The outline of Truk Fortress appeared particularly majestic and imposing in the afterglow of the setting sun.
The thick, gray-white stone walls, weathered by time, exude an air of old-fashioned aristocracy and austere hardness.
When Lind's distinctive convoy, exuding a metallic chill, arrived at the castle gates, the walls were already lined with guards, their gazes fixed on the scene below with complex expressions.
There was no grand welcoming ceremony, and not even any family members came out to greet them.
Only the castle steward, an old man with gray hair and a stern face, was waiting in front of the drawbridge with a few servants.
His attitude was respectful yet distant, carrying a subtle hint of scrutiny.
"Young Master Linde, welcome back."
The steward bowed slightly, his voice calm and even, "His Excellency the Earl is waiting in the council chamber. Your entourage... will need to be housed in the side fortress."
His gaze swept over Astaire and the fifty Rock Guards behind him, who stood like steel statues, as well as the strange vans covered in metal plates. The meaning was clear—the core area was off-limits to anyone but the Earl's confidants.
Aster frowned slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and the aura of a bronze-level warrior silently emanated from him.
The soldiers of the Rock Guard instantly sharpened their gazes like knives, taking a step forward in unison. The sound of their metal boots hitting the stone slabs was dull and rhythmic, like the beating of war drums.
The atmosphere instantly became tense.
Lyra Ryan stood quietly behind Lind, her grey-blue eyes observing the silent contest with great interest.
She was curious to see how the lord who controlled "Iron Star" would deal with this subtle challenge from within his own family.
Lind raised his hand, stopping Astaire's movement. There was no anger or offense on his face; instead, a faint, almost mocking smile appeared.
"It's alright."
Lind's voice wasn't loud, but it reached the steward's ears clearly, carrying an undeniable sense of control. "Aster, take half the men and come inside with me. Rock Guard, stand guard and watch our 'luggage.' No one is allowed to approach. Violators..." He paused, his purple eyes sweeping over the tense guards on the city wall, "...are killed without exception."
The last four words, spoken lightly, pierced everyone's heart like icicles in the dead of winter. The steward's stern face twitched slightly.
“As for this lady,” Lind said, turning to the side and gesturing to Lyra Ryan, “the envoy of the Emerald Forest of the Elven Kingdom, Lady Lyra Ryan, is my honored guest. She will accompany me to meet the Earl.”
The steward's gaze lingered on Lila Ryan for a moment, a hint of surprise and caution flashing in his eyes as she recognized him as an elf, before he finally lowered his head.
“Yes, Master Lind. The elf messenger may accompany you. Please follow me.”
The heavy drawbridge slowly lowered, creaking as it went. Lind led the way, followed closely by Astaire and twenty-five Rock Guards. The clanging of metal armor echoed through the castle gates, carrying a chilling sense of oppression.
Lyra Ryan followed Lind with light steps, like an observer standing aside.
The interior of the castle was more solemn and more... antiquated than I remembered. The air was thick with the scent of paraffin wax, old parchment, and a somber atmosphere that seemed to have settled into power.
The servants they encountered along the way all lowered their heads and avoided eye contact with Lind's sharp gaze.
Those gazes that once fell upon us, whether openly or covertly, now held only deep awe and a hint of fear.
The doors to the council chamber were pushed open.
Light streamed in through the tall stained-glass windows, casting dappled shadows on the polished stone floor.
At the far end of the long council table sat Earl Truk—Arthur Truk.
He looked older than Linde remembered, his temples were streaked with gray, and his deep nasolabial folds were like knife cuts, but his eyes, which were set deep in their sockets, were still as sharp as a hawk's, carrying the majesty of someone who had long held a high position and a hint of weariness that was not easily detected.
He was dressed in a deep purple count's uniform, with the Truk family crest on his chest.
To the left of the Count sat Nad Truk. She wore a dark blue hunting outfit that allowed for easy movement, her long dark brown hair was neatly tied up, and her eyes were sharp and calm, like those of a meticulous abacus.
When she saw Linde enter, her gaze instantly focused on him, filled with scrutiny, assessment, and a hint of indescribable complexity.
On either side of the hall sat several core retainers and knights of the Earl's territory, their gazes also fixed on Lind, filled with curiosity, vigilance, and shock—shocked by the Rock Guard behind Lind, clad in strange armor and exuding an aura as heavy as a mountain, and by the ethereal elf beside him.
“Father.” Linde walked to the center of the council hall, placed his right hand on his chest, and performed an impeccable aristocratic bow, his posture composed and neither servile nor arrogant. He did not kneel, but merely bowed slightly.
“Lind.” Count Bruce’s voice was deep and steady, revealing no emotion. “You’re back.” His gaze swept over Lind as if it were a physical object, lingering for a moment on Astaire and the Rock Guard behind him, especially on their oddly shaped long-handled blades, before finally settling on Lyra Ryan.
Who is this?
“Lyra Ryan the Starspeaker,” Lind introduced, his voice carrying just the right amount of respect, “an emissary from the Council of Elders of the Everlasting Crown in the Emerald Forest, the ‘Dreamweaver’.”
"The Dream Weaver?"
A genuine look of surprise flashed in the Earl's eyes. An elven messenger, and a "Dreamweaver" of such special status, had actually returned to the Earl's territory with Lind? This signified something far more significant!
He immediately stood up and nodded slightly to Lyla Ryan:
"It is an honor to have the elf messenger come from afar. Please take a seat."
Lila Ryan gracefully returned an elven greeting, speaking in a clear, melodious voice:
"Thank you for your hospitality, Your Excellency. I am here at the invitation of Viscount Linde to witness a new legend."
Her words were meaningful, prompting various thoughts from everyone present.
The maidservant added a chair for Lyra Ryan, placing her near Lind.
Astaire stood solemnly behind Lind, sword at his side, like the most loyal guard. The twenty-five Rock Guards stood silently in two rows inside the council chamber, like a cold steel wall, further lowering the solemn atmosphere in the hall.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the atmosphere became tense again. The retainers exchanged glances, none of them speaking easily.
Finally, it was Nad who broke the silence. She looked at Lind and cut straight to the point, her voice clear and efficient:
“Brother, you’ve come at the right time. King Muradin Bronzebeard has given a formal response regarding the trip to Ironforge.”
She took out a heavy scroll bound with mithril wire and branded with the emblem of a blazing anvil.
“The Dwarf King has agreed to meet you in the Soulforging Hall, within a month. However,” Nad’s tone shifted, her gaze sharpening as she looked at Lind, “he has made a condition.”
"Oh?" Lind raised an eyebrow, signaling her to continue.
"The Dwarf King said that he had heard that Blackrock Territory possessed a peculiar 'Tears of the Stars' (referring to crystal remains), and that you also possess extraordinary skills."
Nad unfurled the scroll and read aloud a strongly worded passage written in both Dwarven and Common:
"'Lind of House Truk, if you wish to enter the most sacred Halls of Soulforging in Ironforge, prove it with your creations! Bring your proud skills and, before the anvil and flames, accept the scrutiny of the Mountain King! Empty honors cannot move a heart of stone!'"
After the reading was finished, the council chamber fell silent.
The dwarf king's response was full of the dwarfs' characteristic stubbornness, pride, and almost demanding reverence for skill.
This is less of an invitation and more of a test, or even a show of force.
The requirement for Linde to demonstrate his skills in the Soulforging Hall, the core sacred site of Ironforge, and to be personally examined by the Dwarf King, is an extremely high standard and carries immense pressure.
Earl Arthur frowned, his gaze towards Lind carrying a hint of barely perceptible worry.
The dwarves are notorious for their bad temper and pickiness. Failing in the Soul Forging Hall would not only bring shame to the Truk family, but could also completely jeopardize any possibility of in-depth cooperation with the Dwarven Kingdom.
The retainers also whispered among themselves, clearly not optimistic that Lind could gain recognition in the field that the dwarves were most proud of.
Nad put away the scroll and looked directly at Lind:
“Brother, the Dwarf King’s attitude is very clear. Your ‘token’ (referring to the crystal warhammer) has shocked them, but it does not seem to have completely dispelled their doubts.”
This presentation is crucial. How...are you going to handle it?
Her tone carried a hint of businesslike inquiry, as well as a subtle, almost imperceptible expectation.
All eyes were on Lind.
Linde suddenly smiled. The smile wasn't one of anger, but rather one of amusement at prey finally stepping into a trap, and... absolute confidence.
He slowly stood up, his purple eyes sweeping over the crowd before finally settling on the scroll in Nad's hand. His voice, though not loud, echoed clearly in the council hall, carrying an air of absolute certainty:
"Proof? Examination? Just what I want."
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the deep blue pulse of the distant mountains, and the corners of his mouth widened.
"Since the King of the Hills wishes to witness true grandeur..."
Linde's gaze drifted out the window, as if piercing through space to see the dwarf city hidden among the mountains.
"Then I'll let these dwarves who have been hammering and banging in the caves for ten thousand years experience it for themselves..."
His voice suddenly turned cold, like the clang of metal on metal:
"What is the creative power that transcends the stars!"
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