The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick smog of Ironforge, casting a bruised, purple light over the sleeping city.

The streets, usually thundering with the sound of pistons and marching boots, were dead silent.

The only sound was the collective, rhythmic snoring of a hundred thousand dwarves recovering from the greatest party in their history.

Piles of empty kegs lined the gutters. Soldiers slept arm-in-arm with smiths in the middle of the road.

Even the Golems seemed to be moving at half-speed, their mana-cores dimmed to conserve energy.

At the Western Gate, however, a small group was wide awake.

Damien stood by the exit, adjusting his gloves. Beside him, Isabelle was checking their supplies, looking remarkably fresh for someone who had eaten her weight in food the night before.

Lyra was polishing her mana bow, her eyes scanning the horizon. Leona was stretching, her joints popping loud enough to echo off the walls.

"You look terrible," Damien commented, looking at the dwarf approaching them.

Grandmaster Brokk grunted, clutching a mug of black coffee as if it were a lifeline. His mechanical eye was whirring sluggishly.

"My head feels like an anvil," Brokk muttered. "And Thorgar is still passed out in the fountain. But a deal is a deal."

Brokk gestured to the vehicle waiting behind him.

"Your ride."

It wasn't the ornate wooden carriage they had arrived in. That thing had been scrapped.

This was a beast.

The body was plated in matte-black reinforced steel, etched with defensive runes that glowed faintly.

The wheels were wider, treaded with a rubber-like alchemical compound for rough terrain.

The suspension was hydraulic, hissing softly as Leona leaned against it.

"The Iron-Horse Mark II," Brokk said, patting the fender. "Reinforced chassis. Mana-dampening interior to hide your signatures. And I installed a kinetic ram on the front bumper just in case you need to drive through a wall."

"It's heavy," Leona said, testing the weight of the door. "I like it."

"It's a tank disguised as a carriage," Damien nodded approvingly. "Perfect for where we're going."

"It better be," a gravelly voice spoke from the shadows of the gatehouse.

King Durin stepped out.

He wasn't wearing his crown or his royal robes. He was dressed in a simple tunic, leaning heavily on his cane. Without the adrenaline of the battle or the alcohol of the feast, he looked frail.

The Abyss Poison was clearly taking its toll; his movements were stiff, and his breath rattled in his chest.

But he stood tall.

"Your Majesty," Damien bowed slightly.

"Save the pleasantries, Voss," Durin waved a hand.

"I just came to make sure you were actually leaving. My cellar can't afford another night of that demon girl's appetite."

Isabelle blushed, hiding behind Damien.

Durin chuckled, then his face turned serious. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a scroll case made of solid gold, sealed with the Royal Crest.

"Take this."

Damien took the heavy scroll. "What is it?"

"A Royal Writ," Durin said. "It declares you an Ambassador of the Ironclan. It grants you free passage through any Dwarven outpost, trade route, or mine. It also gives you the authority to requisition supplies."

"That's a lot of trust," Damien noted.

"It's not trust," Durin corrected softly. "It's a lifeline. The Western Dragon Lands are lawless, Damien. But Dwarven trade caravans still run through the canyons. If you get into trouble... show them the seal. They will fight for you."

Damien tucked the scroll into his Void Gem.

"I'll try not to abuse it."

"Abuse it all you want," Durin gripped Damien's shoulder. His hand was cold, but his grip was firm.

"Just bring me the blood. And come back alive."

"I will," Damien promised.

He turned to his team.

"Mount up. We have a long drive."

Leona climbed into the driver's seat, grabbing the reinforced reins of the frost-resistant horses (who were now wearing light mithril barding). Isabelle and Lyra hopped into the back.

Damien took one last look at the city of gears. He looked at Hephaestus, who was watching from the high wall, waving a wrench. He looked at Brokk. He looked at the dying King.

"Black Thread," Damien whispered to himself. "Phase One complete."

He climbed into the carriage.

"Hyah!" Leona snapped the reins.

The heavy carriage surged forward, the wheels tearing up the dirt as they sped out of the gate and into the desolate, rocky wasteland of the West.

...,;;;;;;

[Meanwhile - The Human Empire Capital]

Hundreds of miles away, in the heart of the Dragon Empire, the atmosphere was suffocating.

In the deepest war room of the Imperial Palace, the lights were dim.

The Second Prince sat at the head of a long obsidian table. He was shirtless, his back pressed against the cold stone of his high-backed chair.

He would have been handsome, with his slicked-back blond hair and sharp features, if not for the horror that consumed him.

The entire left side of his body, from his jaw down to his toes was pitch black.

It wasn't ink or dirt. It was a Void Mark.

Unlike Theron's mark, which was sealed on his arm, or Durin's, which was veins on his chest, the Prince's mark was a living, pulsing entity.

It shifted like oil under his skin, devouring the light in the room. His left eye was entirely black, no white, no iris, just an endless abyss.

"Report," the Prince rasped, his voice sounding like two people speaking at once, one human, one monster.

"Thrain is dead, Your Highness," a trembling General reported, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Ironforge has fallen. The Cultist cell has been... purged."

"Purged?" The Prince tilted his head. The black veins on his neck throbbed. "By whom?"

"Reports are conflicting, My Lord. They speak of a rebellion led by Prince Hephaestus. And... a mercenary. A masked man they call 'Zero'."

"Zero? That troublemaker from the live broadcast?" remembering the charismatic figure he saw with the mask, he felt like this person was trouble.

"Zero," the Prince tasted the word. "A variable I did not account for. A Dwarven secret weapon, perhaps?"

He didn't scream. He didn't rage. He simply tapped a finger on the table. The stone turned grey and crumbled to dust under his touch.

"It matters not," the Prince said coldly. "Thrain was a useful idiot, but he failed. Losing the Dwarves sets our timeline back by months. We cannot afford delays."

He stood up, the black side of his body seeming to drink the shadows of the room.

"The Master grows hungry. The Void Gate requires a catalyst stronger than dwarven souls."

"Plus without those dwarves, our construction needs are going to fall behind"!l

He walked to a massive map of the continent on the wall.

He ignored the North. He ignored the South.

His finger, black and claw-like, traced a line to the West. To the jagged, red mountains of the Dragon Lands.

Although I didn't want to make this move so soon, but it seems we have no choice"," the Prince whispered.

"In order to truly prepare this world for the new order, it seems we have to get the dragons involved!"

"General," the Prince turned. "Is the Intelligence correct? Is the Red Dragon Ignis hibernating in the Western Canyon?"

"Yes, My Lord," the General nodded. "Our scouts confirmed a massive thermal signature. But... it is an Ancient Dragon. If we provoke it—"

"We will not provoke it," the Prince smiled. It was a terrifying expression, half human teeth, half void-shifted maw.

"We will enslave it! An alive dragon is better than a dead dragon after all."

"If we play out cards right, we might even get the dragon clan at our beck and call!

He turned to the shadowed corner of the room.

"Commander Valerius."

A figure stepped forward. He wore blood-red armor and a white cloak embroidered with the anti-magic seal.

The Commander of the Red Templars. Fanatics trained to hunt mages and monsters.

"Your Highness," Valerius bowed.

"Take your elite squad," the Prince ordered.

"Go West. Secure the Dragon. If anyone gets in your way, adventurers, dwarves, or this 'Zero', burn them."

"The Dragon belongs to the Void."

"As you command," Valerius turned and marched out, his red cape billowing like blood.

The Second Prince turned back to the map. He stared at the Western Lands.

He had no idea that the son of his greatest enemy was heading to the exact same location. He had no idea that Theron Voss had been there a year ago.

He only saw a resource to be harvested.

"Soon," the Prince whispered to the darkness inside him.

"Soon, this world will be silent."

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