The journey to Ironclaw was a march through a graveyard of stone.

  Red dunes gave way to basalt flats, miles of cracked earth where spires of rock twisted up like calcified trees. It was an alien landscape, silent, save for the wind whistling through the stone flutes.

  The ground trembled as Ash-Striders: massive crustaceans with shells of dried blood, migrated across the flats. Their stilt-like legs crawled over fissures, antennae twitching as they sifted the wind for sulfur pockets. They ignored the travelers, too large to care about anything smaller than a Dreadmaw.

  Caldreth watched them pass, marveling at their size, but his mind was on the destination.

  "Thra-uk," Caldreth said, breaking the long silence.

  The Iron-Born grunted, not breaking his stride. "We are close. Save your breath."

  "When we arrive at Shatterdeep," Caldreth pressed, pitching his voice with the arrogance of a scholar, "We will need facilities if we are to dissect this infection. I cannot work in a pit."

  Thra-uk continued his stride, his heavy feet crushing shale. "You will present your case to the court. If the Sovereign believes you can stop the rot, then you will have your stone tables."

  "He will believe us," Krim interjected with care, though his hand drifted near his dagger. "The alternative is letting his kingdom rot from the inside out. Fear is a wonderful motivator, even for demons."

  Thra-uk shot a glance over his shoulder. It wasn't hostile, but it was heavy.

  "Do not mistake caution for fear, Necromancer. The Sovereign decides who serves and who feeds the furnaces. You claim to offer a cure. That buys you entry. It does not buy you trust."

  "Fair enough," Caldreth said, keeping his expression neutral. "We are guests, then? Or are we simply meat you haven't decided to eat yet?"

  Thra-uk let out a low, rumbling sound, almost a laugh.

  "In the Wastes, everyone is meat until they prove they have teeth," Thra-uk grunted. "You carry physical proof of the infection that slid under our noses. That earned you the walk. Now you must earn the stay."

  Caldreth felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The Tome at his hip pulsed, a slow, warning thrum. The book seemed to whisper.

  The iron does not bend easily.

  Caldreth glanced back at Krim. The necromancer offered a subtle, grim shrug. We play along, the look said. For now.

  "Then we will earn it," Caldreth said with confidence. "I look forward to this court."

  Thra-uk didn't answer. He just pointed a massive, clawed hand toward the horizon. As the sun began to bleed away, the terrain shifted again. A massive, singular rock formation rose from the flats, a mesa of red and black stone that looked like a sleeping titan.

  "Ironclaw," Thra-uk announced.

  "Where?" Krim asked, squinting against the glare. "I see a rock." There were no walls, no towers, no banners. It looked like just another piece of the Wastes.

  "Look closer," Thra-uk said. High up the sheer face, dozens of small holes were bored into the stone. From each one, a thin pillar of grey smoke rose into the twilight sky.

  The mountain was breathing.

  As they drew nearer, the scale of the camouflage became clear. The demons hadn't built on the land; they had hollowed it out. They approached a fissure in the rock face that looked natural until Caldreth saw the heavy iron hinges set deep into the stone.

  "Open!" Thra-uk roared, his voice echoing into the dark crevice. "Thra-uk arrives!"

  A slotted grate slid open in the rock above them. A pair of brown eyes peered out.

  "Thra-uk?" the guard's voice echoed from the rock. He sounded surprised. "Your visit is unexpected. Where is Ragith-kar? I thought the Sandsworn flew with you to hunt ghosts."

  "The Sandsworn had other duties," Thra-uk growled. "And we found no Sangrathi."

  "Empty-handed then?"

  "No," Thra-uk said. "We found something else. Open the vein, Groll."

  Groll's eyes shifted, scanning the party. His gaze landed on Caldreth, then Krim, and came to settle on the figures behind them. He squinted.

  The undead demons stood motionless, their skin paler than ash, their posture stiff and unnatural. Their violet eyes glowed in the twilight.

  "What is wrong with them?" Groll asked, his hand drifting to the alarm horn at his belt. "Those are kin... but they look wrong."

  Thra-uk stepped forward, blocking Groll's line of sight. He lowered his voice to a rumble.

  "They belong to a necromancer," Thra-uk said. "They are... tools."

  "Undead?" Groll hissed. "Here? Vorzan will not like this," Groll muttered, shaking his head. "He will not like corpses being paraded into his home, especially ones that used to be kin."

  "They were dead when we found them," Thra-uk snapped. "All will be explained to Vorzan. Open the door."

  Groll hesitated, eyeing the violet glow in the thralls' eyes, but finally relented. "Good luck, brother."

  The rock groaned. The fissure wasn't a cave; it was a massive stone door on a hidden counterweight system. It swung inward with a deep, grinding rumble, revealing the hollowed-out heart of the mountain.

  Ironclaw was a cathedral of stone. The interior was vast, the ceiling lost in shadows, supported by massive pillars. Unlike the desolate exterior, the inside was alive with activity.

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  Huge iron pots bubbled over fire pits carved deep into the floor, filling the air with the scent of spiced meat and sulfur. Demons of varying shapes and sizes moved through the cavern, some sharpening weapons, others hauling crates of ore.

  Bioluminescent moss clung to the walls, casting a blue-green glow that mingled with the firelight. In the corners, pale, twisted vines sprouted from the rock, cultivated in planters made of bone.

  "Stay close," Thra-uk murmured to Krim. "Keep your pets in the shadows."

  Krim flicked his wrist, a sharp, subtle motion low at his hip.

  The three undead thralls obeyed. They broke formation, their shuffling gait silencing as they melted into the gloom along the cavern wall, vanishing from the direct light of the fire pits.

  A rhythmic, heavy thudding sound echoed from deeper within the camp, accompanied by grunts of exertion and the clash of metal.

  "The Pit," Thra-uk noted, his ears twitching. "Vorzan is training."

  The demons parted for Thra-uk, eyeing the strangers with open hostility. They reached a natural amphitheater sunk into the floor at the rear of the cavern.

  Below, in a circle of packed red sand, a brawl was underway. And in the center stood Vorzan.

  The warlord was a giant, his charcoal-grey skin crisscrossed with white scars. He held a massive, flanged mace in one hand, moving with surprising grace for his size.

  One recruit lunged. Vorzan twisted, taking the hit on his armored forearm, a spark of metal on bone, before backhanding the recruit into the dirt.

  The second and third struck in unison from behind.

  Vorzan didn't turn. He dropped to one knee, sweeping the mace low. The heavy iron head took the legs out from under the second recruit. As the third brought his blades down, Vorzan caught the demon's wrists, stopping the strike inches from his face.

  With a roar, Vorzan headbutted the recruit, sending him stumbling back, dazed.

  "Too slow!" Vorzan bellowed. "Strike like you expect me to fall! Finish it!"

  The three recruits scrambled up, panting and bruised, but grinning with adrenaline. Thra-uk stood at the edge of the pit, crossing his arms. He didn't interrupt. He waited until the recruits lowered their weapons, bowing to their commander.

  "You must move as if getting struck means death. Remember that."

  Vorzan turned, sensing eyes on him. He signaled for the recruits to stop.

  "Good work," he told them, "Clean your wounds. Again at dawn."

  He climbed out of the pit, his movements heavy and dangerous. Vorzan moved to greet Thra-uk, his massive chest heaving.

  "A surprise visit," Vorzan rumbled, looking Thra-uk up and down. "Lacking trophies as well. An unsuccessful hunt does not suit you, Thra-uk."

  "The hunt changed, Vorzan," Thra-uk said, his voice grave. "Something has found its way into the Wastes."

  Vorzan frowned, stopping to pour a ladle of water over his head from a trough. Steam rose from his heated skin. "Worse than the old enemy? You speak in riddles."

  "I speak of a plague," Thra-uk corrected. "The Wastes are bleeding, brother. An infection near the Western Ravine. It turns kin against kin."

  Vorzan paused, the water dripping from his tusks. He looked at Thra-uk, searching for a jest. Finding none, his expression darkened.

  "The Western Ravine is Krugar's territory," Vorzan murmured.

  "It cannot reach Shatterdeep," Thra-uk warned.

  "It will not," Vorzan snapped, straightening up. He looked at Caldreth and Krim, his eyes narrowing with deep skepticism. "And these strangers, who are they?"

  "They claim they can cure it," Thra-uk said. "They brought proof of the infection."

  Vorzan threw his hand up, silencing Thra-uk. He took a long, deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he filtered the air. There was a scent hiding beneath the sulfur, something cold and old that had no place in a living mountain.

  He turned to Caldreth, his gaze matching his growing irritation, "You are absent of a scent, boy. And you," He pointed a thick finger at the necromancer. "You smell of the dead."

  "Why have you brought a dead-caller and a boy with no scent to my mountain? It smells of a trap, Thra-uk. How do you know they did not craft this plague, only to sell us the cure?"

  "Vorzan-"

  The sound of metal striking stone rang out from the shadows. Vorzan froze. His head snapped toward the noise. In the darkness, the rear thrall had stumbled while moving away from the fire pits. Its dead foot had dragged on a lip of stone, sending it lurching sideways into a rack of ceremonial iron spears.

  A heavy spear rolled out of the shadows, clattering across the stone floor to rest at Vorzan's feet. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloom.

  The thrall didn't move to retrieve it. It just stood there, frozen in the shadows, a clumsy, broken silhouette against the wall. Then, it looked up. Two glowing violet eyes burned in the dark, staring back at the Warlord.

  The silence in the cavern was absolute. Vorzan looked at the thrall. He looked at the spear on the floor, an Iron-Born weapon dropped by a clumsy puppet.

  "Filth," Vorzan roared.

  "Oh," Krim muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "This isn't going to be pleasant."

  The casual exhaustion of the spar vanished before the warlord surged forward, kicking up a spray of red sand. He marched past Thra-uk, the heavy flanged mace rising in his grip.

  "Vorzan, wait!" Thra-uk barked.

  Vorzan didn't wait. He reached the first thrall and swung.

  There was no scream, only the sound of bone turning to powder. The mace obliterated the thrall, folding the creature in half before flinging it backward into the stone wall. It slid down in a heap of broken limbs and black ichor.

  Vorzan stepped over the ruin, raising the mace again, his eyes locked on the second thrall, the one transporting the severed head.

  Thra-uk lunged. The Iron-Born caught Vorzan's wrist mid-swing, the impact of their colliding strength creating a dust cloud.

  "Not that one!" Thra-uk roared, struggling to hold back the warlord's arm. "It holds proof! Look at its hands, Vorzan!"

  Vorzan paused, his chest heaving, the mace hovering inches from the thrall's skull. The undead creature didn't flinch, offering the glowing sphere to a creature who wanted to pulverize it.

  The warlord scoffed, shoving Thra-uk away. He lowered the mace, spitting on the corpse of the first thrall he had destroyed.

  Krim watched the heap of what used to be his servant, then let out a long, weary sigh. He dropped his forehead into his palm, rubbing his temples.

  "It's fine," Krim mumbled into his hand, his voice muffled. "I have more. Not a lot more, mind you... but a few. Just... try not to break the one carrying the head."

  "You bring dead things into my home," Vorzan seethed, his attention turning to Krim. "You insult my stone? Give me one reason not to crush your skull and turn your remaining puppets into mush."

  Krim didn't flinch, though Caldreth saw the necromancer's hand tremble slightly near his dagger. "We have knowledge of the plague spreading through the Wastes."

  "Dead men tell no tales," Vorzan snarled. "Look around, where is this infection? I have heard nor seen nothing."

  "It's coming," Caldreth interjected, stepping forward. The Tome pulsed hot against his hip, urging violence, but he forced his voice to be cold steel. "You kill us, you kill the only people who have tracked it from the source."

  Vorzan paused. He looked at Caldreth, his eyes narrowing. "Have you tested this one with Iron-wine?"

  "Yes, Vorzan," Thra-uk stated. "Iron-wine does not lie."

  "Iron-wine detects blood," Vorzan countered. "It does not detect liars." He growled, staring down at Caldreth. "Things without a scent are not to be trusted. It means they are hiding something."

  He stepped closer to Krim. "I do not treat with dead-callers. And I do not break bread with strangers."

  "Vorzan-" Thra-uk started, a warning growl in his throat.

  "I am warlord here, Thra-uk!" Vorzan roared, silencing him. "Strip their weapons. Throw them in the deep cells. They sit in the dark until I decide if they are worth listening to."

  He jammed the heavy iron flange into Caldreth's chest. The impact drove Caldreth back a stumbling step, the air seizing in his lungs. It wasn't a strike to kill, but the sheer density of it was terrifying.

  Caldreth realized that this creature was a different breed of violence than Thra-uk. He was a mountain compressed into a single angry demon, a reservoir of crushing force waiting to break a dam.

  "You say you have news?" Vorzan growled, leaning his weight into the weapon, pinning Caldreth with the threat of it. "Let's see if it keeps you warm in the cage."

  He turned his back on them, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "Get them out of my sight. Thra-uk, attend me. You have much to explain."

  Thra-uk looked at Caldreth and Krim, his expression grim.

  Rough hands grabbed Caldreth's arms. He didn't fight. He let the demons drag him away from the warmth of the fire pit and toward the damp darkness of the tunnels.