The road ended in a canyon.
Literally. One minute we were walking along a dirt trail, sun in the trees, birds above. The next, we reached a cliff and looked down into a chasm carved into the bones of the world.
"...Well," I said. "That's not ominous at all."
Below us was Stonecut Hollow, a dwarven mining village built into the canyon walls. Dozens of squat stone structures jutted from the rock like geometric beehives. Smoke rose from central forges. Lanterns burned even in daylight. Bridges of steel and rope connected ledges at multiple levels, forming a dizzying maze of platforms and ramps.
Silas peered over the edge. "Do you think they're compensating for something?"
"Gravity, mostly," Velis muttered.
Lyra squinted into the depths. "That's dwarven architecture. Thick stone. Dense enchantments. Overly literal."
"I like them already," Iria said, gripping Edelbrecht with genuine anticipation.
We reached the front gate—if you could call it that—after a spiral descent that made my knees consider filing a formal complaint.
A pair of dwarf guards met us at the entrance. Short, armored, bearded, and radiating the general vibe of a boulder that could punch back.
"Hail, travelers," said one. "State yer business."
"Rest. Supplies," I said. "Maybe a bed that doesn't have a beetle problem."
He frowned. "Yer coins?"
Velis stepped forward, pulled a few royal golds from her pouch.
The guard looked offended.
"We don't take soft-cast mint in Stonecut."
"We accept trade tokens only," said the other. "Stone-backed. Dwarven weight."
"Right," I said. "So... do you take exposure?"
We were given a choice.
Leave.
Or work.
Iria agreed before the words finished echoing.
"I will repay the debt through honest labor," she said, practically glowing.
Silas gave a long-suffering sigh. "I suppose I could supervise something."
The guard looked at me. "You got arms?"
"Two. They bend."
"Close enough."
Velis and Lyra were offered housing in the upper ring—Velis to review old mining runes, Lyra to assist with overworked infirmary clerics.
The rest of us?
The mines.
The next morning began with a dwarven foreman slapping me in the chest with a pickaxe and saying, "Dig or die tryin'."
I chose dig.
The mine was hot, loud, and full of rules I didn't understand. Don't step on yellow chalk. Don't swing high near ceiling supports. Don't touch anything that hums unless you want a facial scar shaped like disappointment.
Silas found a way to "accidentally" take extended breaks every hour and came back smelling like tavern mead.
Iria, meanwhile, was terrifying.
She carried full ore carts on her shoulders. She took pickaxe drills as a form of warm-up. By lunch, the dwarves had given her a nickname: Iron Song.
Me?
I got rocks in my boots and accidentally collapsed a tunnel branch.
Mining is supposed to be symbolic. Honest work. Strength of spirit and all that.
I mostly learned how heavy stone is when it falls on your foot.
But the dwarves kept me around.
Because I showed up every day. Because I didn't complain out loud all the time. Because I learned, slowly, how to brace a beam, how to feel the shift in the wall before it cracked, how to use leverage instead of pure force.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't heroic.
But it was... useful.
Which was new.
Velis had discovered runes lining the outer support tunnels. She spent hours copying them, muttering to herself, half in Elvish, half in sarcasm.
"They're old," she said one night. "Pre-dwarven. Defensive in nature. But decaying."
"Decay happens," Lyra replied, stitching a dwarven patient's arm. "Especially when you carve over cursed soil."
Velis arched a brow. "You think this place is cursed?"
"No," Lyra said. "I think it's leaking."
That shut us all up.
That night, the forgehall was full of clanking mugs and the smell of coal-roasted meat. The dwarves feasted like they'd won a war instead of digging rocks all day, and they were generous enough to share.
We were given a table near the center—probably so they could watch us struggle with their alcohol.
The mug they handed me was filled with a drink called Smeltfire Ale, which had the color of lava and the flavor of regret. I took one sip and coughed like I'd swallowed a spell explosion.
Silas slammed his back like he was saving me from choking.
"I told you," he said, laughing. "You sip it like it might punch you."
"It did punch me," I wheezed.
Across the table, Iria sat perfectly straight, calmly finishing her second mug like it was purified water. The dwarves had already started singing about her.
"I was trained to resist all toxins," she said simply, as if being immune to liver damage was a sacred knightly rite.
Velis had taken up one of the glowing rune stones from her bag and was balancing it on the lip of her cup.
"This entire cavern is laced with pre-dwarven warding magic," she muttered. "None of it up to date. It's like living inside a magical security system from a thousand years ago that keeps asking for your password."
Lyra leaned in, looked at her, then down at her own cup of plain tea.
"Are you always this fun at parties?"
"I avoid parties," Velis said flatly.
Silas elbowed Lyra. "You should've seen her during the trivia festival. Banned. Instant legend."
"She got kicked out?" Lyra blinked.
"For being faster than the questions," I said.
"Respect," Lyra said, and Velis gave a small, quiet shrug that might've been pride.
After the food, a fire was lit in a pit in the center of the hall. The dwarves told a story about how their ancestors punched a volcano into submission to forge the first pickaxe. I think it was metaphor. Maybe.
We listened.
Even Velis stopped writing for a moment.
Iria closed her eyes, hands resting on the hilt of her sword, half-lulled by the rhythm of the tale.
Silas leaned back in his chair with a half-dozing smirk.
And Lyra—still pretending not to care—was carefully repacking my medkit with fresher wraps.
I watched them all, quietly.
No monsters. No gods. No dark whispers in my artifact.
Just warmth.
And laughter.
And the steady hum of people who didn't need me to be amazing. Just to be there.
Later, as we walked the cliff paths toward our lodging, Iria glanced my way.
"You carried two ore carts today," she said.
"Only one tipped over," I said proudly.
"You did well."
I blinked. "Wait. Was that... a compliment?"
"A statement of fact. But yes."
Velis added without looking up from her notes, "Your technique is still garbage, but your spine has fewer complaints. Probably."
Lyra said nothing.
But as she passed, she dropped a small cloth-wrapped satchel into my hand.
Inside was a salve. Labeled: "Kaname's Idiot Hands."
No hearts. No smiley face.
But the corner of her mouth twitched when I looked up.
Silas just clapped my shoulder. "You'll be a real adventurer yet, kid. Or at least someone who survives the prologue."
We reached the cliffside dorms.
No one spoke.
No one had to.
We were a party now.
God help the world.