Thordak's hands went numb on the warhammer.
The man hadn't moved. He hung in the sky above the fortress like a painting, arms at his sides, dark armor drinking morning light until the silhouette was more absence than shape.
Seventeen thousand dwarves lived in this mountain. Six hundred years of rock, steel, and runic engineering stood between them and whatever the world decided to throw at them.
He looked down at all of it the way a man looks at an anthill.
"One week," Thordak breathed. "The dispatch said one week."
The soldier beside him was shaking. A veteran, four hundred years on the eastern border, hands that had held the line against brutal beastkin invasions one after the other. Those hands were trembling now.
"Lord Warden. That's... that's the eastern border. We face the Confederation. The human lands are south. How did he get here without-"
"The sentries." Thordak's voice came out hoarse. "Where are the elven sentries on the border passes?"
