Either way, the reckoning was coming home.
“Then we become the aid.” Kaelen stopped before them, shorter than both but somehow casting the longer shadow. “The Festering Court is a staging ground. If we take it, the Nurgle cults lose their foothold in the northern valleys. If we don’t—” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “We die trying. That is the dwarf way.” return of reckoning
Kaelen Ironhand knew better. The mist was a lie, just like the peace. Either way, the reckoning was coming home
The mist curled around them as the three walked toward the war council. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the gate, a bell tolled—slow, wet, wrong. If we take it, the Nurgle cults lose
Kaelen counted the chimes. Seven. The number of Nurgle. The number of years the mist had held.
“Then we are already lost.”
Kaelen touched the rune-brand on his forearm—the mark of the Slayer’s Oath, though he had never taken it. Not formally. His shame was not failure, but survival. Three winters ago, in the tunnels beneath the Howling Heights, he had watched his entire Stonebeard throng fall to a Bloodthirster’s axe. He had been the last, trapped under a collapse, listening to the daemon’s laughter fade as it turned toward the surface.