Bab 168: Chapter 168 - Old Guard Broken

The sun had barely risen above the jagged peaks surrounding the Great Mine, but the Smith's Square was already alive with activity.

Dwarves of all walks of life—merchants arranging their wares, soot-streaked miners fresh from the tunnels, smiths with calloused hands and aprons dusted with ash—were gathering in growing numbers. Among them were a few outsiders, traders and wanderers drawn by the same rumor that had swept through the city.

At the center of the square stood a hastily constructed platform, its rough planks freshly hammered together. Formal announcements were rare here—this was a place for work, not politics. To dedicate space to anything other than the clang of hammers and the roar of forges was almost sacrilege, but today, this unspoken rule would be broken.

Atop the platform stood Lunt, the master smith himself. His broad shoulders were squared, his beard meticulously combed, and his tunic cleaner than usual for this occasion. He looked every bit the dwarf ready to shoulder a great responsibility.

Beside him loomed a figure starkly out of place among the crowd—a tall shadow cloaked in black robes that seemed to absorb the faint lantern light of the square. Vellichor, the Dread Mage, stood silent, his imposing presence alone enough to still much of the crowd's murmuring.

Lunt gripped the edge of the podium, his knuckles white as he scanned the crowd. His eyes fell on familiar faces—friends, colleagues, and rivals—but also many strangers. Some gazed at him with curiosity, others with doubt. He drew a deep breath and began.

"Brothers and sisters," he called, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "I stand before you not as a smith, but as a dwarf who sees a future for our people that we cannot ignore. For too long, we've clung to the safety of old traditions, placing our trust in lords who value gold over growth, titles over toil. But times are changing. We cannot afford to be left behind."

A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. Some nodded in agreement; others whispered to their neighbors, skeptical.

"I have worked beside you; my family has worked beside you for generations," Lunt continued, his voice growing stronger. "In the forges, in the mines. We have seen the weight of your struggles and the fire of your resilience. We have listened to your frustrations and shared in your triumphs. And today, I am here to tell you—I will no longer watch as others make decisions that benefit themselves at the cost of our future."

He stepped forward, his boots thudding against the wooden platform. "I, Lunt the Sixteenth, declare my candidacy for Dwarf Lord!"

The murmurs erupted into a cacophony of reactions—some cheers, others gasps, but mostly grumbles, as was usual for dwarves.

In the crowd, Skarn's silver beard gleamed as he stood stoic, his arms folded across his chest. His sharp eyes missed nothing, though his expression remained unreadable.

Lunt raised a hand, calling for silence. Slowly, the noise subsided.

"I know what many of you are thinking," he said, his tone softer but no less determined. "A smith? A craftsman? What does he know of leadership? But what I lack in titles, I make up for in understanding. I don't stand here because I seek power—I stand here because I seek change."

A shift in the air silenced even the whispers as Vellichor stepped forward. His black robes swept the platform as he raised his hands, drawing the crowd's attention like a shadow stretching over the square.

"I am Vellichor," he began, his voice deep and deliberate. "Many of you know my name. Some of you fear it. Others whisper it in half-forgotten stories. But I have never been an enemy of the dwarves, nor have I ever had cause to stand beside one—until today."

He gestured toward Lunt, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd. "Ask yourselves what it means that I am here, lending my support to this dwarf. I do not give my aid lightly. Lunt has earned it—not through wealth, not through titles, but through his conviction, his integrity, and his vision. These are qualities your lords of old have forgotten."

The crowd fell silent, their attention riveted on the mage. Even Skarn shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied the imposing figure.

"Long ago, I walked the halls of your mine. Even then, I saw the cracks forming—not just in the stone, but in your spirit," Vellichor continued, his tone softening. "And nothing has changed since then, except that I see more misery in the eyes of both the old and the young. I have seen kingdoms crumble under the weight of their stubborn traditions. I have seen proud people wither because they feared change. And I see the beginning of it in the mine. Lunt is not a risk—he is your best chance at survival."

He stepped back, letting Lunt reclaim the platform.

"I won't pretend that this will be easy," Lunt said, his voice steady once more. "The road ahead will be difficult, and I will face opposition from those who cling to the past. But I promise you this: I will lead not for myself, but for the future of all of us. Together, we will forge something stronger than gold—something lasting."

The crowd was still, their reactions subdued as the weight of Lunt's words settled.

Then, slowly, a lone dwarf stepped forward—a miner with a soot-darkened face and a pick slung over his shoulder.

"You're right about one thing," the miner said, his voice rough but clear. "We've given everything to this mine, and all it's given back is dust and empty promises. If you mean what you say, you've got my pick behind you."

A smattering of cheers followed, hesitant at first but growing as more dwarves voiced their agreement. Others remained quiet, their skepticism unyielding, but the seed had been planted.

Lunt allowed himself a brief smile before stepping forward to continue. Gesturing toward Vell, he spoke again. "As my first act, I will give back to you—to the young, the untested, and the willing."

From his robe, Vellichor produced a transparent cube filled with a clear, viscous substance that refracted the light like liquid crystal. Inside it rested a shimmering shard of luxorite, glowing faintly.

"This," Lunt declared, "pieces of it will go to any young smith ready to prove themselves. Not for power, not for profit, but to craft something worthy of our people's future."