The road was still wet when I rode out at dawn, the mud clinging stubbornly to the hooves of my horse and the boots of the escort behind me. It was not a ceremonial ride. No banners. No fanfare. Just a viscount in a battered cloak, a handful of soldiers, and a road that barely deserved the name.
This stretch led west—toward the foothills where stone broke through earth and the air smelled faintly of iron and cold minerals. Dwarves favored that land. They always had. Where humans saw barren ground, dwarves saw foundations. Where we saw rock, they saw wealth waiting to be carved.
Elizabeth had insisted I go myself.
"Dwarves respect presence," she had said the night before, eyes scanning ledgers even as she spoke. "Not titles. If you send an envoy, they will measure weakness. If you go yourself, they will measure resolve."
So I went.
The trading post was little more than a fortified stone outcrop set against the cliff face. Thick iron-banded gates stood half-open, and the smell of fermented grapes and oak barrels drifted outward, unmistakable even in the cold. Dwarven wine. Potent, sharp, and prized across the empire—when it could be obtained at all.
We were stopped before the gates.
A dwarf stepped forward, beard braided with iron rings, eyes sharp beneath a heavy brow. He looked me up and down slowly, lingering on my cloak, my boots, my lack of ornamentation. His lip curled slightly.
"Human lord," he said, voice gravelly. "State your business."
"I am Darius Flameviel," I replied evenly. "Viscount of Frostmarch. I've come to speak with Gorrim Stonekeg."
The name drew a reaction. Subtle, but present. The dwarf snorted. "Stonekeg doesn't receive human lords without tribute."
"I didn't bring any," I said calmly.
The dwarf barked a laugh. "Then you've come to waste stone and breath."
I dismounted. Slowly. Deliberately. My escort tensed, hands drifting toward hilts. I raised a hand, stopping them.
"I came to trade," I said. "Not to beg."
The dwarf's eyes narrowed. He expected groveling. They always did. Humans usually bent when dwarves made them wait, insulted them, or demanded gifts just for an audience.
I did none of that.
After a long pause, the dwarf turned and gestured toward the gate. "Follow. Stonekeg enjoys… novelty."
Inside, the post was carved directly from stone—arches clean and precise, walls lined with racks of barrels, metal fittings gleaming even in low light. The air was warm, heavy with yeast and alcohol. Dwarves moved about, hauling crates, inspecting casks, speaking in low, efficient tones.
Gorrim Stonekeg stood near the central hall, thick arms folded across a barrel as if it were a throne. He was broad even by dwarven standards, beard a mass of dark curls streaked with gray, eyes like polished obsidian.
"So," he rumbled, "you're the cast-off prince."
My escort stiffened. I didn't.
"I am the viscount who controls the roads leading east and north of this post," I said simply. "And the grain fields closest to your supply lines."
Gorrim's smile was slow and sharp. "Straight to teeth, then. I like that."
"I hear your wine sells for silver in the south," I continued. "Sometimes gold, when scarcity bites."
"And I hear Frostmarch starves," he shot back. "So why are you here instead of praying to human gods?"
"Because prayer doesn't feed people," I said. "Trade does."
Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Measuring.
Gorrim circled me once, boots scraping stone. "Most human lords beg. Or threaten. You do neither."
"I don't need to," I replied. "Your wine is surplus. My grain is scarce—but growing. I offer barter. Wine for grain. No coin. No humiliation. Mutual survival."
He stopped in front of me, eyes narrowed. "You assume much."
"I assume you'd rather drink than starve your trade partners when winter deepens," I said. "And I assume you'd rather deal with a lord who stands straight than one who kneels and plots."
A bark of laughter erupted from Gorrim's chest, loud and genuine. "By stone and cask," he said, slapping the barrel beside him, "you've got spine."
He gestured sharply. "Bring the ledger."
A dwarf hurried over. Gorrim scanned the numbers quickly, then tossed it aside. "Wine for grain," he said. "Trial basis. You send food. I send barrels. No delays. No cheating."
"No groveling," I added.
He grinned. "Especially no groveling."
We clasped forearms. His grip was iron. Mine did not yield.
By the time I rode back toward Frostmarch, the sun was already sinking. The first barrels would arrive within the week. Wine for morale. Wine for trade. Wine for leverage.
Elizabeth met me at the gates when I returned, frost clinging lightly to her cloak. She listened as I explained, eyes bright with calculation.
"Wine opens doors," she said softly. "And tongues."
"And grain keeps people alive," I replied.
That night, as I walked the keep walls, I felt it again—that subtle shift. Frostmarch was no longer isolated. No longer alone.
Stone had answered hunger.
Refusal had earned respect.
And trade had begun where submission never would.