A heavy book bound in iron-studded leather, its pages thick as armor plating. Dwarven runes are stamped into the cover, and the spine creaks when opened.
Hear now the saga of Brundrik Stonebluff, who rose from the tunnels to the throne, who carries the weight of a mountain on his shoulders, and who asks nothing of his people that he would not give twice over himself.
He was born to the Stonebluff clan—miners, not nobles. His hands learned the pick before the sword, and his first decades were spent in the deep tunnels where mithril gleams and dangers lurk in every shadow. He was unremarkable in birth, unremarkable in fortune, and entirely remarkable in courage.
Brundrik joined the Iron Tunnels Guard at forty—young for a dwarf taking up arms. His superiors noted his stubborn refusal to retreat, his habit of placing himself between his comrades and danger, and his complete disregard for his own safety when others were at risk. Promotions followed, not because he sought them, but because the dwarves who served beside him refused to follow anyone else.
For a century and a half he served. He fought goblin warbands in the upper tunnels. He held the line against cave-ins that would have buried lesser dwarves. He led expeditions into the deep places where older, darker things stirred. His body became a map of scars, each one earned protecting someone else.
Then came the Year of Ash and Sorrow.
A plague swept through the Ember Halls, killing rich and poor alike. The royal family—King Durgan IV and his heirs—fell within a single month. Then the deep tunnels collapsed in a series of earthquakes that some whispered were no natural occurrence. The kingdom was leaderless, grieving, and under assault from threats above and below.
The Council of Elders met in emergency session. They needed a king. Not a politician. Not a noble who had spent his life in comfortable halls. They needed someone who understood war, who knew the tunnels, who could hold the realm together through sheer force of will.
They chose Brundrik Stonebluff.
He accepted reluctantly. “I am a soldier,” he told them. “I know how to fight. I do not know how to rule.” The Council’s response has become legendary: “Then fight for us, and we will help you rule.”
That was fifty years ago. King Brundrik still sits upon the Throne of Ash and Iron, still wears his battered circlet of black iron and mithril, still carries himself like a warrior first and a monarch second. He speaks plainly, expects competence, and values deeds over titles. He drinks with his soldiers in the Cinderbrew Hall and knows the name of every dwarf who has died under his command.
The kingdom still faces challenges. Goblin warbands grow bold in the mountains. The deep tunnels collapse with unsettling frequency. And some whisper of darker things stirring in the depths—old evils that may be waking. But the dwarves of Khur Dural face these threats with courage, because their king stands at the front of every battle, his hammer blazing with runic fire, his voice roaring defiance at whatever darkness dares approach.
He is not the king they expected. He is the king they needed.
Stone endures. Fire purifies. Stonebluff prevails.
—Recorded by the Saga-Keepers of the Ember Halls