Life was extinguishing in my hands—that was the reality. Even if it was only these moles, before they were food. Now they were just pieces of half-rotten flesh, or with colors and smells so putrid I would not bring this home no matter how hungry my people were. I was a dwarf, which meant we saw what we ate even if it was a worm. We could not go around putting whatever we found in our mouths, even if it meant I would have to eat poverty mushrooms again. I had to save the food for those who still had hope—those fighting in Rocaceleste. I only came to fulfill my mission here before continuing.
The hallways and rooms were gradually clearing. Many of the constructions were over two thousand years old. When my boots echoed, it seemed the echo attacked me. But it was not so. Those who wanted me dead were hundreds of enemies—animals that lived in these places and had mutated. I did not deceive myself; I knew where they came from. They came from the infection generated by the demonic marks. In these months, I advanced alone. My people had a different fight—they needed to reconcile. It was not easy being a dwarf, especially living always under the suspicion that you would have nothing left the next day. Caliza would have to manage... and what would I do with Moon Reflection? He was not a bad fighter, but he had followed me too far. I was close to facing the dragon—that damned spawn that had allowed so many enemies, so much corruption to infiltrate its territory. If before it was difficult to face the reality that my son was gone, now I had to sink my mace into bearded faces. The shield crushed skulls that wore helmets—not only dwarves I did not know. From their beards, I could see representatives of almost all the clans still active in this place. Now I was eating a stew on the outskirts of my worst nightmare: Emerald was sealed less than fifty meters from my position.
Known as the City of Smiths, its studies were highly appreciated in the rest of the dwarven community. Even with political problems, they were the ones who created the Great Dwarven Encyclopedia, shared mineral culture. They were the only ones who preserved those precious and invaluable crystals full of chromium. It was a city everyone talked about, but no one had visited in centuries. Apparently, some underground creature had massacred all involved. The few who survived—my father said—went to ask for help. But no one wanted to support them in restoring their lands. In my father's opinion, it was to avoid loss of life. But I now knew the truth. This city gave them everything in abundance. The mere idea of returning so much power to the few who had escaped was foolishness in the merchants' eyes. So they sent them from city to city, dying a little in the process. Mother said they were lazy for not wanting to work outside their forges. Now I was not so sure. A smith always wants to keep being one, and out of ego, they were not allowed. Most died in misery. Some tried to return on their own—with sticks and stones to reclaim what was theirs. Curiously, no one recovered it. As far as I remember, many went—no one returned. It was said the authorities killed those who tried to enter by force, arguing that whatever was hidden there could attack them and also invade the tunnels. The truth was they wanted the wealth for themselves... yet I did not know if they succeeded. Behind those doors was the greatest genocide of my race. To think we made a song about it.
As my steps brought me closer, the words accumulated. If I did not get them out, they would stay inside me, and I could not truly face my enemies. So first, with a voice cracked from lack of water, then raspy from my tears—remembering the pain reminded me why I hated so much—I accompanied myself to the door:
"Behind the door was their home,
Behind stone walls, Emerald shone.
In their hands was integrity,
But courage was not enough that occasion.
Not many came to their aid,
No promise was sufficient.
The blood of Emerald House
Was spilled for dwarven solitude.
The emptiness of the forge accompanies them.
I earned two coins for a broken hammer,
The only weapon wielded by the homeless.
Behind the stone door, the dwarf sent his brother to death.
No one did anything.
Nothing was left to do.
The bones in Emerald await us—
Those who abandoned their brothers.
Dwarven courage was buried
Behind the door, along with them.
Far from home, we bury them."
Seeing the door, I understood why they could not get through. There were handprints with missing nails from trying to enter. Broken pieces of armor, perhaps tied with leather to keep them together, but offering nothing for defense. The gate itself was enormous—easily over four meters high, solid stone. A slot with runes was in front. Only the leaders of the Chromed House could open or close it. They died first. Yet being close, I noticed a small hole had been dug between the two leaves, in a stone floor, with bare hands... One last tear fell. My hammer was charged with the Explosion rune. I hoped whatever was behind the doors would want to attack me. I carried so much pain and hatred for my race, for the dragon, for the Lich, for my own weakness and selfishness that they would regret facing me.