Inside the last dwarven stronghold.
Lines of silent armored figures stood atop the walls—Javier's puppet knights. Motionless but vigilant, their glowing eyes scanned the horizon, while mana-infused bows and crossbows rested in their mechanical hands, ready to fire at a moment's notice.
Below, the tension that once filled the halls was gradually replaced by the smell of food and the quiet clatter of utensils.
The dwarves—gaunt, tired, and half-starved—sat around makeshift tables, eating bread and stew like men pulled from the brink of death. No chains. No cages—just freedom… and confusion.
Javier stood at the edge of the high balcony inside the great hall, arms crossed, watching the recovering dwarves with calm that was impossible to read.
A dwarf elder stepped forward, hesitant but bold enough to speak.
"Lord Javier…"
He turned his head slightly. "Hmm?"
