The summit was reached at the stroke of noon, heralded by a wind so bitingly cold it felt like invisible needles against the skin. Yet, the sight that greeted them warmed even Sheng's cynical, frozen heart. They stood before the entrance to Belvart, a city that served as a gargantuan monument to dwarven stubbornness.
The citadel was not merely built upon the mountain; it was carved into its very marrow. Two black iron gates, fifty feet tall and reinforced with glowing mithril bands, that represented the pinicle of dwarven craftsmanship, stood guarded by soldiers whose heavy plate armor was polished to such a high sheen it reflected the entire jagged skyline of the Belvart range. High above, dwarven ballistae—the size of siege engines—looked down like the unblinking eyes of mountain gods.
Orthox rode to the front, his chest puffed out with the pride of a returning prince. "Halt! State your business!" a voice boomed from the battlements, the sound echoing off the granite cliffs.
"It's Orthox, son of the Iron-Hold!" he roared back, his voice rivaling the wind. "I'm back from the lowlands, and I've brought my friends who saved the Northern Reach! Open the gates before we freeze our beards off, you stone-headed trolls!"
There was a stunned silence, then a frantic clatter of boots on stone. "Orthox? Grendel, look, it is him! Lower the chains open the gates!"
The grind of the massive mechanism was a sound that shook the earth, a deep, rhythmic thrumming of ancient gears. As the gates parted, the trio was hit by a physical wave of heat and noise. Belvart was a vertical masterpiece. Tier after tier of stone shops, forges, and dwellings rose into the darkness of the cavernous ceiling, lit by thousands of amber-glowing crystals and roaring hearths. The air was a thick, intoxicating soup of coal smoke, roasted goat, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone from the deep-earth forges.
"I heard it was busy, but this is a madhouse," Elvric noted, his eyes wide behind his spectacles as they navigated the crowded thoroughfare.
The city was a vertical labyrinth, a melting pot of the continent. Merchants from the Southern Deserts rubbed shoulders with mountain dwarves; elven scholars in shimmering silk robes haggled with soot-stained blacksmiths over the price of enchanted ore. "Every traveler for five hundred miles must be here," Arthor observed. He noticed the way the crowd parted for them—not out of fear, but out of a recognized gravity. The Trio carried the weight of the War of Oblivion in their stride, a presence that even the most frantic merchant couldn't ignore.
They made their way to the main guard station to turn in their frozen "catch." The captain of the guard—a dwarf whose white beard was so long it was tucked neatly into his belt—greeted them with gruff respect. After handing over the bandits and collecting a bounty that Elvric immediately claimed for "critical research expenses," While leaving some for Sheng's mask, the group turned back toward the bustling square.
Richard leaned in close to Sheng, his voice a low, urgent murmur. "Keep your hood low and don't loose that mask, friend. I can see at least three of Sylvia's 'associates' by the central fountain. Word has traveled faster than our horses."
Sheng's hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of his dagger. Near the fountain, a group of high-born Elves stood in a tight circle, their elegant forms a sharp contrast to the rough-hewn stone of the city. As Sheng passed, he caught a single, sharp word carried on the warm draft: "...the Assassin."
A cold sweat prickled his neck. This wasn't a holiday anymore; it was a cage. He felt naked despite the layers of wool and leather.
"Don't look at them," Arthor whispered, his hand firm and grounding on Sheng's shoulder. "Keep your head up. You're a Medal of Glory winner. You haven't done anything wrong."
"Tell that to them," Sheng muttered, gesturing toward a crowded tavern where several patrons had stopped mid-ale to stare. "In there, I'm not a hero. I'm a story. And stories grow teeth when they're told often enough."
They reached a massive training ground where a dozen swordsmen were engaged in a complex, high-stakes sparring drill. The ring of steel on steel filled the air, rhythmic and violent. Richard stopped in his tracks, his eyes lighting up with a familiar, restless fire.
"Now that looks like my kind of party," Richard said, his grin returning. "They need a twelfth for a six-on-six. You three go ahead and enjoy the scenic balconies. I think I'll stay here and show these boys how a swordsman handles a blade. It might draw some eyes away from you, Sheng."
"You're staying?" Arthor asked.
"Just for a bit! I'll find you at the tavern later," Richard waved them off, already jogging toward the training square and unbuckling his traveling cloak.
The remaining trio continued to the great balconies that offered views of the clouds swirling below the city's edge. It should have been peaceful, but the atmosphere had shifted. At every overlook, people weren't just looking at the majestic peaks; they were looking at him.
"Sheng," Arthor said, his voice low and serious as they leaned against a stone railing. "The people here... they're saying your name. And they aren't talking about your service in the trenches."
Sheng gripped the stone until his knuckles turned white. "I know, Arthor. I'm a ghost that's been spotted in the daylight."
"Then let's give them a different story to tell," Elvric said, his eyes flashing with a sudden, serious light. "If the city wants a show, maybe we should show them why gossiping about a man who can kill a king in a locked room is a very poor life choice."