He woke to silence.

Not the alert silence of danger, nor the suffocating hush of a trap about to spring, but simple stillness.

Stronric opened his eyes. The room was dim, colorless, wrapped in shadow. No sun filtered in. No wind stirred. The stone walls felt closer now—not threatening, but welcoming. It wasn't the same as Hearth Fire, not truly, but it was good to sleep cradled in the breast of the rock again.

Sleeping under the stars had never bothered Stronric, but he'd known dwarves from his homeland who feared they'd be carried off by winged beasts in the night—or worse, simply float away. Nonsense, of course, but it was always hard to explain the difference between earth and air and belonging versus being exposed.

His body ached; every joint tugged against bruises woven deep beneath his skin. His ribs flared with each breath, but the pain was no longer sharp. It was just heavy, familiar, and now bearable. He sat up slowly, wincing as old wounds pulled tight. His fingers traced his side, brushing over the welted edge of a wound where a new scab had formed. The bed creaked beneath him. The blankets had settled around his frame like moss on an old boulder. He shifted to the edge and swung his legs over the side. That hurt. His muscles clenched and protested, but he rubbed his eyes with both palms and exhaled long and low.

Time to take stock.

His fingers moved across his ribs again. Still broken, but at least they were set right. A few more days, and they might not catch fire every time he moved. The rest of him was intact, though stiff and tired. He'd fought a demon, a giant, a tree, and a rapid pack of dogs with barely any food or sleep. All things considered, he'd gotten off light.

He dressed in silence, one piece at a time, careful not to disturb the stillness. His armor was where he'd left it. His clothes were folded and clean. His boots, dry and resting at the foot of the bed.

The Mountain Canary didn't stir. It remained curled in its wool-lined box, breathing deep and even.

Stronric paused.

His eyes returned to the folded clothes. Clean. Pressed. Stacked with care.

Had I done that?

He didn't speak. Words felt out of place.

Quietly, he finished dressing, though he left his boots off while inside the home. With them in hand, he limped into the hallway, one hand trailing along the stone for balance.

He stepped into the living room and stopped.

A dwarf stood by the hearth.

He wasn't solid, not quite. His form shimmered faintly, like heat rising off stone. Simple ceremonial robes draped his frame, bound at the waist with a sash embroidered in curling runes. His beard was long and neatly braided, divided into strands wrapped with fine metal thread. His eyes, sharp and clear, peered out from behind delicate spectacles balanced on the bridge of a translucent nose.

Ink-stained fingers adjusted those glasses as he regarded Stronric.

He looked like a ghost who hadn't just read every book on death, but had footnoted the margins.

The spirit turned his head. His expression wasn't angry, it was more… observant, tired, and amused.

"Well then," The ghost said in a calm, measured tone. "Did you enjoy sleepin' in my bed?"

Stronric stared. His mouth moved once, then closed again.

It wasn't fear that struck him. It was just a surprise, not only to find a ghost, but a dwarf at that. It was the kind of surprise that reached deep into the bones and refused to rattle. He shifted his stance slightly, his boots still in his hand.

"I've had worse," Stronric replied quietly at last.

The ghost raised a single brow and stepped away from the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. He moved with the slow, practiced gait of a lecturer walking between rows of restless students.

"I imagine you have, judging by the scars." His eyes flicked to Stronric's boots. "And the smell."

Stronric grunted. "Suppose you cleaned and folded my clothes too?"

The ghost gave a faint, satisfied nod. "It felt improper to let a guest bleed all over the linens without at least putting the rest of him in order. Cleanliness is the mortar of dignity."

"That's not how I remember the saying." Stronric questioned.

"I wasn't quoting anyone. I just prefer things not covered in rot." The ghost scolded in reply and a smug smile pulled at his lips.

Stronric finally set down his boots. He glanced toward the door leading outside. "What are you?"

The ghost looked vaguely offended. "A scholar. A dwarf of respectable lineage. And, at present, very much dead."

Stronric chuckled frowning. "Aye, I guessed that part."

The spirit inclined his head. "My name was Dovren Marrikson, if you care to know it. Last Runesmith of the Wyrmbound Library. Record keeper of Hold Brellik."

Stronric blinked. "Brellik?"

"Fallen, I'm sure," Dovren said lightly. "I imagine you've never heard of it. Most living dwarves haven't at least not on this place."

Stronric shifted uncomfortably. "And why is that?"

The spirit waved away his question, "Doesn't matter all that's left is stories and stone."

They fell into silence, broken only by the slow pop of coals in the hearth.

After a long pause, Stronric cleared his throat. "Right. Well. Thank ye for the bedding and I think I'll be on my way."

Stronric turned to retrieve his boots, but the scholarly dwarf shook his head at Stronric and said sadly, "You won't be able to leave this area."

"And how do ya ken you know that?" Stronric snapped briskly. His thoughts raced as he imagined being trapped while his clan fought and looked for him.

Dovren replied calmy, "Your soul walks the edge of another world. If I were to guess more than one too. The runes recognized you the moment you entered its reach."

Stronric's jaw tightened and replied bitterly, "What runes?"

Dovren gestured vaguely towards the front of the door. "The anchor."

Stronric remembered it now, the strange stone he'd passed two days ago. A runic pattern burned into the center like a brand. At the time, he'd thought it was part of the dungeon's demon corruption or perhaps a ward. He recalled it had felt wrong, but not innately evil.

It had felt… ancient.

"How do ye know? Did ye make it, Mr. Runesmith of the Wyrmbound Library?" Stronric retorted a bit harsher than he intended.

Dovren nodded once before turning back to the fire. "Oh aye, many years ago when I was still alive. It was a safeguard. A ward to trap what doesn't belong in this world." The ghost turned back his spectral form seemed to darken as his voice seeped with anger and disgust. "Devils and demons and other dark things pulled through the cracks in reality. And now…" His eyes narrowed slightly behind the shimmer of his glasses. "You."

Stronric bristled at the old dwarf's accusation and replied through gritted teeth. "I belong here."

"I didn't say otherwise, but the rune doesn't judge by oaths or blood. It judges by resonance, and you, warrior, are carrying something that does not come from this world."

Stronric's hand instinctively twitched toward his side, toward the satchel at his belt.

Dovren chuckled, "It doesn't care about your dimensional satchel. The rune catches lost souls, friend or foe, not naturally of this plane, world, dimension, whichever word fits your perspective." The old ghost walked silently across the room, coming to a stop before the table and tools and gifts from the canary.

"Then break it," Stronric growled, turning to follow the spirit, his socked feet making too much noise in the quiet. "It's your rune."

Dovren raised both translucent hands. "I would if I could. But I'm rather lacking in physical form these days." He reached out, his form shifting in the dull light and plucked up button left by the bird. "Ahhhh, the little niceties in life are some you miss the most. A hand carved stone button from your vest no doubt," The ghost chuckled pointing at Stronric's vest and walking towards the door. "You mustn't be too angry at Taryn. He brings me gift you see."

Stronric's fists curled as he hurried after the dwarf. "I care little for buttons and how you miss them. I am more interested in how I can leave this place and get back to my clan."

The dwarf ignored the question and continued to the door and pressing in the button that unlocked the door. "My wife used to carve buttons just like these, better quality though." He smirked back at Stronric and stepping through the door.

The button plinked and rolled across the floor. "As you can see, I can move items in my home and I am free to exit, but out here." He gestured to the land around him, "I am just the whisper of the wind." He said sadly, placing a hand on an axe leaning against the wall, before wrapping his strong built fingers around it. When the spirit when to lift it, his hand simply closed, sliding behind the handle in a wave of shimmering light."

"Then tell me how I can break the rune then." Stronric said quietly. Though he had been alone before, he felt sad for this old dwarf that time had left behind. It was different to be alone than to be held captive to only be useful in a place but outside those constraints to be nothing but wind.

"I can't." The ghost said almost angrily but after a pause he continued, turning to Stronric and walking straight through him as he stood in the open doorway. "But I can teach you how to break it."

Stronric turned back into the house and met the ghost's eyes, "I don't have time to learn. I have to get back to my kin, they are out there amid the chaos and corruption that had fouled this dungeon looking for me." He meant for his voice to be stern, but the worry for his kin and clan bleed into his words.

Dovren moved closer, holding out his hand. Stronric held out his palm in response, and the button fell into his palm. "I am sorry son, but there is not much else I can offer." The ghosts voice mirrored the sadness Stronric felt as being cut off from Rugiel and Bauru. "I know the world beyond the Anchor has faded from the lush and beautiful land and place it once was. Taryn has brought gifts that tells the tale that I am unable to see for myself. I know you'd like to get back to your kin, if you are as strong of mind as you are of body, then I can teach you."

"And if I could learn what exactly would that require?" Stronric gritted out as his hand closed around the button.

Dovren glided toward a bookshelf. His form shimmered as he passed through the edge, then became solid again. He pulled out a thin journal, one corner marked with a green ribbon.

"Rune Smithing," he said, turning and placing the book gently on the table. "The true art of it, not the surface scratches sold in your modern forges, but the real sigils, the ones that speak to stone, those hold power."

Stronric looked down at the book, then up again at Dovren. "I'm no scholar." Stronric stated flatly.

"Good," Dovren replied. "Scholar's hands are too soft. This is a craft, not theory."

Dovren slid the journal across the table. "First lesson. You don't draw a rune, you forge it. Just like all forging, it begins with understanding the material."

Stronric didn't move as his mind thought of gaps or weaknesses in the anchors power that would allow him to escape quickly.

Dovren folded his arms, his expression smug, "Go ahead, spend the day pacing the edge of the anchor's wards. You'll make it about a mile in every direction before the stones turn ye around. Those that belong to this plane can come and go as they please. And as for your friends…" His tone softened slightly. "They're well beyond reach."

Stronric turned away. His jaw worked side to side. His boots still sat near the doorway, untouched. Stronric snagged them on his way to the door, pulling them on as he walked. Stronric's boots struck the stone path with a deliberate rhythm, each step was harder than needed, a message to the earth beneath him: I'm not staying.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The ghost's words looped in his skull, quiet and infuriating. A mile radius. A cage of carved magic. And no way out.

He pushed into the woods surrounding the homestead. The slope curved gently down into an old glade choked with moss covered stones and ancient roots. Trees here grew tall and warped, reaching skyward in a slow spiral that spoke of deep magic or forgotten winds, but the air was calm, too calm.

He passed a crooked standing stone half covered in vines. At its center, a rune still glowed faintly, an angular symbol carved deep, designed to anchor something. A memory surfaced: he'd passed it a day ago. Dismissed it as environmental dressing for a cursed dungeon.

But it wasn't that.

It was a lock.

And he was the key it didn't recognize.

Stronric kept walking.

The glade narrowed into a narrow pass. Old stumps jutted like broken teeth from the loam. He stepped around them, counting strides, marking trees.

Then stopped.

There, just ahead, was a boulder shaped like a shield, flat on one side, ringed with lichen.

He'd passed it already.

His brow furrowed. He turned, retraced his steps, and this time veered eastward along a shallow ridge.

The ridge should have curved left. But it didn't. When he reached the top, he was standing just outside the glade again.

Stronric grunted.

He turned back. Walked due west. Picked a new landmark, an old pine split by lightning. As he moved, he reached out and dragged his fingers along the bark of trees, marking them with his nails. When he reached the far edge…

The same pine stood before him, unmarked.

He clenched his jaw. The rune wasn't just blocking him, it was folding space. Turning the land into a wheel with no hub. Every direction curved back. Every step led him home. He stood still for a long moment. The only sound was the wind curling through the canopy.

Then came a sharp hiss.

Stronric turned and saw the Mountain Canary watching him from a crag above.

But it wasn't a bird, at least not one of his world or the one he now knew.

The creature's frame was too long, too muscular. Its legs resembled that of other birds of prey, scaled and ending with sharp long claws. It adjusted its stance, and its long talons hooked the stone it stood upon and clicked as it watched him. The creature's large, curved beak ended in a sharp point like those designed to rip flesh from prey, but this beak was thick and proud. It was used to mine the earth and ingest ore. The bird opened it mouth in a yawn and Stronric could see the light shine from small obsidian shards lining the rim of its beak. As its yawn ended it stood its black tufted crown before fluffing its feathers in a wave down its body shaking and stretching. Its long arms stretched out before it like arms with its colored, red, gold and green feathers fanning out around the elbow and ending in three large scaly taloned fingers. Stronric knew that these feathers were not for flight, they were for hiding and gliding across the ground. Its eyes were intelligent, cold, yellow slits honed on Stronric.

It looked like a raptor dipped in molten iron and cooled in a forge.

It tilted its head, blinked slowly, and let out a low, warbling thrum as it snapped its beak repeatedly, sending out a faint echo.

"Ye again," Stronric muttered.

The Canary leapt down, landing without sound. It stalked forward on hooked feet, its head sliding from side to side as it watched him.

It wasn't threatening him. Not yet.

Stronric stood his ground.

The beast turned away suddenly and began pacing in a slow, deliberate circle around a patch of stone. Then, without warning, it jabbed its beak into the ground with a sharp CRACK. Shards of rock flew. The beast rooted around for a moment, then swallowed a chunk of exposed mineral and sat back on its haunches.

"Ye're not bothered by it," Stronric murmured.

The Canary blinked.

"Ye come and go," Stronric thought aloud, "Yer from this land or at least this dungeon."

The creature made no sound.

Stronric looked past it toward the tree line. Birds flitted by smaller, normal ones, chasing gnats. A fox darted along the edge of a bush. Life went on, this world's life and they were free.

Yet he wasn't.

Because his soul wasn't of this world. Stronric let that truth sit in his stomach for a while. It felt like swallowing gravel. Bitter, jagged, but solid.

He took a breath and exhaled slowly. The sun had not shifted much, though it was hard to track with the mist overhead. Still, the light had dimmed slightly by the time Stronric returned to the homestead, arms full. He reached the front steps, kicked the mud from his boots, and stepped inside.

Dovren didn't look up from the table.

"Escape attempt number seven?" Dovren chuckled lightly, as if Stronric's struggle for freedom were amusing.

Stronric dropped the bundle of vegetables with a thud onto the stone counter.

"Escape? Now I was just Stretchin' the ol' legs." Stronric replied, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"You circled the entire boundary?" The ghost questioned.

"Aye." Stronric grumbled in reply

"Any insights?" Dovren asked earnestly, still not looking up.

Stronric hung the rabbits on an iron hook by the hearth. "Ye're right. I can't break it, not like this and likely not without help."

Dovren finally looked up.

Stronric moved to the sink basin, poured a ladle of cold water over his face, and scrubbed the dirt from his hands and arms. Then he turned, slowly drying his hands on a coarse towel.

"But," Stronric said, "I've somethin' I need to do before ye hammer me with yer teachin's."

Dovren raised a brow quizzically. Stronric set the basket of fruit down beside the rabbits and grabbed the carving knife from the wall.

"Let's eat." Stronric smiled in reply.

Two rabbits hung limp from his belt, skinned and cleaned with precision. A bundle of wild root vegetables, onion like bulbs, twisted and rough lay tucked under one arm. The other arm carried a grass woven basket full of fruits. Stronric set the blade down beside the rabbits and rolled his shoulders with a grunt. The ache hadn't lessened, but it had settled into something manageable and familiar. He moved slowly, methodically, his hands sure even if the motions dragged from fatigue.

He laid the rabbits out on the counter and reached for the nearby cutting board. It was old but solid, carved from blackwood and worn smooth with use. He ran a thumb over a groove cut deep near the edge. Someone had butchered meat here, once long ago.

He followed the steps like he was back in the barracks at Hearth Fire, removing the legs first, then the backstraps, slicing clean along the spine. He didn't waste any motions, and he didn't waste words.

Dovren watched from across the room, leaning slightly against the edge of the hearth. His form shimmered faintly in the firelight, half real, half shadow.

"You know," Droven said softly, "I used to teach apprentices how to prep their own game. Not many scholars like blood under their nails."

Stronric snorted. "Aye. Not many warriors like ink on their sleeves."

"A pity," Dovren replied. "The disciplines aren't so different. Both require patience, both demand clarity. Misplace a line on a scroll, and you summon fire instead of silence. Misplace a strike with a blade, and you bleed out before realizing what you've done."

Stronric scraped the meat into a shallow pan and added a pinch of salt from one of the old jars. "Ye always talk this much?"

Dovren smiled faintly. "I haven't had company in some time, besides Taryn. She has the worst jokes."

"A she?" Stronric replied, but he had thought that might be the case after seeing her look at the shells of those eggs.

"She's been here with me all these years. She watched it all and survived. She may be an odd bird, but she is strong and loyal. If able you should take her form this place and give her a new life, not one of shells and shadows." Dovren said sadly, looking back towards the bird that lay curled in a ball by the hearth.

Stronric didn't answer and let the subject fall as his thoughts wondered to life back at his own heath and if he could even free the creature. He pushed those thoughts aside as he set the pan over the coals and stirred in slices of root vegetable, some still damp from washing. He added a handful of crushed herbs from the wall shelf, sharp smelling stuff like dry pine and wild sage. The aroma drifted slowly into the kitchen, mingling with smoke and memory.

Dovren drifted closer, curious. "That blend… You've done this before."

"Of course, all dwarves know how to cook where I am from," Stronric replied. "You should try some of my sister, Rugiel's, food."

"Is she a good cook? I would be nice to have a freshly cooked meal with a cold beer." Dorven said longingly.

Stronric smiled, "If ye want really good food ye should try Gromli's cooking. Now that is magic unseen before."

Dovren chuckled and patted his stomach. "To bad it's too late for me to enjoy, If Gromli is a cook, what does your sister Rugiel do?"

Stronric stopped cooking and realized he was rambling on about his kinsmen to a stranger inside of a dungeon. He didn't know who this man, though he seemed like he was carved from the same stone as Stronric. He let his shoulder release their tension and with it he relaxed too.

"She is a smith, she not the best but she is learning. Her life has recently changed and in that short time she has started herself on the path to master the art of smithing." Stronric said proudly, the image of her first days at the forge replaying in his mind.

The ghost nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Then she understands. Runes are akin to forging, not just flame and steel, but intent. The meaning behind the shape. That's the hardest part to teach."

Stronric stirred the pan and let it sizzle for a moment before covering it with a cracked ceramic lid. He moved to the table and lowered himself into the nearest chair with a groan.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Neither did Dovren.

The fire crackled softly.

"I don't like bein' still," Stronric said finally. "Feels like rust."

"I know the feeling." Dovren chuckled swiping a ghostly hand as emphasis.

"But I also know when a door's sealed tight. Poundin' on it does nothin'." Stronric said as he looked up to meet Dovren's eyes. "So, I'll learn what I must. And then I'll break it clean."

Dovren tilted his head. "Break it?"

"Aye. I'm not unbinding it. I'm not asking it to open. I'll cut a new rune into the bone of it. One that knows me. One that accepts me." Stronric said letting his grit and determination bleed into his words.

Dovren didn't speak for a moment. Then, with slow respect, he nodded. "Now that," he said, "is a warrior's answer."

Stronric let the silence settle again. He wasn't at peace, not even close, but the fire inside him had stopped flailing against its cage. Now it burned slowly and steadily as if waiting.

The scent of cooked meat and pineroot filled the room.

He got up, retrieved two plates from the shelf, though only one would be used, and began to serve the meal. Stemmed basket woven from dry grass, half-filled with tart fruits the size of his thumb. Stronric bowed his head and prayed for Thoranthana to guide him on this challenge of his. The hearth flare and warmth spread through the smell home. Dovren watched as the flames seemed to dance with each word of the strange dwarf who stumbled into his home.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.