Beyond the tunnel is a forest. My boots press into packed soil, and the bestial screeches are revealed to be the cries of surface birds—shortly after, I hear the screeches of other surface creatures also. Nightcutter trembles as it sucks light from above—this place is well-lit. From the sun, somehow? I point it away and open my eyes.

It's hard to see the roof for the brilliant green canopy. This place is alive and warm, and the branches rustle and sway above as creatures jump from one to another. I squint; past the leaves, I can just about make out globes of glass set into the ceiling, within which fire is trapped. The illumination they provide scorches my face through my visor, akin to how the sun's rays would.

The great trees suck it in and are strong. Their gnarled wooden trunks look infinitely tougher than the brittle ones of stone their petrified cousins in the other cavern have to support them. This is no corpse, as that place was. Even the air seems alive. It is warm, and smells faintly of fur, feathers, and other living materials. It blows around, circulated by some unseen vents, or maybe by the magic that keeps this place alive—the magic emanating from the chain leading away into the distance.

It's what the forest relies on. Away from it, a hundred feet in either direction, the colors fade. Brown and green to gray. From the sides, which stretch away to unseen distances, there comes no sound. By the stillness of the air, all is long-dead.

"Onward," I command. "No stopping to gawk. Stay alert—who knows what surface predators lurk here?"

We march on through the timeless forest. Now we know what the magic is: some enchantment of unaging. This place has been made immortal, and this must also be the same power that kept the dark sorcerer alive for so long. Even the dirt trail seems well-kept.

Something curious occurs to me. Could this magic be the reason that the dwarves of the deep have no conception of lengths of time? I'd always assumed the malady was due to their extreme isolation. But perhaps it wasn't just the shadow seeping up through the Shaft.

A worrying thought. Could the magic here be even more potent than the shadow? And, just as importantly, what could be creating this terrible power? Some kind of device, like the fire-orbs above, or—I fear to guess—could there be another sorcerer?

We catch up to the guild ahead of us. This happens suddenly; one moment they were a hundred yards distant, and now they're right in front, blocking us.

"What's the hold-up?" I ask. "Does the forest grow thicker?"

Their guildmaster, a second degree in steel, signals for a halt, then walks over to me.

"This was a mistake. Nthazes was right—this place should remain buried. I don't like it."

"You're going to run away?"

He scowls. "You didn't seem so keen on coming down here either."

"Well, no. But isn't Nthazes worth fighting alongside? Are you going to betray him?"

"My foremost duty is to my guild. Many of us have families, and this place feels like certain death. Can't you sense it? There's no time down here. Everything is frozen. We may emerge only to find that an aeon-hour has passed. Perhaps we will be the only dwarves left, in an underground ruled by trolls, or by something worse."

"I find that unlikely. The deep dwarves have always dealt just fine with timelessness."

"Then deal with it alongside them. We are leaving. The darkness is gone—we need to prepare for the war with Uthrarzak. Back, my runeknights! We're going back!"

They hurry past us through the forest at either side of the track, battering away branches and stumbling over thick roots. Birds squawk angrily at them, as if to say good riddance. This place does not want us here.

"Continue," I order the Runic League. "We are not cowards. We'll face whatever lurks here with courage."

Some way later, structures come into view. They are of the same kind of architecture as those in the petrified forest, simple square dwellings. These are not ruined, though, neither by invader nor by time. They look as new as on the day they were built. The wooden doors are intact.

"Don't open any," I warn as we pass by the first. "We don't know what could be within."

A few dwellings later, though, one's window is facing us. I point Nightcutter away and open my eyes to look through. I see strange furniture, a kind of netted sling, and a curled up, whitely gleaming skeleton.

"Dead," I say. "At least this inhabitant won't be troubling us."

"They must have run out of food," Alae says quietly. "They lived off the jungle, but the magic here has been fading. There wasn't enough left to support them. It must have happened a long time ago, for their flesh to have gone."

"Lucky for us."

I feel little pity at their plight. Too many dwarves have died to these monsters, recently and in the distant past. Whatever the first origin of the conflict, their champion has killed many of our comrades.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

As we advance, the trees pull away from the chain, and smooth tiles emerge from the dirt. We're walking along a proper road, now. The number of buildings increases, and now we are no longer marching through a forest, but a city. I look and listen around, and get the sense that the magic from the chain extends further to right and left than it did before. The magic is stronger here.

Its origin is close. Another guild, sensing this, decides to retreat. A couple more follow, marching past us quickly. The unnaturally preserved road is wide enough to allow easy passage.

"Zathar?" says Huirah, his silver armor reflecting the firelight above redly. "Why are you still here? We should run. This is a fool place to be. And the Runeking will not be happy if he loses you."

"Nthazes is here—that's why I remain. I'll fight alongside my friend. And the magic here cannot be allowed to go back up."

"Closing the hatch will solve that issue."

"Better we eradicate it at its source."

"If you can. Goodbye."

They dash away. Another guild follows after. The sheer strangeness of this place, of the surface being brought to the deepest part of the underground, coupled with the power befuddling our very minds, is proving too unnerving for most. I see a few runeknights in bronze hurry past us. They're so afraid, they'll abandon their own guildmaster. Aren't they more scared of the punishment for this? Maybe they don't expect him to come back alive to inflict it.

No Guardians flee, though. Nthazes' dwarves, despite being the fewest in number, show more courage than anyone.

The path turns. Walls appear, extending deep into the outer city and vanishing among petrified trunk and canopy. At their center is a gate. It is massive, composed of expertly-worked stone—two slabs, and if they are made of smaller blocks joined, I can't see the lines. It's open a crack to allow the chain out.

Carvings of monsters killing dwarves adorn it. It's a battle-panorama, done nearly life-scale. Pigments have been worked into it, mostly shades of red. I wince a little, looking at this curtain of gore. I imagine a lot of the guilds that just fled, fled from this.

"Ready yourselves," I say. "We haven't heard any fighting, but that doesn't mean there isn't a trap being prepared."

When we walk through, though—nothing. The defenders of the city must have perished like everyone else.

And a city this is, a proper one now. A city-center, a capital district. The buildings grow in size. Some are two stories, three, four or five. Many seem military in appearance, with reinforced buttresses and carvings of weapons. We walk in their shadows, glancing and listening down thin alleyways. Once, a dark shape skitters away. It was small, just an animal—yet I feel sure there are bigger things too.

Abruptly, the road opens out and becomes a circular plaza a hundred yards across. It's overgrown with grass and bushes poking out from under the tiles here, but further away it's clean, and I can see that the different colors of the tiles are not random. It's a mosaic.

It depicts a four-legged warrior in armor, crashing through ranks of runeknights toward a shining, stylized sun. This confirms things—they are our mortal enemies, as bad as dragons and trolls.

Perhaps it was this image that proved the final breaking point for most of the army. Now there are only two guilds left, standing in formation at the opposite end of the plaza: the Red Anvil guild, and the Guardians Against Darkness. Nthazes has stayed in formation with his dwarves, but Halmak has stepped out, and is examining a massive building that looms over the mosaic. It must be nearly a hundred meters in height. Vines drape it, so bright green they almost glow—where they are visible past their own flowers.

Bright splashes of color, red and blue and white and purple, dot the entirety of the structure. I frown. There is something odd about them.

They seem to slowly be getting smaller—it's hard to tell through the time-fugue—but yes, they are changing. They turn to dots, then all is green. And then they begin to open again.

This is the origin of this place's power. It must be. As further proof, the chain leads right into it, snaking underneath a pair of stone doors.

Runethane Halmak, hearing us, turns.

"Hah!" he shouts. "Out of all the guilds, I thought you would be the least likely to make it all the way here, Zathar. I half-thought you had it in mind to betray me—or is that why you've come?"

I suppress my anger at his remarks, and reply as calmly as I can:

"I'm no traitor. You should know that by now."

"In any case, keep your distance. Keep that weapon away from me. I don't think there's dark within, but who knows?"

"We should not enter," Nthazes warns. "We should leave this place be. Its power is already fading—can't you tell from the way that this forest is turning to stone like its sister?"

"All the more reason to enter now. The Runeking will want to see this power. The power of time itself! Doesn't it interest you? I can think of nothing stronger."

"It does not," Nthazes says firmly. "We have no interest in strength for its own sake."

"It's for all of our sakes—but I see there's no getting through to you. You deep dwarves don't understand the world above. Power and wealth are necessary for survival. If we don't become stronger, Runeking Uthrarzak will wipe us out with contempt. His kingdom is twice the size our own, don't you know? His runeknights aren't quite as strong, but the numbers more than make up for that."

"If we unleash this power, Uthrarzak will be the least of our worries!" Nthazes shouts. "Can't you see that?"

"You are wrong! The treasure in here was keeping the sorcerer sustained, nothing more! Why are you so afraid? Well?" He hefts Sunhammer. I shut my eyes to block out the glare. "It's time to break down these doors. Form a triple-line behind me—just in case."

He's really going to do it. He really thinks there's treasure in there, and that his guild can take on any final protectors with ease.

"We should bring down more!" I shout. "Your army has fled! If we are assaulted, there will be no support!"

"Why should they get a share, those cowards? Only those who have trusted me to the end deserve it. Back away, Runic League! I'll give you your portion later—though you little deserve it!"

"Little deserve it?" Ithis shouts. "Runeforger, he insults us!"

"Form up!" I order. "Get into a double-line. Be ready for any foe—dwarf or otherwise."

"Guardians, you too!" Nthazes commands. "Position yourselves beside the Runic League. Let the Runethane take the brunt of the attack. Let his greed lead to his ruin!"

Our dwarves march into position. The three guilds form a triangle now: with Runethane Halmak and his Red Anvil as the point, right in front of the stone doors. The carvings on them show life and death in a thousand forms—saplings beside rotted trunks, skulls beside babes, foundations besides broken ruins. I hear the carven shapes of sun and moon, high mountains and weathered plains, fish-filled seas and barren deserts of bone-shard sand.

Runethane Halmak swings Sunhammer back, tilts his body. He is readying to deliver the full weight and runic power of his armor into the doors. He is going to shatter them into dust.

A war-cry starts in his throat. It sounds like a low rumble of magma.

And then there is a grinding noise, and the doors begin to swing open.

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