Stone That Breathes
Klippen and Brannik with a few younger dwarves carried Berrik’s body carefully down the slope. Berrik Stonehand was wrapped in a shroud that bore the quiet weight of a life spent in the mountain, heavy cloth the color of dark iron, worn smooth in places as if it had already known years of use. Faint lines ran its length like the memory of ore veins, branching and crossing in patterns that only a trained eye would recognize as deliberate, each one marking the kind of work he had done and the paths he had followed beneath the earth. Threaded through the weave were dull strands of iron and copper, not bright or polished, but honest, carrying the same muted strength as the tools he had once held. Along the surface, barely visible unless the light caught it just right, were the impressions of hammer and chisel, pressed into the fabric with steady hands, each mark placed with purpose rather than decoration. Near his chest, a small clan mark rested, simple and exact, neither calling attention nor asking for it. A fine dusting of pale stone clung to the cloth, settled into its folds, as if the mountain had already begun to draw him back.
The funeral procession went slowly down the mountain toward the valley of dwarven tombs. It is there the Dwarf burial ritual of Last Strike will be performed, sealing the body of Berrik Stonehand in his final resting place. Just like generations before him, he is return to stone.
Arlan had already said his goodbye to his friend during the shrouding ceremony. Arlan as friend placed the eye stones before Berrik was wrapped. The stones set upon his eyes were small and pale, worn smooth by years beneath the same mountain he had carved his life from. They rested there without ceremony, simple and exact, closing his sight to the world he no longer needed, and giving it back, in time, to the stone.
Sheriff Arlan Spears left before the Final Strike ceremony and rode alone up the winding path toward the quarries, Dog close at his side. The morning air was sharp and clean, but tension thickened with every step. He sought out Huann, an old stone cutter and trusted friend, hoping to glean answers about recent mining activities and anything amiss.
Arriving at the largest quarry, Arlan found Huann near a half-finished stone column, his beard dusted with stone and hands steady despite his years.
"Huann," Arlan greeted.
"Sheriff," the old man replied, eyes wary.
Arlan wasted no time. "Tell me about the new shaft near Grey Shaft on Beltrove Mountain. I have heard rumors.”
Huann’s gaze darkened like storm clouds gathering over a harvest field. He paused before speaking. “They broke into a cavern unlike any I’ve seen.” His calloused fingers curled into fists. “Smooth walls like the edge of the moon when it is full, walls gleaming with the cold sweat of ancient fears but dry. Silent like an unheard scream in a dream, where even the dust motes hang frozen in the air, refusing to settle. And cold—cold as an early spring morning when frost still clings to the plow blade and your breath hangs before you like the mist of a fleeing ghost.” He swallowed hard, making the sound like stones shifting underground. “It’s not stone like the rest, it is smooth and dry like bleached bone that’s been picked clean by desert winds and forgotten by time itself.”
Arlan frowned. "That doesn't sound natural."
"Not natural," Huann said. "And it brought someone to study it. Not the mountain. Not the rocks."
Arlan’s brows knit. "Who?"
Huann’s voice dropped. "A wizard named Wenth. He’s been here, carrying odd instruments, listening to the stones differently than a miner or mason."
"Wizards don't usually meddle in these parts," Arlan said slowly.
"No," Huann agreed. "But this is no ordinary mine."
Arlan listened as Huann recounted the strange sounds miners heard—tones that were not music, faint hums that unsettled even the hardest of dwarves. The kind that made old Dornin spit three times and touch iron, that had young Krell hanging sprigs of mountain thistle above his bunk. “Echoes of the creation song,” some claimed in hushed voices around guttering lanterns, fingers tracing protective symbols in the air. Others called it “the mountain’s breath” or “the stone’s memory.” Whatever its name, the sound had grown stronger before the collapse of the western shaft two nights prior. Now it lingered in the deep tunnels like a half-remembered nightmare, causing pickaxes to falter mid-swing whenever that alien vibration trembled through the rock. Even now, Huann’s calloused fingers twitched as he spoke of it, his eyes darting to the shadows beyond their firelight as if the very darkness might be listening.
"No one was hurt," Huann finished, "Berrik Stonehand made enough of an impression on the others they played it safe.”
Arlan’s gaze hardened, determination settling like stone in his chest. "I’ll see this cavern for myself."
With that, Arlan mounted his horse DeSpur, Dog alert by his side, and rode toward Grey Shaft on Beltrove Mountain where the mine entrance yawned dark and foreboding as if it awaited Arlan’s arrival.
The path grew steep and twisted, the morning sun casting long shadows. Arlan felt the weight of the mountain’s secrets pressing in.
At the entrance, timber supports groaned under the mountain’s weight. Warning flags fluttered weakly in still air.
Arlan dismounted and stepped closer, the chill pressing in. Inside, the darkness swallowed the light, and the silence was thick, as if the mountain itself held its breath.
Taking a deep breath, Arlan crossed the threshold into the unknown.