The lift descended with unnerving speed and silence, plunging them deep into the mountain's metallic heart. Lunrik watched the glowing levels of Aethelburg flash past viewing ports – glimpses of intricate machinery, bustling workshops, residential blocks carved into the rock, all interconnected by a dizzying web of pipes, rails, and walkways. The sheer, overwhelming scale of the dwarven city was hard to comprehend, a testament to centuries of tireless industry and isolationist ingenuity, thriving on the geothermal power radiating from the mountain's core. Alaric's memories offered no comparison; Grimfang Deep was a power unto itself, ancient and self-contained.
Level seventy-two was starkly different from the vibrant, chaotic energy glimpsed higher up. The lift opened onto a wide corridor, dimly lit by recessed yellow panels, the walls reinforced with heavy, riveted steel plates. The air here was cooler, smelling faintly of ozone and disinfectant. Armoured guards, identical to their escorts, stood sentinel at regular intervals, their impassive helmeted gazes tracking their arrival. This was clearly a secure, restricted level. A prison.
"Detention Block Gamma," Forgemaster Borin announced unnecessarily as they stepped off the lift. "Follow."
They were marched down the sterile corridor, their footsteps echoing unnervingly on the metal floor. Eryndor, now conscious enough to stumble along weakly between the two guards, looked around with wide, terrified eyes, whimpering softly. Kaelith walked with her head held high, her expression carefully neutral, but Lunrik could sense the tension radiating from her, the tightly coiled alertness beneath the calm facade. He felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his own chest. Separation was coming, as Borin had warned. Facing dwarven interrogation alone, without Kaelith's steady presence, felt like stepping onto thin ice over a bottomless chasm.
They reached a heavy blast door controlled by a complex console of levers and glowing crystals. Borin spoke briefly into a grille, exchanging guttural Dwarven phrases with an unseen warden. The blast door hissed open, revealing a series of identical, windowless cells lining a narrower side corridor.
"The Frostmane first," Borin ordered. The guards guided the trembling Eryndor towards the nearest cell. The door slid open with pneumatic hiss, Eryndor was unceremoniously deposited inside, and the door slid shut again with a heavy, final clang.
Borin then turned to Kaelith. "She-wolf. This cell." He indicated the next one.
Kaelith met Lunrik's eyes for a brief, intense moment. He saw worry mirrored there, but also resilience, a silent promise to endure. "Stay strong, Lunrik," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the corridor, before turning and walking calmly into her assigned cell. The door sealed behind her, leaving Lunrik standing alone with Borin and the two remaining guards.
The silence felt immense. His only ally, his anchor in this terrifying new reality, was gone, locked away behind dwarven steel just feet away, yet utterly unreachable.
"Your turn, Banehallow," Borin said, his voice flat, using the cursed name deliberately now. His sharp eyes seemed to penetrate Lunrik's simple Dravenwolf leathers, seeing the hidden Stigma, the ghost king lurking beneath. "Cell three." He gestured. "Your… extraneous equipment will be secured elsewhere for examination." One of the guards stepped forward, efficiently and impersonally removing the damaged energy rifle from Lunrik's shoulder before he could protest.
Lunrik walked numbly towards the indicated cell. The door hissed open, revealing a small, spartan space. Walls, floor, ceiling – all seamless, burnished metal. A simple metal slab served as a bed, bolted directly to the wall. A recessed panel likely held water or waste disposal facilities. A single, dim light panel glowed steadily overhead. There were no seams, no vents, no obvious weaknesses. Utterly secure. Utterly impersonal.
He stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him with a solid, heavy thud, the sound echoing the finality of his confinement. He was alone. Truly alone, trapped deep beneath a mountain hostile to his kind, his future dependent on the whims of dwarves who likely despised his lineage.
He sank onto the cold metal slab, the exhaustion of the past few days crashing down on him. He finally had time to process, but the sheer volume of events threatened to overwhelm him. The frantic escape from the Ashfang, the encounter with the automaton, the terrified flight across the glacier, the dragon's terrifying intervention, the capture field, the leader's death, stumbling into this hidden kingdom… it felt like weeks crammed into days.
Alaric's ghost stirred, not with panic, but with cold analysis. Assess situation. Location: Grimfang Deep, high-security detention. Status: Prisoner, separated from allies. Threats: Dwarven interrogation, unknown Council judgment, potential hostility due to Banehallow curse. Assets: Information regarding surface threats (Ashfang, Unknown Hunters, Magdra's plans), potential leverage? Weaknesses: Physical exhaustion, injury (ankle, ribs), cursed bloodline vulnerability, lack of knowledge of dwarven politics/protocols.
The analysis was chillingly accurate but offered little comfort. What could he leverage? Information about Magdra's plans might interest them, especially if it involved breaching their borders. Information about the unknown hunters and their tech definitely interested them. But how much should he reveal? Mentioning Alaric, the rebirth, the full scope of the curse – suicidal. Focusing solely on the surface threat seemed the safest route, positioning himself as a reluctant heir caught in the crossfire, seeking only Eryndor's safety.
He thought of Eryndor, locked away nearby, murmuring about the Whispering Ice Pass. That knowledge was dangerous. If the dwarves interrogated Eryndor thoroughly, Magdra's objective might be revealed to them, potentially escalating tensions further. He needed to reach Eryndor, warn him, but trapped in this cell, it was impossible.
He glanced down at his gloved hand. Borin knew, or strongly suspected, about the Stigma. How? Had their technology detected it? Or was it simply centuries of ingrained dwarven suspicion towards the Banehallow line? Would they try to study it? Exploit it? The possibilities were terrifying.
The cell felt suffocating, the weight of the mountain pressing down, amplifying his sense of isolation. Time stretched, marked only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the technology embedded in the walls. He didn't know how long he waited – minutes? Hours? There was no way to tell in this windowless, timeless environment.
Just as the silence began to feel unbearable, just as Alaric's tactical mind started mapping potential weaknesses in the door mechanism based on sound alone, Lunrik heard it. Heavy, booted footsteps approaching down the corridor outside his cell. They stopped directly in front of his door. A pause. Then, the sharp, distinct sound of dwarven locking mechanisms disengaging.
The interrogation was about to begin. Lunrik pushed himself upright, bracing himself, trying to project outward calm while inwardly battling the ghost king's paranoia and his own rising fear. He had faced death multiple times in the past few days. Now, he faced something potentially more dangerous: the cold, calculating judgment of Grimfang Deep. The door began to hiss open.