The tremors persisted as Rianor stared down at the relief map before him. Subdued and constant, they hummed like a heartbeat rising from the earth's deep belly. Unbeknownst to him, at the far end of the western tunnel, the battle was far from over.
Riven's axe clashed against steel for what felt like the hundredth time. The impact reverberated all the way up to his shoulder, but he refused to stop. Inside the narrow passage—barely two meters wide, sandwiched between the shattered stone bridge on one side and a sheer cliff on the other—twenty Dwarven warriors stood in a tight phalanx, their warhammers and axes glowing a fierce crimson from the runes etched into their handles.
The Iron Empire soldiers kept coming. One after another. There was no formation, no strategy—only reckless desperation, as if sheer numbers could somehow overpower cold discipline.
