As the afternoon sun came to its peak, Harbek held his last billet up to the light streaming in the forge window.

  It will hold.

  Runa had done this one proper – her timing on the bellows steady and true.

  As he prepares for departure, Harbek mentally clears the forge of work, setting each task down where it belonged. At the door, he paused and glanced back.

  Durnek stood at his station checking over an axe head from one of the other orders. Runa swept the chute clear, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew where sparks would fall before they did. She wasn’t tall, but she was solid in the way forge-grown dwarves tended to be, sleeves rolled past her elbows, ash dusting her hands and forearms like a second skin. Her hair was tied back tight, practical, already streaked with soot from the morning’s work.

  Ormund lingered in the corner, stood at a bench that wasn’t his, turning a half-cooled piece just enough to catch the light, then setting it back without comment. His apprentice brushed scale from the anvil with meticulous care, a slight furrow in his brow betraying his concentration.

  His work was finished. Runa would remain with Durnek for the rest of the day.

  In his mind he was already out in the mountains. His feet carried him home to the hearth without conscious thought. He needed his pack.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  As he rounded the path to the hearth, his jerkin caught briefly in his belt– a small hitch, then gone.

  Just inside of the door where the cloaks hung, his pack waited, prepared the night before. He gave it a quick once-over; some bread, a flask of water, some cord. A little bit of charcoal for marking. The fire steel. Satisfied he slung it over his shoulder and checked his belt. His hammer rested at his right hip. The small knife at his left, the antler handle just visible beneath his tunic.

  He exchanged his short green cloak for one longer with a deeper hood to meet the chill.

  Beyond the last ring of hearth-smoke, the mountain waited—silent, patient, unconcerned with whether he returned changed or not at all.

  The day had turned sour; the winds pressed hard against the valley– the kind Harbek would have preferred to avoid.

  The mountains had always been there. Today, they felt closer.He took the lower path first, the one worn smooth by decades of boots and cart wheels. Stone gave way to packed earth, then back to stone again where the frost had hardened it overnight. The smell of coal smoke thinned as he moved, replaced by cold air and distant pine. A pair of children darted past him with an armful of kindling, heads down against the wind, and one of the older masons stood on a scaffold checking mortar that would not set properly until spring. No one stopped him. A few nodded. Work did not pause simply because he was leaving.

  The hold narrowed toward its outer terraces, buildings set into the rock rather than built against it. Shutters were already drawn tight against the weather, forge-vents coughing out white breath that tore sideways in the wind. Harbek adjusted the weight of his pack without breaking stride.

  Every stone here had been placed with intention. Every beam measured. Emberhollow was not beautiful in the way outsiders meant it. It was correct. It would endure. Whether he did was a separate matter.