Chapter 370| What Could A Bound Prisoner Possibly Offer Us?

The air inside the subterranean cell felt heavy and damp, a stark contrast to the freezing chill wrapping the mountain peaks above.

The occasional wyvern roars echoing from the distance were now reduced to mere whispers, smothered completely by layers of ancient stone and suffocating silence.

Rianor stood tall in the center of the cramped stone room. His wire-rimmed glasses reflected the orange glow emanating from outside the cell. His gray eyes stared straight at the Dwarven King, who remained standing firmly at the threshold.

The stocky old man returned Rianor’s gaze. His aging eyes were dim, yet narrowed into a sharp calculation of every life before him. His grizzled gray beard brushed against the steel breastplate on his chest, while gold runes etched across his arms and shoulders pulsed in rhythm with his breath.

Resting in his hand was a warhammer inscribed with white runes. Silent, yet dripping with lethal threat.

"I’ve heard enough of your excuses back in my private quarters," the Dwarven King finally spoke. His voice was calm, flat, and surgically precise.

He raised his right hand, displaying Rianor’s Arcanotech Bracer, though it remained completely inert. "However, you aren’t off the hook yet. The Stone Council will convene shortly, and that is where your fate will be decided."

Rianor heard this without a single flicker of emotion. He adjusted his glasses, then looked the Dwarven King dead in the eye.

"Before we face your Council," Rianor said, "give him back his shortsword."

The Dwarven King narrowed his eyes. "You dare demand a weapon inside the enemy’s den, human?"

"Not for a fight." Rianor glanced toward Riven in the corner of the cell. The dark-haired giant remained mute. His torn shirt exposed sinewy, cable-like muscle. Riven’s gray eyes stared straight ahead with the absolute composure of an executioner.

"We won’t march into your council chamber like hounds that just had their fangs pulled," Rianor added coldly. "This isn’t a plea. It’s a matter of respect."

The Dwarven King fell silent. His gaze shifted to assess Riven. For three crucial seconds, he evaluated the sheer killing intent tightly suppressed beneath the giant’s frame.

With a single sharp nod, the Dwarven King kicked the hilt of a sword resting on the floor.

The sheathed blade arced through the air. Riven raised a single hand. Snap! He caught it with absolute precision. Without even touching the hilt, Riven immediately clipped the scabbard back onto his belt.

"Get them ready," the Dwarven King commanded with absolute authority.

While Rianor descended deeper into the bowels of the earth, a pale blue dawn began to break across the surface.

At the Forward Military Outpost of the Iron Empire, an icy wind swept away the lingering night fog. Roland stood at the threshold of the half-ruined outpost. His dark blue diplomatic coat was grime-stained, betraying his noble status.

Behind him, Thorne was tightening the straps of his gear. His dark blue military uniform melted seamlessly into the shadows. He double-checked the daggers at his waist, ensuring they wouldn’t clatter against his belt.

The remaining two Iron Empire soldiers stood nervously by the barricade, their knuckles white as they gripped iron spears.

"Just the four of us," Roland said softly without turning around. His gray eyes scanned the limestone gap up ahead. "Moving with a larger unit will only slow us down. We’d become sitting ducks for Dwarven patrols... or wyverns."

Hurried footsteps echoed. Rumina emerged from the outpost’s supply room. Her gray dress was dusted with dirt, her glasses slipping down her nose. The ledger she clutched tightly against her chest failed to hide the pale anxiety written across her face.

"Roland..." Rumina called out, her voice trembling slightly. "Is this really wise? Infiltrating their territory without platoon support?"

Roland turned around, his expression hardening. "None of this is wise, Rumina. But Rianor and the others are down there. I’m not leaving them to die."

He stepped closer, placing a firm yet comforting hand on Rumina’s shoulder. "You’re in command of this outpost now. If we aren’t back in two days... you know what needs to be done."

Rumina swallowed hard, her lenses fogging slightly. "The emergency draft to Northreach. I understand."

"Good." Roland nodded, then turned to Thorne. "We move now. Before the fog dissipates completely."

The four shadows slipped past the barricade, vanishing into the thick fog of the Eastern Mountains.

Far beneath Roland’s feet, Yara held her breath as she walked.

The damp stone corridor opened up into a massive tunnel leading into the heart of the Dwarven city. Yara’s brown eyes widened, taking in the stone walls lining both sides, covered in carved runes pulsing with a dim orange light.

A steady wave of heat radiated off the walls, banishing the subterranean chill.

As a mechanic, Yara’s instincts practically burned with curiosity. Her leather-gloved hands instinctively rubbed against her stained apron.

"That’s... not magic, is it?" Yara whispered softly to Selene.

Selene turned to her. Her silver hair stood out sharply against her sea-blue Arcanum robes. "Ancient circuitry," she replied in a hush. "The runes act like blood vessels. They draw magma heat from below and channel it throughout the city for illumination and warmth."

Yara nodded slowly, her gaze returning straight ahead. At the end of the tunnel, multi-story dwellings carved directly into the cliff faces shone brightly.

Dwarven children darted across railing-less stone bridges, staring wide-eyed at the passing group of humans.

Bringing up the rear, Riven paid no mind to his surroundings. The giant moved with systematic focus. His eyes locked onto every passing Temple Guardian, calculating the destructive force of their runic weapons in case he had to carve a path out.

Beside him, Lieur kept his head low. The young scout trembled, hyper-aware of just how precarious their lives were in this place.

Back on the surface, death lurked behind the veil of fog.

Thorne stayed low, taking the point. The two soldiers tailed closely behind him, holding their breath, while Roland occupied the center. The crunch of their boots on limestone gravel sounded deafening in the silence.

Suddenly, Thorne raised his left fist. Halt.

He crouched down, running his fingers over the rocky ground. Roland crept closer.

"What is it?"

"Tracks," Thorne reported cleanly, the tip of his dagger pointing at a faint indentation. "Standard boot prints. Not monsters, and far too light for heavy Imperial armor. Headed straight toward the ravine ahead. Rianor’s route."

Roland let out a long breath. "They made it. They went underground."

CLANG!

The sharp strike of metal on limestone severed the fog.

Thorne shot to his feet, twin daggers appearing in his hands without a sound. The two soldiers behind Roland lowered their spears, the iron tips trembling in their grasp.

Five burly silhouettes emerged through the white haze.

A Dwarven patrol.

Clad in thick leather coats and battle-scratched steel breastplates, their pale red eyes blazed from behind metal helmets, instantly locking onto Roland’s group. The runic axes and warhammers in their hands glowed with a lethal orange warmth.

Roland’s mind raced at lightspeed. Fight, and we die. Run, and we get hunted down.

"Lower your spears," Roland hissed.

"Sir?!" the soldier behind him protested in panic.

"Lower them!" Roland barked without looking back.

Roland stepped forward. He bypassed Thorne, not bothering to conceal himself. His diplomatic coat billowed in the wind as he spread his arms wide, exposing open palms.

"We are not the Emperor’s men!" Roland called out, braving the howling wind.

The five Dwarves came to a sudden halt. The patrol leader—the tallest among them—sneered, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. He slowly raised his warhammer, pointing it dead at Roland’s face.

"Bah. Not the Emperor’s men?" the leader spat. "Yet you drag Imperial hounds behind you. Who are you, human?"

Roland didn’t so much as blink, staring down the iron hammerhead a mere inch from his nose. "Roland. A diplomat from Northreach. I came to retrieve my people who entered your territory."

The Dwarf let out a raspy, booming laugh. "A diplomat? In this graveyard of a land? You think we give a damn about titles?"

Roland’s expression hardened. Every trace of polite nobility drained from his eyes, replaced by the razor-sharp calculation of a field commander.

"You can spit on my title all you want. But you better care about the outpost artillery less than a mile behind me. If I don’t return... their cannons will turn this ravine into a sea of fire before sunrise."

It was a complete bluff. The military outpost was practically crumbling, its soldiers severely wounded. Yet Roland delivered it with the absolute conviction of an executioner holding the gallows rope.

The patrol leader went quiet. His crimson eyes searched Roland’s face for any sign of weakness. Then his gaze flicked to Thorne, who stood relaxed, yet radiated the unmistakable killing intent of a seasoned veteran.

Three agonizing seconds ticked by like a slow strangulation.

The Dwarven leader lowered his hammer.

"Foolish bravery, human," he grunted. "Walk ahead of us. If you try to cross us, those cannons of yours will only find your butchered remains."

Roland lowered his hands. He had succeeded.

Deep beneath the earth, the air grew hot and solemn.

Rianor was finally escorted into the Stone Council Chamber—the political heart of the subterranean civilization. Its walls were forged from pitch-black volcanic rock, heavily carved with depictions of terrestrial dragons.

Before them, seven Dwarven elders sat lined up on marble thrones. Positioned squarely in the center, elevated above the rest, sat the Dwarven King who had captured them.

Behind the elders, a colossal forge roared with blue flame. The azure glare illuminated the golden runes across the King’s skin, casting a mystical, intimidating aura over the hall.

Rianor strode straight into the center of the hall. Riven, Selene, Yara, and Lieur closed ranks behind him. Rianor stood tall, his chin raised slightly, refusing to bow.

"You stand before the Stone Council," the Dwarven King’s voice boomed, rattling the hanging stalactites. "Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t throw your bodies straight into that blue forge."

Rianor adjusted his glasses with the tip of his finger. "Because we aren’t Regulus’s soldiers. We were forced into this mission."

A one-eyed elder leaned forward, pointing a calloused finger at them. "Sweet lies! Our scouts saw you eating Imperial bread at the outpost, holding their weapons, fighting side-by-side with them!"

"We were used as pawns in court political intrigue," Rianor cut in coldly. "We were sent with escorts, not trust."

A second elder spun a small silver hand-axe in his grip, eyes narrowing sharply. "And the severe burn on your arm? Do Imperial soldiers burn their own pack now?"

Rianor lowered his left arm. "This isn’t from the Iron Empire. It’s a parting gift from an Arcanum Master in Luminara. A name you wouldn’t recognize."

The council hall plummeted into dead silence. The elders exchanged bewildered glances. The name Luminara was clearly alien to them. Even the Dwarven King narrowed his eyes, sifting through his memories to see if he had ever heard it before.

"Luminara?" one elder muttered. "What kingdom is that?"

"A kingdom on the southern continent," Rianor answered dryly.

The answer only ratcheted up the tension. If the horrific burn wasn’t inflicted by the Imperial army, then who exactly was this Luminara Arcanum Master capable of dealing such a scar?

Before the Dwarven King could press further, the sound of grinding stone echoed from somewhere behind them.

Krrrkkk...

The sound was so heavy the stone floor trembled beneath them. Every member of the Council turned as one.

GRRRKKK!

The colossal stone doors at the far end of the hall were shoved open. Every eye swung toward the entrance. Rianor held his breath.

Roland strode inside.

His wrists were bound in rough leather bindings at his chest. Two Dwarven guards prodded him forward with spear points. Behind him, Thorne and the two outpost soldiers followed, bound in the exact same manner.

Roland’s gray eyes swept across the hall, bypassing the roar of the blue forge flames, ignoring the stares of the elders, and locking directly onto Rianor.

Roland gave a subtle nod. Extremely slow, almost imperceptible.

An instinctive signal Rianor’s sharp mind immediately decoded: Let me take over from here.

The Dwarven King atop the central dais narrowed his eyes, assessing Roland’s tattered blue coat and the unmistakable dignity radiating beneath the grime on his face.

"Our patrol intercepted these intruders in the limestone ravine," reported the Dwarf leading Roland. "He claims to be a diplomat and demanded to meet this group."

The Dwarven King grunted, gesturing toward Roland with his chin. "So... this is the leader of these stray dogs?"

Roland didn’t bow. He took a firm step forward, stopping directly beside Rianor. The searing heat from the blue forge fire washed over the side of his face.

"I am their leader," Roland answered, his deep baritone echoing to dominate the cavernous stone hall. "And I didn’t come to beg, nor did I come to discuss your petty war with Regulus."

The Dwarven King sneered. "Then what could a bound prisoner possibly offer us?"

"Reality," Roland cut in with absolute authority. "The Iron Empire and your people are both trapped in a cycle of idiocy. You’re busy slaughtering each other over a patch of dusty dirt, while a far more colossal threat—one that could erase both Humans and Dwarves entirely—is crawling into the light right under your noses."

Silence.

The hall fell so dead silent that Yara’s rapid breathing echoed clearly.

"Bah! What threat?!" barked one of the elders, slamming his hand hard against the armrest of his chair. "What could possibly be larger than thousands of iron soldiers pounding at our mountain gates?!"