The high council of the dwarven capital was in session.
It was always in session these days. The throne had sat empty since Ragnar's fall, four claims had been filed against it, and the high clans had spent every night since shouting at each other across the council table at the crown of the city.
Lord Harrek of the Copper Vaults never got to finish his argument.
*CLANG!*
One anvil strike came up through miles of solid rock without losing an ounce of itself. Crystal rattled in the chandeliers, wine jumped in the lords' cups, and every beard in the hall turned toward the floor.
"What in the deep was that?" a lord whispered.
"An anvil," said another, barely louder. "That was an anvil."
Nobody argued. Every dwarf in the hall had been born over that sound, and dread crawled up through Harrek's boots along with the echo, because an anvil was exactly the problem.
Stone ate sound. A hammer strike died within three floors of its own anvil.
