open markets and wooden homes hastily constructed over time, this Dwarven settlement exuded permanence and stability. Every building was constructed from massive stone blocks, their surfaces carved with meticulous precision. The entire village seemed to be built to withstand not just centuries but entire ages.

Though night had begun to fall, the settlement remained alive with activity. From a massive stone hall, which appeared to be the village's main gathering place, the raucous sounds of laughter and deep voices echoed into the cold air. The village bar, a place where Dwarves gathered after long hours working in the mines, was brimming with patrons. Some still wore their work clothes, their faces smudged with coal dust and traces of metal, but there was no exhaustion in the way they guzzled their drinks or exchanged stories with boisterous enthusiasm.

On the quieter side of the village, Dwarven women sat outside their homes, skillfully weaving or repairing mining equipment while engaged in soft conversation. Yet, every so often, their eyes flicked toward Alcard, their expressions unreadable—some filled with curiosity, others laced with suspicion.

Alcard took a deep breath and made his decision. If he was to learn anything useful, the village bar would be his best chance. Information flowed freely where alcohol was abundant, and despite the hostility he expected, he had little choice but to enter.

As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into the warm glow of lanterns and the thick scent of ale, the lively atmosphere inside immediately shifted. The low hum of conversation dwindled, replaced by a thick silence that clung to the air like smoke. Dozens of sharp, unwelcoming eyes turned toward him. Some Dwarves whispered among themselves, their hushed tones tinged with contempt.

"Outkarn? Grâk thrân durkhâl kar-azgal?"

(An outcast? What is a stray dog doing in our halls?)

A particularly large Dwarf with a thick silver beard narrowed his eyes at Alcard. The tension in the air was suffocating. It was not the first time he had walked into a place where he was unwanted, and it certainly would not be the last. He could already predict the outcome—resentment, insults, perhaps even a challenge to test his worth. Outcasts were never welcomed anywhere, be it in the realms of Men, Elves, or Dwarves.

Ignoring the sharp gazes, Alcard strode forward with measured steps and stopped at the bar counter. The bartender, a burly Dwarf with arms thick as tree trunks and a long scar running down his cheek, wiped a wooden mug with slow deliberation. His piercing gaze did not waver as he stared at Alcard, his expression unreadable but clearly unwelcoming.

"We don't serve blood-drinking monsters here," the bartender said coldly, his voice like grinding stone.

Alcard inhaled deeply, refusing to rise to the provocation. Without a word, he retrieved a small pouch from within his cloak and placed it on the counter with a dull clink, its weight unmistakable. The metallic sound of gold shifting within was enough to capture the interest of even the most skeptical listener.

"I'm not here for a drink," he said plainly, his tone unwavering. "I need information, and I can pay for it."

The bartender's eyes flickered to the pouch. Though his face remained impassive, Alcard could see the faintest hint of intrigue. He took the pouch, weighing it in his calloused hand, his fingers subtly feeling the edges of the coins within.

"Alright," he said, his tone now more neutral. "But if you want me to talk, you'll be buying a round for every Dwarf here."

Alcard did not hesitate. He gave a small nod, signaling his agreement. The bartender grunted and moved to pour more drinks, and slowly, the room's tension began to ease. As mugs of ale slid across the wooden tables, the murmurs of conversation returned, and the sharp hostility that had filled the air dissipated slightly. Some of the Dwarves who had been muttering insults now raised their mugs in grudging amusement, more than willing to accept free drinks.

Seizing the opportunity, Alcard settled into a stool, tearing off a chunk of the dense, stone-hard bread that the Dwarves favored. He spoke in an even, measured tone, careful to steer the conversation naturally.

"I've always heard about the Dwarves' craftsmanship," he began, casually swirling the drink in his mug. "Your cities, your forges, your weapons—nothing in Middle Earth compares."

The bartender smirked slightly as he poured another round of ale. "That's because nothing else can compare," he said. "The Second Era was our golden age. We built fortresses that could outlast empires, forged blades that have never dulled in battle." He exhaled, shaking his head. "But that was then. Now? We are reduced to little more than miners, digging day and night just to hold on to what little we still have."

Alcard nodded in understanding before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to pique the bartender's interest. "But there's something else that sets your people apart. Something beyond mere skill with metal and stone." He let the words hang in the air for a moment. "A power greater than any forge. I've heard whispers about it."

The bartender's hand stilled on the handle of a mug. His gaze darkened slightly, the flickering lantern light reflecting in his sharp eyes.

"You speak of something that should not be spoken of," he murmured.

Alcard held his gaze. "I speak of the Fragments."

A heavy silence fell between them. For a long moment, the bartender simply stared, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, at last, he exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand across his thick beard.

"So you do know something," he muttered. "But if you're looking for details, you won't find them here. The knowledge you seek is held by the Council of the Ten Clans." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice further. "If you want real answers, you'll need to speak to one of the Great Clans."

Alcard remained expressionless, but inside, he felt the pieces beginning to fit together. This was exactly the lead he needed.

"Who?" he asked simply.

The bartender hesitated, then finally muttered a single name.

"Steelhammer."

The name carried weight. One of the most powerful Dwarven clans, known not only for their expertise in weaponry but also for their connection to ancient relics and long-forgotten histories.

Alcard nodded slowly, storing the information away. "And where can I find them?"

The bartender chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "That's your problem, outcast. You'll need more than gold to get their attention. If you plan on asking questions, be ready to offer something in return. The Steelhammer clan doesn't deal in charity."

Alcard stood, leaving enough coin on the counter to ensure the conversation ended on good terms. As he turned to leave, the bartender's voice called after him one last time.

"Be careful what you ask for," he said, his tone more serious than before. "The kind of knowledge you're chasing? It tends to lead to ruin."

Alcard didn't respond. He stepped back into the cold night air, pulling his cloak around him as he gazed toward the towering mines in the distance. Somewhere deep within those mountains lay the truth he sought.

And he intended to find it.

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