The rain in Aurion tasted like metal. Rivulets of rain water cascaded down the immaculate golden towers in the tallest part of the city, and flowed into the River Aurumede that ran through the city and snaked into the plains.
It was an old joke among the humans living in the Lower Ring: The Dwarves keep the gold, and we get the runoff.
Elian wiped a layer of grimy moisture from his eyes, leaning back against the damp brickwork of a watch post. Below his boots, the ground hummed. It was a subtle vibration, imperceptible to newcomers, but Elian had lived here for thirty years. He knew the feeling of the Great Grinders—the massive dwarven machinery churning miles beneath the city streets, stripping the earth of its wealth day and night.
"You're scowling again," a gruff voice rumbled from the shadows.
Elian didn't turn. "My face just settles that way, Borrun."
Borrun stepped into the dim light of the streetlamp. He was a dwarf of common stock—broad-shouldered, beard trimmed for utility rather than style, and wearing the leather-and-chainmail uniform of the City Watch. He was Elian's superior and also patrol partner, and in Aurion, that was the highest social ladder a man like Elian could hope to climb: standing next to a dwarf, even if it was just to catch petty thieves.
"It's a quiet night," Borrun said, tapping out his pipe against the stone wall. "The Smelters are venting early. The fog will be thick soon."
"Fog is good," Elian muttered. "Drunks go home earlier when they can't see the tavern door."
Elian looked up toward the center of the city. Aurion was built like a layered cake. Here, in the outer rings, humans and numerous other races lived in timber and slate. But as the streets spiraled inward and upward, the architecture changed. The timber turned to granite, the slate to marble. And at the very peak, sitting directly above the primary mine shaft, was the Crown District. Even from here, through the rain, the golden domes of the Dwarven palaces glowed with gas lights, burning bright enough to mock the dark slums below.
The City of Gold, Elian thought bitterly. Where the streets are paved with good intentions and the cellars are full of bodies.
Suddenly, the ground shook. Not the rhythmic hum of the mines—this was a sharp, percussive thud.
Then came the sound.
It wasn't a bell. It was the Deep Horn. A sound usually reserved for mine collapses or war. It blasted from the upper districts, a low, resonant frequency that rattled Elian's teeth.
Brum-mm-mmmm.
Elian pushed off the wall, his hand instinctively dropping to the truncheon at his belt. "That came from the Second Tier."
Borrun's eyes went wide. "That's the Noble Quarter. The Iron Guard patrols that sector. Why are they blowing the horn?"
"I don't know," Elian said, already moving. "But it stopped the rain."
It hadn't, actually, but the sudden silence following the horn blast made the falling water sound deafening.
"Dispatch!" A magical voice crackled from the crystal embedded in Borrun's shoulder plate. "Sector 4 Unit. Respond to High Street, behind the Gilded Lily. Immediate priority." It never ceased to amaze Elian, how the network of crystal devices managed to relay voices all over the city, despite only dwarves officers were issued such devices.
Borrun looked at Elian, confused. "That's... that's a mistake. They don't call Watchmen to the High Street. The Iron Guard handles their own."
"You heard them," Elian said, grabbing Borrun's arm. "We have to go."
***
The run up to the Second Tier was brutal. By the time they passed the checkpoints—waved through by frantic guards—the air had changed. The smell of wet dog and sewage was replaced by the scent of roasted meats and expensive perfume.
But the mood was shattered.
The alleyway behind The Gilded Lily—an exclusive club for wealthy merchants—was awash in harsh white light. A squad of Iron Guard stood in a perimeter. These were the elite: enclosed in full plate armor forged from blacksteel, carrying halberds that could cleave a horse in two.
They parted as Borrun approached, but their helmets turned toward Elian with obvious disdain.
"Halt," a Guard captain barked, stepping forward. His beard was braided into two thick forks, tipped with silver—a sign of officer status. "No humans. This is a sensitive scene."
"Dispatch called us," Elian said, keeping his voice level. He knew better than to show irritation to a high-caste dwarf. "We're the closest unit."
"We need a tracker," Borrun added quickly, stepping in front of Elian. "Elian is the best nose in the Watch. If someone ran, he'll see the signs before the rain washes them away."
The Captain hesitated. He looked back at the crime scene, then at the sky. The rain was intensifying. "Fine. But if he touches anything, I'll take his hand. And yours."
The Captain stepped aside.
Elian walked into the alley. It was paved with smooth cobblestones, unlike the mud of his district. At the end of the alley, beneath the overhang of a balcony, a body lay sprawled.
Elian approached slowly, squatting down.
The victim was a dwarf, dressed in a tunic of midnight blue velvet embroidered with threads of real gold. He lay face down. There was no struggle. No blood spray on the walls. Just a single, clean puncture wound through the back of the neck, severing the spine.
Elian frowned. "Professional."
"Turn him over," the Captain ordered from behind, his voice tight.
Elian slid his hands under the heavy shoulders and heaved. The body rolled over with a wet slap.
Elian's breath hitched. Borrun gasped.
The dwarf's face was frozen in a mask of surprise. But it was the beard that made Elian's stomach drop. It was long, luscious, and braided into a complex knot pattern held together by three heavy rings.
Solid gold rings. Set with rubies.
Elian knew those rings. Every citizen of Aurion saw them on coins, on statues, on banners.
"By the Stone..." Korg whispered, backing away. "That's Lord Thrain. The King's nephew."
Elian looked up at the Captain. The elite soldier wasn't angry; he was terrified.
"A Royal," Elian said softly. "Murdered in the street."
"Not just murdered," the Captain hissed, pointing at the wound on the neck. "Look at the entry wound, human. Look closely."
Elian leaned in. The wound was small, circular, and cauterized. There were black scorch marks around the edges.
"Musket ball," Elian said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "Small caliber. High velocity."
The Captain nodded grimly. "Dwarven guns do not fire muskets of that caliber."
Elian stood up, the rain suddenly feeling ice cold.
"Only humans use guns," Elian said.
"Exactly," the Captain said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Which means, Constable... a human just started a war." """