The world outside Oakhaven was a study in shades of brown and grey. The journey to the west was a relentless grind, a trek across sun-blasted salt flats that shimmered with mirages and rocky badlands that tore at their boots and their resolve. Borin's party of twelve survived where others would have perished, for two reasons. First, they were supplied by the bounty of Oakhaven. Their hardtack and dried meat, their full waterskins, were luxuries of almost unimaginable wealth in this desolate landscape.
The second reason was Ren.
The former raider was transformed. His knowledge of the wastes was no longer a tool for predation, but for preservation. He led them along forgotten trails that skirted the territories of hostile tribes. He knew which seemingly dry riverbeds held hidden seeps of brackish water that could be boiled for drinking, saving their precious Oakhaven water. He could read the subtle signs in the sand that foretold the passage of dangerous predators.
Borin watched him with a warrior's critical eye. He saw Ren's skill, his tirelessness, his unwavering focus on the mission's success. The distrust that had lingered between them slowly evaporated under the heat of the desert sun, replaced by a grudging, then a genuine, respect. Ren was no longer the prisoner; he was their scout, their guide, their key to navigating this hell.
On the eighth day of their journey, they saw it. A great, jagged mountain that rose from the plains like a broken tooth, its peak perpetually shrouded in a dark, smoky haze. Ironpeak.
As they drew closer, the nature of the settlement became clear. It was not a city; it was a wound in the earth. A massive, open-pit mine scarred the mountainside, surrounded by a chaotic sprawl of smoke-belching foundries, crude smelters, and grim, windowless barracks built from the dark, iron-rich rock of the mountain itself. The air was thick with the clang of hammers, the roar of bellows, and the acrid smell of coal smoke. There were no fields, no gardens, no sign of any life other than the grim, functional industry of the mine.
The people of Ironpeak were as grim as their surroundings. They were broad-shouldered, soot-stained men and women, their faces permanently etched with the scowl of hard labor. They carried heavy hammers and iron pry bars as if they were extensions of their own limbs. They watched Borin's party approach with open suspicion, their eyes lingering on the full waterskins and the well-made gear of the strangers.
Borin halted the expedition a respectful distance from the settlement's edge. He had been given a mission of reconnaissance and diplomacy, and he followed Castian's instructions to the letter. He was not a conqueror here. He was a merchant.
He ordered his men to make a small, neat camp. They did not try to hide their presence, but they made no hostile moves. He then took Ren and one other man, carrying a single, heavy sack, and walked openly towards the largest of the foundries, from which a man who could only be the leader was emerging.
He was a giant of a man, his bare arms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with white scars from burns and blades. He wore a heavy leather apron and carried a massive, two-handed smithing hammer over his shoulder like it was a walking stick. His name, they would learn, was Grak.
"You are a long way from home, strangers," Grak's voice boomed, a gravelly sound like rocks grinding together. "There is nothing for you here but stone and fire."
"That depends on what you value," Borin replied, his voice calm and even. He stopped ten paces from the smith-chief, a sign of non-aggression. "We are travelers from the city of Oakhaven."
Grak let out a harsh laugh. "Oakhaven? I know the tales. The king's dumping ground. The city of ghosts. You are either liars, or you are fools to have come from such a cursed place."
"The tales are old," Borin said patiently. "Oakhaven is reborn." He nodded to the man beside him, who opened the heavy sack. Borin reached in and pulled out two objects.
First, he held up a large, perfectly-formed loaf of their hardtack bread. In this land where food was a daily struggle, such a dense, transportable source of nourishment was a remarkable sight.
Second, he held up a sealed clay jug of their beer.
Grak's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixing on the loaf. He had never seen anything like it. His people lived on tough, stringy desert lizards and a thin, bitter gruel made from a fungus that grew deep in the mines.
"We have come not to fight," Borin continued, "but to talk. To trade. Our city has a surplus of food. An ocean of grain. We have beer that would make a king weep. But we lack iron. We lack the tools of the mountain." He placed the loaf of hardtack and the jug of beer on a nearby rock, a simple, powerful offering. "A gift. From the Lord of Oakhaven to the Chief of Ironpeak. A taste of what we have to offer."
Grak stared at the offering, then at the three men before him. They were not starving. Their clothes were not rags. Their weapons were well-maintained. They radiated a quiet confidence that was utterly at odds with the stories of Oakhaven. He looked past them, to their neat camp, and beyond, back towards the east where they had come from, as if trying to see this impossible, reborn city.
His men began to gather behind him, their faces a mixture of suspicion and a raw, naked hunger as they stared at the loaf of bread. The air was thick with tension. This was the pivotal moment. A single wrong move, a single misinterpretation, could lead to a bloodbath.
Grak, the smith-chief, took a heavy step forward. He reached out a massive, calloused hand, not for his hammer, but for the offering. He picked up the loaf of hardtack. He sniffed it. Then he broke off a piece and, with a defiant look at Borin, shoved it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his jaw working. His eyes, for the first time, widened in stunned disbelief.
The taste was not of ash or bitter fungus. It was the taste of grain, of the sun, of a wealth he had never known. It was the taste of a new power arriving in the land.