“What the hell?”

Inside Wayfort, Garrett waved his hand, as if driving something away.

Just moments ago, he had felt as though a distant gaze had fallen upon him across an immense distance.

As a thaumaturge well-versed in the arcane arts, keen awareness was an indispensable trait. And after so many years steeped in mystical study, his sensitivity had reached an extraordinary level.

Perhaps it was because much of the corruption brought about by studying forbidden knowledge involved perception and vision. He was particularly attuned to anything resembling a gaze.

A moment earlier, he had indeed felt a pair of eyes sweep across him. That was no illusion.

But it didn’t seem malicious.

Still, whether or not there was malice, it was best to dispel it. After all, who would enjoy being watched by something unseen?

When the discomfort of being observed finally faded, he went back to his work.

“Concerning the exploration of the northern mountains.”

Looking at the report handed to him by the people of Carrock, he fell into thought.

The so-called northern mountains were, in fact, the Grey Mountains. There lay an abandoned dwarven hall, long since fallen, the Hall of Dáin I.

He hadn’t thought much of it before, but upon reading the report, he was taken aback.

According to intelligence gathered by the front-line scouts, traces of orc activity were everywhere within that decayed, crumbling hall.

And not only orcs. On the ground and along the pillars supporting the hall, the scouts had also found deep gouges, marks far too large for orcs, wargs, or even trolls to have made.

That left only one possible answer.

A dragon.

A dragon still nested within the Hall of Dáin I.

Records stated that these evil dragons had come from the Northern Waste, the vast frozen tundra shrouded by the lingering power of Morgoth.

Drawn by the Dwarves’ treasures, they had flown south from the Waste to the Grey Mountains, storming the dwarven halls.

Thus, Dáin I’s hall fell, and the Dwarves were forced to move to the Lonely Mountain. Afterward, they began developing weapons specifically for slaying dragons, enough to fend off a few cold-drakes that did not breathe fire.

Unfortunately, when the next attack came upon the Lonely Mountain, it was by a fire-drake.

No use dwelling on old tragedies. Whatever the case, the possible existence of a dragon nearby did not bode well for either Carrock or the newly rebuilt Framsburg.

Especially the latter. It stood right next to the Grey Mountains.

So Garrett set out again, journeying to Carrock and then on to Framsburg.

During the time he spent studying reports and making his decisions, the people of Framsburg had not been idle either. Several scout teams led by skilled Rangers had ventured deep into the mountains, even into the ruined halls themselves, in hopes of locating the dragon’s exact lair.

Meanwhile, an engineering team had gone to the Lonely Mountain to seek help from the Dwarves, bringing back a row of semi-automatic heavy ballistae designed to pierce armor. They now stood lined up along Framsburg’s northern wall, all aimed squarely at the mountains.

When Garrett arrived and saw the neat rows of siege weapons, he almost felt that even without him, they could slay that cold-drake.

Just as he was thinking this, the Ranger squads returned one after another, bringing intelligence from deep within the halls.

“There are many dragon skeletons,” one Ranger reported. “The marks on their bones look like they were caused by their own kind. It seems they once fought among themselves over something.”

“How did you reach that conclusion?” Garrett asked the reporting Ranger.

The Ranger stepped forward immediately. “I once read about it in a dwarven archive. One of the books recorded this very thing.”

He recalled the passage, speaking in the calm tone of a historian recounting the past:

“The evil dragons seized the Grey Mountains, but since most Dwarves capable of mining treasures had fled, the limited wealth could not satisfy the ever-growing number of dragons. So they began to slaughter one another. This brought great ruin to the surrounding lands but also diminished their numbers.”

“In the end, dissatisfied with the dwindling riches of the Grey Mountains, the dragon Smaug decided to fly south in the year 2770 of the Third Age, leading to the fall of Erebor.”

“I see,” Garrett nodded. “So, the dragons of the Grey Mountains once fought a civil war among themselves, all over their greed for treasure.”

“Question is, how many are left now?”

“Did you manage to locate their exact positions?”

The Rangers glanced at each other and shook their heads.

Although they hadn’t found any living dragons, they had managed to sketch out a rough map of the Dwarven hall’s interior.

Of course, some Rangers had previously gone to consult the Dwarves about it, but unfortunately, the Dwarves no longer had any detailed records of this former colony. Even the maps of its internal structure had long been lost.

One of the Rangers stepped forward and handed the map of the hall to Garrett. Several areas were marked.

He explained, “These marks indicate zones where orcs are active. We refrained from attacking, figuring the dragon might catch the scent of blood and become alert.”

Garrett examined the map and nodded.

“All right, that’s fine.”

He said calmly, “No matter where that dragon is hiding, once I sweep through the entire hall, it won’t be able to stay hidden for long.”

“Go on alert and wait for my signal.”

Leaving those words behind, Garrett vaulted down from the fortress wall and, map in hand, headed alone into the depths of the Grey Mountains.

That very day, following a barely discernible old dirt road built by the ancestors of the Northmen, he arrived at the foot of a great mountain, and there he saw the ruined entrance of the dwarven hall.

A new area unlocked. The fog of mystery lifted.

The Hall of Dáin I.

Garrett looked up, studying the interior under the sunlight streaming through the broken gate.

Just as the Rangers had said, almost nothing remained intact. Even the pillars were shattered and missing pieces, clear evidence of tremendous impacts from long ago.

The floor, too, was in ruins. Massive sinkholes and craters pitted the ground, as though meteors had struck it. Sand and rubble were scattered everywhere.

Looking down, he could see nothing but pits and holes, no solid place to step.

Fortunately, the Rangers had marked out several passable routes, though they were somewhat roundabout.

Clack.

Garrett pulled out a round stone and placed it underfoot to step across the gaps.

Clearly, he wasn’t fond of taking detours.

Thud… thud… thud…

Inside the grand hall, a door, still relatively intact and showing signs of recent use, was knocked upon.

The sound was sharp and distinct.

From within came a voice.

“Who the hell is…”

Creak.

An orc flung the door open, cursing, only to be greeted by the sight of a massive sword, black with a faint crimson gleam.

Boom!

A tremendous sound echoed through the doorway, startling every orc gathered in the room and drawing their eyes toward it.

The orc who had opened the door was already cleaved clean in two, armor and body alike split down the middle. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Garrett’s voice rang out, “Tell me, where’s the dragon?”

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