Some place else.

Fire roared in the background, its heat a relentless wave against his back. The screams of the dying pierced the air, mingling with the frantic pounding of feet on stone. Smoke burned his eyes, and his lungs fought for breath. Stumbling blindly, he clawed his way forward, his vision swimming and head spinning from the fumes. Drool and snot dripped from his face, matting into his short beard as he groped for salvation. His hand found the door at last, the rough wood a lifeline. With what little strength he had left, he gripped the handle and turned it. Darkness threatened to consume him.

How had it come to this? How had they found us?

The door burst open, spilling him out into a maelstrom of fire and smoke. He collapsed onto the ground, greedily gulping the clean air. Before he could recover, a hand grabbed him roughly, dragging him away from the burning tunnel. He tried to focus, blinking through the haze, and saw a flash of strawberry-blonde hair. His rescuer hauled him farther until he could breathe again. Coughing and trembling, he struggled to his feet. Together, they stumbled out of the collapsing tunnels, turning to witness their home consumed by flames.

Dark silhouettes moved within the inferno. Shadows of their attackers hurled books, scrolls, and tablets into the blaze, feeding its hunger. The knowledge of generations turned to ash before his eyes.

"We must flee!" A voice echoed around him, urgent and commanding. "We cannot lose all our knowledge. We must keep him safe!"

Reluctantly, he turned from the burning ruin, his heart heavy with the screams still echoing in his ears. But as he stepped away, the flames shifted, and figures emerged from the inferno. Twisted, burning bodies, their flesh blackened and bubbling, staggered toward him. Their mouths opened in silent screams, spilling blood and smoke.

"Tharic..." they rasped, his name a curse on their tongues. Charred hands reached for him, clawing at his legs. One burning hand seized his foot, its touch like molten iron. He fell, struggling against the growing weight of their grasp. More hands latched on, dragging him backward.

"No!" he screamed, kicking and thrashing, but their hold tightened. They pulled him toward the flames, their dead eyes accusing, their ruined mouths whispering, "Why did you abandon us?"

The heat seared his flesh as the flames engulfed him. His skin blistered, the agony unbearable. The dead chanted his name, their voices a macabre hymn of betrayal and despair.

Tharic jolted upright in his bed, gasping for air. Sweat drenched the sheets, his heart pounding like a war drum. The faint light of dawn crept through the window, dispelling the darkness of his nightmare. He turned his head, his gaze falling on Drelda, his wife, still sleeping peacefully beside him.

He wiped his brow with a trembling hand, drawing in deep, steadying breaths. As he tried to shake the remnants of the dream, Drelda stirred, rolling over and draping a gentle hand on his back.

"Nightmares again?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

Tharic nodded, his voice hoarse. "Aye... the same one."

She rubbed his back and started to hum to him. Laying back down to enjoy the comfort, he could hear the sound of footsteps running towards their room. The door was thrown open, Kelric, his eldest son at twenty-five, stood in the doorway. Strong and pragmatic, Kelric carried the weight of responsibility with quiet resilience, often standing as a pillar of support for the family.

"Father! He's gone mad!" his son yelled, out of breath.

Tharic sprang from the bed, his heart still racing from the nightmare. Broad-shouldered and with a black beard streaked with gray, he exuded the steady presence of someone who had weathered countless storms. His ink-stained hands were a testament to his tireless work. "What are you talking about, Kelric? Who's gone mad?"

Kelric's face was pale, his auburn hair and beard were disheveled disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it. His calm green eyes now brimmed with urgency. "Grandpa! He's packing his things, muttering about visions and calling on us to leave. He says we have to go to Hearth Fire, right now!"

Drelda sat up, her hazel eyes sharpening with concern as she swept her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder. She was known to be both nurturing and fiercely protective and her sharp wit and wisdom had been the cornerstone of the family's strength for years. "Voldrik? What's happened?"

"Yes! He said he's received a message from the ancestors," Kelric replied, his voice trembling. "He's adamant, Mother. He's already gathering his books and tools. He says it's no longer safe here."

Tharic exchanged a worried glance with Drelda before pulling on his tunic and boots. "Stay with your mother," he instructed Kelric. "I'll talk to him."

Kelric shook his head. "You'll need me, Father. He's not listening to reason."

Tharic sighed but nodded. Together, they hurried down the stone corridor to to Voldrik's chamber. Drelda jumped up and wrapped her robe around her slender frame before following the men into the corridor. The old man's door stood ajar, light spilling into the hall. Inside, Voldrik's wiry frame moved with surprising speed as he stuffed scrolls, tablets, and vials into a worn satchel. His frail appearance, marked by a flowing white beard streaked with silver, glowing runic scars on his arms and neck, and cloudy gray eyes, belied the intensity with which he worked. The faint glow of his eyes seemed to flicker as if he were invoking ancient knowledge even as he packed.

Voldrik, though not blood-related to the family, was a figure of deep respect and mystery. A dwarven elder entrusted to their care through their ancient order, he had spent decades serving as both a guide and a keeper of forgotten knowledge. The children called him "Grandpa," a term of endearment that belied his often gruff demeanor.

"Voldrik," Tharic said firmly, stepping inside. "What's this about?"

"There's no time to argue, lad," Voldrik snapped, not looking up. "The ancestors have spoken. Hearth Fire calls, and we must answer."

Brina was the youngest of the family. She was only twenty-one and mirrors her mother's petite frame and soft reddish-gold coloring and wide blue eyes. She peeked nervously from the doorway clutching a small wooden doll to her chest. As her observant gaze flicking between her parents and Voldrik, she radiated a quiet empathy.

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Behind Brian stood her older brother Tarn, drawn to the doorway by all the commotion. Tarn was only twenty-three but he had a scruffy golden beard growing in giving him a roguish air and marking the beginning of his transition to adulthood. His mischievous grin was absent now, replaced with a furrowed brow. Tarn's energy seemed subdued, his inventive mind grappling with the chaos of the moment.

Two more sets of footsteps came down the hallway as Mira and Lorynn appeared. Mira was twenty-five and instead of the softer golden-red of her siblings and mother, she had darker fiery red hair with some strawberry blonde hues when caught the light. Her sharp gray eyes, framed by freckles dotting her face, scanned the chaos of her family. She moved through her family with practiced efficiency, her movements precise and steady, to find a free spot along he wall.

Lorynn, the eldest of the children at twenty-eight, pushed through her siblings till she could lean against the doorframe. Unlike her siblings she had her father's dark hair with only a few strawberry-blonde highlights framing piercing hazel eyes. She had a serious and ambitious demeanor about her and carried herself with an air of authority that was known of an eldest child Her sharp gaze assessed Voldrik with skepticism. "What are you saying, Voldrik?" she asked, her voice calm but probing. "Is this truly the ancestors' will?"

"It is time," Voldrik replied, his voice firm. "The Mark has been born. I can feel it. We must leave now or risk everything."

Kelric, stepping closer, rested a steadying hand on Mira's shoulder. "Grandpa, if you're certain, we'll follow you. But this is home. Leaving will not be easy."

Voldrik's expression softened. "It is not meant to be easy, lad. But it is necessary."

As the family hurried to prepare, the house buzzed with activity. Brina clung to Tarn, who reassured her as he packed a small satchel. Mira worked side by side with Drelda, organizing food and clothing, while Lorynn meticulously checked that no essential tools or heirlooms were left behind. Tharic moved through the room, packing the sanctuary's most critical records with the ink-stained hands of a man who had spent his life preserving history. His movements were deliberate, though the tension in his brow betrayed his inner turmoil.

By sundown, the family stood together at the edge of their home. The stone walls that had sheltered them for so long seemed to glow in the fading light, a silent farewell. Voldrik led the way, his staff in hand, his glowing runic scars faintly lighting the path ahead.

Tharic lingered for a moment, his gaze heavy with emotion. Turning to Drelda, he murmured, "We'll make sense of this... somehow."

She nodded, her hand brushing his. "Together."

With heavy hearts and hurried steps, the family began their journey, the weight of the ancestors' message driving them forward.

Hearth Fire

Beatrice sniffed the air, her sensitive nose twitching as she caught the faint, musky scent of her quarry. A small intruder had made its way into Hearth Fire, a rat, by the smell of it. She padded silently through the vast halls of the ancient hold, her hooves making barely a sound against the stone floor. Her sharp eyes scanned the shadows, the faint glow of the forges casting long flickering shapes that danced against the carved walls.

The rat had been bold to come here. Beatrice was relentless in her duty. Her white fur shimmered faintly and her curled horns glinted like polished stone. The small creature would have no chance of escape.

The trail led her to the storage hall, where barrels of grains and dried meats were carefully stacked. Her ears flicked at the faint scuttle of claws against wood. Narrowing her eyes, she crouched low, her powerful muscles coiled and ready. Beatrice was no ordinary goat; she was a hunter when needed, and nothing, not even the smallest pest, would be allowed to defile the sanctity of the hold.

She moved with calculated precision, weaving between the barrels and crates, her nostrils flaring. There, in the corner of the room, she spotted it. A fat creature, its whiskers twitching as it gnawed on a loose kernel of grain. It had clearly been feasting here for days. Beatrice's lip curled in disdain.

Lowering herself closer to the ground, she crept forward. Each step was silent, deliberate, her body taut with focus. The creature's ears twitched, sensing something amiss, but it was too late. With a sudden burst of speed, Beatrice lunged. Her hooves struck the floor with a sharp crack as the rat darted away, squeaking in panic.

The chase was on.

The thing bolted between barrels, its tiny form skittering through gaps too small for Beatrice to follow. But she was undeterred. Her horns lowered, she pushed against a barrel, tipping it slightly to clear her path. The thing's squeaks grew more frantic as it realized it was being herded. Beatrice's strategy was simple: corner the vermin and eliminate it.

The creature made a desperate dash toward a crack in the wall, but Beatrice was faster. With a precise leap, she landed in front of the gap, cutting off its escape. The creature froze, its tiny body trembling as it realized there was nowhere left to run. Beatrice let out a low snort of triumph, pawing at the ground.

But then, a sound reached her ears, a deep, guttural noise that didn't belong.

She froze, her ears swiveling toward the source. From the depths of the hold, echoing through the ancient tunnels, came the unmistakable clatter of stones and the shuffle of heavy feet. Beatrice's nose wrinkled as she caught the faint stench of gobis.

The creature, seizing its opportunity, darted away and disappeared into the shadows. Beatrice ignored it, her attention now fully on the sounds from below. She stood still, her every sense heightened. The gobi's presence was an intrusion far worse than a rat. Her body tensed, and she turned toward the tunnels leading to the lower levels of Hearth Fire.

The sound grew louder, the harsh grunts and guttural whispers of the gobi becoming clearer. Beatrice's eyes narrowed. She pawed the ground, her horns lowering as if preparing for a fight. The hold was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of safety for her flock and the others who resided here. These intruders would not be allowed to defile it.

Beatrice moved toward the source of the noise. Her steps were deliberate and slow. The tunnels below Hearth Fire were dark and winding, the remnants of a once thriving dwarven hold now partially abandoned. Beatrice had roamed them many times, but she always remained vigilant. The gobi were cunning, often working in groups, and she knew better than to charge in blindly.

As she approached the staircase to the lower levels, the stench of the gobi grew stronger. It was a mix of sweat, rot, and damp earth, a nauseating combination that made her snort in disgust. The echoes of their movements bounced off the stone walls, making it difficult to pinpoint their exact location.

Beatrice stopped just before the descent into the deeper tunnels. Her ears flicked as she listened intently. There were at least three of them, judging by the varied sounds of their shuffling and occasional guttural exchanges. They were moving cautiously, likely scouting the hold for weakness or opportunity.

Her sharp gaze swept the area, searching for any sign of their approach. She couldn't take them head on, not yet. Instead, she would need to alert the others. Beatrice turned, her hooves clicking against the stone as she made her way back toward the inhabited sections of Hearth Fire. She moved swiftly but silently, her mind racing.

These gobi would not be the first to attempt to breach the hold, but their timing was worrisome. With the hold still being rebuilt and its defenses not yet fully restored, the threat they posed was significant. Beatrice's mission was clear: rally the defenders and drive the gobi back into the depths where they belonged.

As she neared the living quarters, Beatrice let out a sharp bleat, a sound that echoed through the halls and signaled danger. It was a call the others would recognize, a warning that something was amiss. She pawed at the ground, her horns glinting in the low light as she prepared to defend her home if necessary.

Footsteps echoed from the nearby corridors as the hold's inhabitants began to stir. Beatrice stood her ground, her piercing eyes fixed on the darkness behind her. The gobi might have thought themselves clever for creeping into Hearth Fire, but they had not accounted for its most vigilant guardian.

The hunt for the rat was forgotten. Now, Beatrice's focus was on the greater threat. The gobi were coming, and she would ensure they regretted ever setting foot in her hold.

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