Expansion - Chapter 9

 

9 – Helvar – Protector’s Questions

Helvar writes Veshka Stone‑Waki on the barkskin, then hesitates. He adds a second line beneath it: Veshka Nodin‑Waki He studies the names written in runes, then quickly rewrites them using the syllabary.

“That looks better,” he mutters. His notes are his and his alone; the official report will be in runes, as required. But his private work? He prefers the syllabary. It captures nuance the priests never bother to learn.

“Too bad the Priests don’t truly understand Durn’s Hreinlog,” he murmurs. “They preach ‘Racial Purity’ like children reciting a chant. So shortsighted. Purity of Spirit and Thought matters far more.”

He pauses, the stylus hovering.

'I’d rather have a squad of true‑believer Bimkor than a legion of the ‘pure.’'

The thought lands heavy. His instructors would chastise him for even thinking it. He closes his eyes and hears Tholmir Kind‑Hand’s voice, calm and steady as ever: “Use whatever and whoever is available. We are the true keepers of Durn’s Laws. Let the zealot priests distract the crowds. We keep society together from the shadows. Even the Guilds are tools. Use them. Exploit them. Keep the faithful on the True path.”

Helvar exhales slowly.

Yes. That is the lesson. And he has never forgotten it.

A sharp knock on the doorframe breaks Helvar’s concentration.

“The goblin you requested,” a Legionnaire says.

Helvar nods. “Bring her in.”

Veshka steps inside. Her manacles clink as she stops across the table.

“Veshka, please sit and get comfortable,” Helvar says in Mishikwe.

She lifts her bound wrists. “If you want me comfortable, why put these on me?” she replies in Durask.

Helvar leans back, stroking his beard — the slightly unkempt look of a man who has slept too little and worked too long. “The Senior Legionnaire requires all of Bruna’s Children to wear restraints when away from their people. They fear you. I can’t change that.”

Veshka glances toward the Legionnaire standing in the doorway and snarls. “You are a coward. I walked the Grand Market with your kind, and now you fear me.”

The Legionnaire takes a step forward.

“STOP.” Helvar rises, voice sharp and commanding. “You enter this building only on my orders. Do you understand, or shall Elder Dorgath Ember‑Voice and I lodge a formal writ against you?”

“No, sir.” The Legionnaire scowls but backs away, eyes never leaving Veshka.

Helvar sits again, his expression softening as he turns back to her.

“You may stand if you prefer, or sit. I’m sitting — it’s easier for me to take notes.” He gestures to a small pot of root tea. “I also have root-tea, if you’d like some.”

Veshka exhales slowly, regaining her composure. “Even if you can’t remove these, root-tea sounds good.” She sits as Helvar fills a cloth cup and hands it to her.

“So, you worked with Peacekeepers during Aniniwiniwin Awnin?”

She nods as she sips her tea. “Yes. During the ‘days of peace’, I often walked with your Peacekeepers. They were strong and honorable.”

Helvar smiles. “Yes, they were. Before I ask anything from you, do you — or your Elders — have any requests to make the lives of your people better?”

She pauses. “I heard you say you work for an Elder. Is this true?”

He nods.

She sighs. “Okay. The infants and new mothers need milk. The food we are fed is what we see you feed the Legion, so we only request milk or mushroom‑milk, so we can keep the young healthy.”

On a separate barkskin, he writes in Durask: goat milk.

“I will see what I can do. We might be able to get some chilled bladders of watered goats’ milk.” He sets the stylus down. “If I tried to explain mushroom‑milk to the Legion supply clerks, I’d confuse them and you’d end up with mushroom flour instead.”

She laughs at that. “We could teach them how to make it.” The iron chain clinks on the table and she immediately frowns. “No trust.”

“I will do what I can. You are doing the best you can for your people. Hopefully soon the Legion will escort you to the River Goblins.”

She brightens. “Is that truly the plan? We’ve heard so little.”

“That is the plan I was told. It makes sense. Your Elders and young are better helped by your own people, and to get there, Protectors like you are needed.”

She refills her cup. “This is hopeful. What do you need from me?”

“Can you give me the names of all the Protectors?”

She quickly names the other five — the same ones the Legion listed as ‘troublemakers.’

“Okay. In your group, are there any border guards?”

She shakes her head. “No. They all either died or went Deep‑deep. They don’t like groups. Too loud and too bright.”

He makes a note and gives her a polite, practiced smile. “Of course. Do you have any stone‑listeners in the group?”

She pauses. “Not that I know of. I can ask around. Will that help?”

“Anything you can tell me is helpful.”

He closes his barkskin and stands. “Let me walk with you. I would hate for you to have an accident on the way back to your area.”

She gives him a knowing look and switches to Durask. “Yes, please walk with me. The way could be treacherous. I would hate to fall and get hurt.”

“Yes. Let’s walk together. Legionnaire, please lead the way.” 

Expansion - Chapter 8

 

8 – Brammir – Old Tools

While quickly eating Forge‑Breath, Brammir hears his companions talking back and forth.

“Have you found any gobblers’ tools?”

“Tools? They don’t have tools. They use rocks like animals.”

“No, I heard they found hard, heavy rocks and used them like hammers.”

“Why not just make iron hammer heads?”

“If you have a heavy rock that already works, why cast or forge iron?”

“How can you tell, if it just looks like a rock?”

“It would have—”

Brottan cuts off Varnik before he can answer. “They would write their name or their family’s name on it.”

Everyone stops and looks at him.

Brottan finishes his root-tea. “That’s what I heard.” He stands. “Almost time.”

Before anyone can ask anything else, Elder Hadrik says, “Yes, if everyone lines up, I will give a blessing for safe work before you depart.”

Varnen adds, “An excellent idea, Elder. Let me help you prepare.”

Brammir finishes and rinses his plate in the wash basin, dries it, and returns it to his cubby. Grabbing his tools, he checks the fuel levels of his lamps again before lighting the helmet lamp and carrying the other, his pick resting on his shoulder.

He gets in line and closes his eyes as the Priest gives the same blessing he offers most mornings. When it ends, Jorvik says, “Let’s go. Listen for the bell’s Deep‑Meal signal.”

They move out at a steady pace, with Brottan bringing up the rear as usual.

 

Brammir’s mine cart still has a little ore in it from yesterday, and it makes a deep rumble as he pushes it down the tunnel he carved and smoothed. At the end of the worked passage, he sets his lamp into the wall sconce and turns the wick up to full brightness. The light spills into the natural cave beyond — the place where he’d only followed the seam, not shaped the stone.

Between the wall lamp and his helmet light, he studies the debris scattered across the floor. He pushes aside the loose rock he’d mined yesterday and crouches to look more closely at what lies beneath.

Wedges.

Not metal — root‑fiber, dried and cracked.

A couple of broken pieces of… bone? Or antler?

He picks one up, turning it in the light.

“How would antler get down here?” he mutters.

He sets a few of the fragments by the wall lamp, the better to examine them later. The stone around him carries the faint echo of other miners — the rhythmic ‘ping‑ping‑ping’ of picks striking rock.

“Enough wasting time,” he says to himself, pushing the thoughts aside.

He hefts his pick, steps back to the seam, and begins digging again.

 

Three cart‑fulls later, Brammir pauses to take a sip from the fountain. His shoulders ache in that familiar way, but his mind keeps drifting back to the fragments he found earlier. He picks up the broken antler piece again and holds it closer to the lamp.

In the brighter light, the details sharpen.

Cut marks.

Not random scratches — worked edges, shaped by a steady hand.

“I wish I could’ve seen it in one piece,” he murmurs.

He turns it, and something catches the light at one end. Strange symbols — lines, curves, angles. Not like runes. Not like tool marks either.

Something deliberate. Something written.

He frowns, takes another sip of water, and sets the antler fragment down.

His fingers linger on it for a moment before he forces himself to grab his pick again.

The deeper tone of the Chapel bell echoes through the stone, signaling Deep‑Meal.

Brammir slips the piece of antler into his pocket without really thinking about it.

He turns the wick of the wall lamp down to a low glow — he’ll be back soon — and shoulders his pick.

When they arrive back at the camp site, the miners see the engineers leaving with a Legion escort. “Must have another assignment” Brammir mutters to himself.

Expansion - Chapter 7

 

7 – Brikel – The Growth Chamber

After Forge‑Breath, as Brikel assembles his equipment, a Legionnaire steps up.

“We are to accompany you as you survey and map the chamber you found. I am Hadrun Slate‑Ward.” He extends his hand.

Brikel shakes it. “I’m happy to have the help. What are you bringing?”

“Each man carries a polished lamp, a hammer, and our usual tools of the trade. Is there anything else you require?”

Brikel shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. I stopped before entering the chamber.”

Hadrun nods. “We heard. My Slate-Leader informed me, which is why this team was assembled.”

“Alright,” Brikel says. “Give me a moment to finish gathering my equipment and we’ll go.”

Hadrun gives a short nod and rejoins his team.

Packing extra barkskins and slates, Brikel walks to the dwelling Yivra is using as the Map Room. She is organizing the notes from yesterday when he enters.

“Did you know about the Legion giving me people for today?” Brikel asks.

She nods and points to the master map. “Where your tunnel ended yesterday looks to be a goblin chamber. If it were one of ours, I’d guess a storage area or maybe a moisture farm, but I’m not good with goblin architecture. I need you to map everything. The Legion only did a quick ‘scan and flush,’ so I wanted them to accompany you with extra lights and security. I’d hate for a ‘silent hunter’ to be hiding and take you hostage — or worse.”

“Is that really a possibility? We haven’t even encountered traps in these recent tunnels.”

“And that’s when they would attack or place new ones,” she says, as if explaining something obvious to a junior draftsman. “Anything else? I have work.”

Brikel shakes his head and returns to the waiting Legionnaires.

 

As they enter the chamber, the wicks of the Legion lamps burn bright. Polished lenses and reflectors throw clean, white light into the deepest corners of the cavern. Brikel lights his grum‑tal, and begins making notes and measurements.

He hands one end of the measuring rope to a Legionnaire at the entrance. Then he moves through the chamber, marking distances in several directions. For every note on his barkskin, he adds a small sketch of the wall, floor, or ceiling surface — the stone’s texture, the angle of a cut, the curve of a trough.

With two guards holding the rope taut, he measures the carved growing troughs, each fed by channels and gutters cut with surprising precision.

Looking upward, Brikel raises his lamp toward a cluster of ventilation holes. He mutters to himself as he jots down notes, while the Legionnaires stand watch, their lamps steady, their posture alert.

“We need a farmer in here,” Brikel says under his breath.

“Why’s that?” Hadrun asks.

“These are fungus‑farm plots. I can map what’s here, but we need someone who knows how these were used — and how we might use them again.”

“In our initial entry, we secured a number of goblin tools,” Hadrun replies. “They’re stored by the Chapel if you need to see them.”

Brikel holds his stylus in his mouth as he lifts his lamp toward a set of stone racks. “Were the tools found here?”

“Some, but not all. Why?”

“There are marks here.” Brikel points to small carved symbols.

“I’m told goblins write. I’ve never seen their script, but I’ve heard it’s made of small symbols instead of letters like ours.” He copies the markings onto his barkskin.

By the time he finishes, he has the full shape of the cavern, most of the growing bins, the moisture troughs, and the vent locations sketched out. The bell sounding Kron‑Midtal echoes faintly from the Chapel.

“Are we breaking for Stone‑Bite?” Hadrun asks.

Brikel looks at the young Legionnaires. “Yes. Leave the measuring rope and the grum‑tal,” he says, blowing out the lamp. “We’ll eat at the dining hall, and I’ll deliver my notes to the map room.”

Hadrun nods and forms the men into a line. Brikel leads them out.

Expansion - Chapter 6

 

6 – Helvar – Protectors and Forge-Breath

Helvar sips hot, roasted root-brew from his stoneware mug as he watches the Legionnaires distribute packets of Forge‑Breath. The goblins stand in a long line on their side of the cavern, each one stepping forward to receive a wrapped packet while a Legionnaire checks their name off the slate. Helvar may not like the Legion, but he has to admit they are efficient.

He notices a female goblin and an elder watching the distribution from the side.

Curious, he steps into his office in the Chapel and pulls the slate list of suspected ‘troublemakers’ the Legion compiled. He hasn’t interviewed all the Protectors yet — and he needs to change that. Maybe he’ll start with her.

He refills his mug with sikah‑nahkaw‑mihtaa.

The priests frown behind his back when he speaks Mishikwe, but some words simply work better. “Bitter‑root drink” is far more beautiful than chikor‑tal or durm‑tal.

He finds her name on the list: Veshka Stone‑Waki.

He tucks a barkskin and stylus into the pocket of his acolyte‑brown robe, then fills a cloth cup with the hot drink before heading back to the cavern.

The line is nearly finished. Helvar smiles to himself as he notes the order: the strongest and most able‑bodied goblins are the last to receive food. That means the elders and children were fed first. Good, he thinks. They still take care of their own.

He spots Veshka at the back of the line and moves to the boundary rope.

When she receives her Forge‑Breath packet, he nods to the Legionnaire and remains on his side of the dividing line.

“Veshka. Veshka Stone‑Waki,” Helvar calls, clear but polite.

She steps closer to the rope. “I am Veshka Stone‑Waki. How can I help you?” she replies in accented Durask.

Helvar lifts the cloth cup and switches to Mishikwe.

“Would you like some sikah‑nahkaw‑mihtaa? It makes the miners’ food bars easier to eat.”

She hesitates. “There are others who should have this instead,” she answers, also switching to Mishikwe.

“Of course,” Helvar says. “But for you to aid others, you must be strong as well. I only have a little, and I want to share it with you because I see how you help your people.”

She accepts the cup, sniffs it, then takes a cautious sip. Her eyes widen. “You drink bitter‑root drink?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Are you Bimkor?”

Helvar doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures for her to dip the pressed food bar into the drink. She tries it.

“You are right,” she says. “It makes it softer.”

He smiles. “Now taste your cup.”

She does — and smiles back. “It sweetens it.”

Helvar nods. “I have to start work, but later I’ll ask a Legionnaire to bring you to me. There are forms we need to complete that will help your people. I think you’re someone who can give me the answers I need.”

She lifts the cloth cup slightly. He nods. “Keep it. Share it with those who need it. We will talk later.”

As he heads back toward his office, he sees her return to the Elder she had been standing beside. They speak quietly. Helvar smiles and makes a few notes on his barkskin.

“Time to start a new file,” he murmurs to himself, then takes his pipe, packs, and lights it.

Expansion - Chapter 5

 

5 – Brammir – After Shift

When the bell rings from the makeshift Chapel in Bimadizi‑Kor, marking Stone‑Rest, Brammir backs away from the ore seam. He wipes his face with his rag, balances his pick on his shoulder, and carries his lamp in his other hand. The other miners drift into the central cavern as the wall lamps in the tunnels are extinguished one by one, darkness swallowing the passages behind them. Only the lamps in the main cavern remain lit.

Haldrek Copper‑Thumb looks at Brammir. “What’s the color today?”

Brammir steps to the fountain and splashes water over his face and beard. “Lots of red, a little green.”

“That’s why the old Bimkor called it ‘Bruna’s Holy Blood’ or some other superstitious name,” Jorvik Ember‑Vein says as he unbraids his grey beard, shaking out trapped mine dust.

Keldra Ore‑Singer combs her shorter beard with practiced strokes. “Want my beard comb? I keep telling you — women make better miners. Less beard to clean.”

“I miss having Clan Hall washrooms,” Haldrek grumbles as he joins Brammir at the fountain.

Brammir nods as he works his own comb through his beard. “In the Mining Guild Hall at Stoneheart Delve, we have showers fed by copper boilers.”

Jorvik snorts. “This mining camp is a long way from there.”

“We should talk to the Guild rep,” Haldrek says. “Get them to build us a bathhouse at least.”

“They drained the goblin bathing pools before we arrived,” Brottan Slate‑Jaw says quietly as he removes his helmet.

Brammir looks over. “How do you know?”

“Heard the Legion talking,” Brottan murmurs.

Jorvik hefts his pick onto his shoulder. “Let’s move out to the campsite.” He gives Brottan a pointed look. “Make sure you’re the last one. Ten total.”

Brottan nods and counts them as they file out: Jorvik, Brammir, Haldrek, Keldra, Dorgun, Thrain, Varnik, Fenrik, Miri — and finally himself. “All ten. Let’s go.”

 They move single‑file down the tunnel they carved from the old Bimkor cavern to the worksite. Brammir focuses on the path ahead, but the voices behind him carry easily.

“Did you hear they’re expanding Root‑Stone Hearth?”

“I heard a surveyor went missing.”

“I heard there’s another batch of gobblers they’re moving topside.”

“Moving them… or letting the Silent Hammers have them?”

The conversation dies instantly at the name.

“Keep moving,” Jorvik calls back, raising his lantern. “We’re almost to camp.”

 The smoothly carved tunnel opens into a large cavern — shaped stone mixed with cut blocks, like most former Bimkor settlements. Outside a broad, carved dwelling stands a large rack for tools. Each miner places their lamp, pick, and helmet in their labeled spot. Across the cavern, a second rack stands empty, waiting for the second shift of miners the Guild promises but hasn’t delivered yet.

 The smell of food drifts from the dining cavern. The Bimkor once had a well‑made community hall here, and after they were gone, the Guild claimed it for the mining camp. Near the cavern entrance stands the block‑built Chapel, its polished bell hanging outside like a watchful eye.

Inside the dining cavern, smaller tables are pushed together into a large rectangle. The cooks set platters and pots of food along the center, but the miners bring their own plates and utensils. The Guild provides only the large urns of hot tea and stacks of tin cups.

A crude washroom sits just outside the cavern — hand pumps feeding from cisterns. The male miners wash first, then step aside so the two women can have their privacy.

Rubbing Ember‑Root cologne onto his skin, Brammir hears the bell ring again for Hearth‑Meal. He grabs his traveling tin plate and eating kit and heads toward the cavern.

He sees Keldra and Miri wrapped in towels, hurrying toward the women’s sleeping cubby to dress. “Men take so long, we never have enough time,” Miri mutters as they pass.

 Soon, all ten miners gather around the table, waiting for Elder Hadrik Coal‑Cant and his acolyte Varnen Low‑Tone to arrive and give the blessing. When they enter, both remain standing.

“Bow your heads,” Elder Hadrik says, voice warm but steady. “Durn, bless this food and the hands that prepared it. Strengthen those who eat it and guide us as we work your stone. In your name.”

Varnen makes the sign of Durn with practiced precision, then quietly dishes a plate for Hadrik before serving himself.

The miners begin eating.

Thrain Boulder‑Back looks toward the priest. “Elder, have you heard anything about when the Guild is supposed to send the second shift of miners?”

Hadrik thinks for a moment. “No, I haven’t heard anything. Have we, Varnen?”

“No, Elder,” Varnen says with a polite smile. “Nothing from the Guild, nor from the Priests.”

Dorgun grumbles, “Figures. We’re supposed to have a Guild Hall here.” He sips his bitter tea. “But all we’ve got is Bimkor leftovers.”

“Dorgun, things take time,” Thrain says. “Isn’t that right, Jorvik?”

Everyone turns to the old miner.

Jorvik swallows his mouthful before answering. “Sometimes they promise more than they deliver. But the Guild’s always stood by me, so I’ll wait a little longer.” He returns to his plate.

“Could be they’re waiting to see the color we produce,” Haldrek adds.

Keldra nods. “The gobblers didn’t touch a tenth of what we’ve found. It’s almost like they didn’t like to dig.”

Nods go around the table.

As Brammir finishes his plate, he thinks of Helmir. 'I wish you could have seen this, brother'. He makes the sign of Durn and drains the last of his tea.

Expansion - Chapter 4

 

4 – Brikel – His new home

The bell marking Stone‑Rest rings from the Chapel, its tone rolling through the tunnels like a slow breath. Brikel sets his equipment down in the outer alcove of his apartment. He sighs as he hears the boots of the Legion of Stone assembling in the central courtyard for shift change — the familiar clatter of discipline and routine.

In the small hearth niche, he works the pump he installed himself. Cold mountain spring water fills the basin, carrying the faint mineral smell he’s grown used to. Better that than the sharp sting of limewash and disinfectant that clung to the place when he first arrived. He splashes his face, arms, and neck, then dries off with the rough, woven towel. The texture grounds him.

As he hangs the towel to dry, his eyes drift to the Ore Clan emblem mounted on the wall.

“Home but not home,” he mutters.

Before Hearth‑Meal, he checks his equipment. The grum‑tal,‘timelamp,’ is refilled; he wipes cave dust from the hour marks on the tall cylinder and makes sure the wick is out. He sets it beside the polished brass lamp and tops that one off as well.

His stomach rumbles as a team of Legionnaires marches out of the courtyard. He still has a few tasks before the evening meal.

Sitting on a stool, he unrolls the large tunnel map across the table. With a sharpened graphite stick, he adds the new contours, adjusting the scale with careful precision.

“Carefully measure, make your calculations, and then make your marks.” His father’s voice echoes in his mind, steady as bedrock.

A quick tapping on the doorframe breaks his focus.

“Brikel, can I take your notes?” Mardek Slate‑Runner asks, breathless as always.

“Come on in,” Brikel says, checking one last measurement before drawing again.

Mardek watches him work. “I don’t know why you waste time doing this. Yivra has the master map.”

“As I’ve told you before,” Brikel replies, “to become a master surveyor, you have to draw your own maps. They must be accurate, or no one will trust your work.”

“But she draws better than any of us. Why spend time on something only you’ll see?”

Brikel finishes the last line, sets the graphite aside, and gathers the slates. “Here. When you deliver these, ask Yivra if she thinks individual engineers are wasting time copying their notes onto personal maps. Her answer might surprise you.”

“But Olma, Tholgrim, and Brenna don’t make maps as large as you and Yivra,” Mardek says.

“During Hearth‑Meal, share your thoughts with the group. Their answers might surprise you, too.” Brikel puts his drafting tools away. “But hurry, or you’ll be late.”

Mardek nods and darts off down the corridor.

Brikel shakes his head. “I wonder if that’s what I looked like to my father. Too fast, always looking for shortcuts.” He turns toward the Clan emblem again. “I wish you could see me now, Father. I learned. And I hope I make you proud. You and Durn can judge me together.”

 

The dwarven‑style Dining Hall is the only other structure that is obviously newly built. Instead of pushing tables together like the Bimkor once did, the Legion insisted on a proper hall for its troopers. It was the second thing the engineers and miners constructed after the Chapel.

As Brikel enters, he smiles at the support beams — placed exactly where he said they needed to go. One of the few structures that won’t be mined out and cleared away when the Guild digs deeper.

He is one of the first to arrive. He takes a tin plate from the stack and an enameled tin cup. Unlike a Clan Hall, where platters sit in the center of the table, the Legion has cooks and servers lined up along the kitchen wall. “Legion Efficiency,” they called it.

He holds out his plate. A scoop of stone‑stew slops onto it. Then roasted vegetables. Then, a thick slice of mushroom bread. Brikel gives each cook a polite nod as he moves down the line. At the end, he fills his cup from the large decanter and heads toward the long table where the surveyors sit.

He hears familiar voices before he reaches them:

“Hurry up, they’re about to line up in the courtyard.”

“If you get stuck behind them, you’ll only get crumbs.”

“You could use a few meals of only crumbs.”

“Between Stone‑stew and mushroom bread, I’m wasting away as it is.”

The dwarf engineers form an uneven line as they collect their plates and cups, but once they reach the food, they move smoothly — a practiced chaos that somehow works.

 

Brikel greets each one as they sit. Then he hears it:

“We are the Legion of Stone. We stand firm. We don’t break. We are Durn’s Law, solid and forever.”

The Legionnaires enter in formation, almost mechanical. They move through the line like a well‑oiled machine — plates filled, cups poured, steps measured. They sit as one, waiting silently for the Priest’s evening blessing.

 

Brenna Stone-Arc glances around their table. “Looks like Mardek and Yivra are getting crumbs tonight.”

“That’s probably my fault,” Brikel admits, dipping his mushroom bread into the stew’s gravy. “He came for my slates while I was updating my map.”

Korvik Tunnel‑Ear frowns. “You should wait for the Blessing.”

Brikel sets the bread back on his plate and nods. “You’re right. Hopefully, the Priest will arrive soon.”

Tholgrim Brace‑Hammer pokes at his food with his spoon. “If he takes too much longer, Blessing or no, I’m eating.”

Before Brikel can answer, the engineers see Yivra Ember‑Draft, Mardek Slate‑Runner, and Elder Bromvek Iron‑Voice enter the hall. The gentle murmur of the Legion stops instantly. Even the clatter of utensils stills.

The engineers straighten a little — not out of fear, but out of instinct. Bromvek has that effect.

They watch as the priest moves through the line: plate, stew, vegetables, mushroom bread, cup filled from the decanter. He places everything at his seat at the senior leaders’ table, but does not sit.

He surveys the room, then speaks:

“Bow your heads.”

The command is soft, but it carries like a hammer strike.

“Durn, we ask your blessings over us as we come together for this meal. Bless the hands who made it and bless those who now eat it. Give us strength as we continue your work — keeping your domain safe and searching for your gifts. In your name we pray.”

Many of the more devout dwarves make the sign of Durn. Elder Bromvek sits, lifts his spoon, and only then begins eating.

The moment his spoon touches the bowl, the young Legionnaires start eating in perfect unison. The sudden clatter of utensils on tin plates fills the hall like a jumble of falling stones.

Mardek slides into his seat beside Brikel, breathless. “You were right. All engineers—”

“Draft their own maps,” the table finishes for him.

Brikel smiles. It’s the closest thing to a Clan Hall he’s had since leaving home. He eats slowly, savoring the warmth of the food and the company, wondering what is happening back at Ore Clan — and whether they would be proud of him here.

Expansion - Chapter 3

3 – Helvar - Bimadizi‑Kor Holding Annex

Helvar Quiet‑stone reviews the slates the intake Legionnaires have left for him. He studies the runes and marks with practiced calm. The Legion of Stone worries that Protectors are hiding among those being relocated, but Helvar is unconcerned. Let the frail and frightened cling to whoever shelters them. He is not hunting Protectors.

He wants the Zhul‑durak.

Just one running loose can do more damage than a dozen Protectors — or so the Priests of Durn insist. “Let them preach their fears,” he murmurs as he packs his pipe with durn‑shav, the deep‑reed resin. He walks to a wall sconce, lifts the chimney, raises the flame, and draws until the resin catches. A thin puff of bluish‑grey smoke curls upward as he replaces the chimney and returns to his desk.

He exhales through his nose and looks at the next slate.

Miiwan Soft‑Echo.

Found by a Legion engineer during a deep‑tunnel check. No tools. No pack. Nothing.

Helvar picks up the slate and a sheet of barkskin, pipe tightly held in his teeth, and heads toward the Whta‑mishikan — the Room of Questions. Before entering, he gathers a few items and places them in a small, covered basket. Then he informs the Senior Legionnaire:

“Bring Miiwan Soft‑Echo to the room. Keep him separate from the others.”

The carved stone table in the center of the chamber gleams like still water. Helvar often wonders who lived here before the collapse — who shaped such a beautiful surface. He sits at the far end and tucks the basket beneath his stool. Watching the timelamp, he marks the moment Miiwan is brought in and seated. The Legionnaire stands just outside the doorway, watching.

The manacles clank softly as Miiwan rests his wrists on the table.

Helvar smiles and blows a gentle cloud of smoke before setting his pipe down.

“I’m sorry you have to wear those,” he says in unaccented Mishikwe. “The Legionnaires get nervous. Some have been attacked.”

Miiwan’s eyes widen. “I thought all Bimkor were gone.”

Helvar’s smile widens. “Is that what they say in the Deep‑deep? How could they all be gone?” He reaches into the basket and withdraws a small teapot and a woven cloth cup. “Would you like some root‑tea?”

Miiwan nods. While he sips, Helvar begins the questions — name, home, occupation, the circumstances of his capture. Helvar’s stylus moves steadily across the barkskin. Some answers are too smooth, too ready.

So, he shifts the angle.

“Your name — Miiwan Soft‑Echo. That’s almost Durask in its style. Are you Bimkor as well?”

Miiwan hesitates for only a breath. “I tried to make it easier for the Legion. I speak a little Durask, so instead of Miiwan Wishka‑mii, I said Soft‑Echo.”

“Oh, of course,” Helvar says pleasantly.

He writes one word: lying.

He glances at the timelamp. “I’ve kept you longer than I intended. But I have many more questions. I’ll have the Legionnaire bring you back tomorrow.” He lifts the empty teapot. “When you return, is there anything you’d like besides more root‑tea?”

Miiwan thinks for a moment and answers. “If you had moss‑sweet cakes… but it’s been more than a year since anyone’s made those.”

Helvar stands and offers his hand. They shake. He nods to the Legionnaire, who escorts Miiwan back to his holding alcove — still separate from the others.

When the room is empty again, Helvar sits, reviews his notes, and begins planning tomorrow’s questions.