The Mountains of Nalrog rose like the teeth of a dead god. Black, jagged, forever wrapped in mist, they stretched for hundreds of leagues. The dwarves had mined these mountains for millennia. But certain depths remained forbidden, guarded by forces older than the dwarves themselves.

Thordrim guided them through the maze of tunnels. The luminescent crystals embedded in the rock cast a ghostly bluish light. At last, they arrived before a massive door carved from a single block of black stone, engraved with elemental runes pulsing red, blue, green and gold.

The door opened with a roll of thunder. Beyond it, a titanic cavern: ice stalactites, a river of lava, tornadoes of wind. And at its center stood the ancestral elemental — ten meters of stone, lava, wind and frozen water, its eyes burning with a blinding white fire.

— WHO DARES AWAKEN THE GUARDIAN?

Thordrim stepped forward alone.

— I, Thordrim, elementalist of the Mountain Guild. I have come to claim the pommel of Nerecleiss.

— THEN PROVE YOUR WORTH. MASTER THE FOUR ELEMENTS. OR DIE.

Thordrim drove his hammer into the ground and cried out. Earth. Fire. Air. Water. Each element obeyed his hammer, each wave of attack repelled, transformed, turned back. The ice became a thousand swords that pierced the elemental.

The creature collapsed. Then rose again — appeased.

— YOU HAVE PROVEN YOUR WORTH. THE POMMEL IS YOURS.

It held out a hand of stone. In its palm rested a crystal pommel glowing with golden light. Thordrim took it with reverence. The elemental dissolved into dust.

But as they were about to leave, Grundar stopped before an inscription. Silas quickly deciphered it.

— “Here lies the memory of a prince. Rastacan, son of the king, came seeking power. But power consumed him.”

A heavy silence fell. The truth about Rastacan remained blurred, wrapped in legends and lies. But one thing was certain: they were getting closer to him. And soon, they would have to choose.