Denver, Colorado

  Ghalrak Dramz and his band of stout Dwarfs had been on the road with their human hosts for several days, and all were unanimous in their estimation that the province—no, he corrected himself, the state—of Colorado was the clear favorite of all they’d seen thus far.

  He hadn’t cared much for the geography of Arizona or New Mexico. True, they had mountains of their own, but they weren’t right. They were rust-red, often covered with scrubby brush or nothing at all—not at all similar to the jagged, pine-covered mountains beneath which the Under-Realm in all its glory lay. But Colorado…

  It might as well have been designed just for his people: mountainous, rugged, with peaks that knifed into the sky in all their snow-capped majesty. The air was crisp, clean, and smelled of pine. It actually made him feel a little homesick. "By my father's forge, this is proper country," he declared. The other Dwarfs murmured in agreement. Many of them pressed their faces against the windows as they took in the vast panorama.

  "Reminds ye of home, don't it?" Zarrl said beside him. The iron rings braided into the older dwarf's beard clinked softly as their vehicle—a "charter bus," one of their State Department liaisons had called it—navigated another switchback up the mountain pass.

  "Aye," Ghalrak agreed. His thick fingers pressed against the window glass, unaware of how the humans accompanying them—a mix of State Department officials and military personnel—were watching with barely concealed amusement. "Though I'd wager there's veins of copper and silver these humans haven't even tapped yet." The head of their security detail, a Lieutenant Rodriguez, had told him that there were mines in these mountains—he still thought the name “Rockies” was rather unimaginative—but from what she’d described, they were nothing like what the Under-Realm contained. The Americans took considerable pride in their own industrial capacity, but when it came to actually extracting the resources to fuel it, they hadn’t even scratched the surface as far as Ghalrak was concerned.

  He hadn’t wanted a security detail either, and still didn’t, but the Americans had insisted, and in the interest of diplomacy, the Dwarfs had grudgingly agreed.

  Zarrl nudged Ghalrak's shoulder and pointed out the window. "Look there. They've got a settlement built right into the mountain."

  Ghalrak followed his companion's gaze to a cluster of buildings that clung to the mountainside like barnacles on a ship's hull. The structures seemed pitifully small compared to the vast dwarf halls of the Under-Realm, but he had to admit there was a certain resourcefulness to them, and he gave the Americans points for having the common sense to build it into the mountainside in the first place.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez, who had developed a genuine affection for her dwarf charges, noticed their interest and leaned across the aisle, bracing herself against the lurch of the bus as its engine strained up another incline. “That’s an old mining town,” she said, gesturing to the cluster of gabled roofs and weathered brickwork clinging to the mountainside. “It dates back to the silver boom in the late 1800s. Most of these mountain towns were built during the gold and silver rushes.” She caught the puzzled look on Zarrl’s face and quickly added, “That’s about two hundred years ago, on our calendar. Back before electricity, airplanes, or anything digital.”

  Zarrl grunted, unimpressed, but leaned forward anyway, his beard-rings clinking as he pressed his nose to the window. Ghalrak, ever the skeptic, frowned. “Still got some left, I’ll wager,” he said, his voice rumbling low. “Aye, there be a dragon’s hoard yet inside those mountains, I’d stake my beard on it. But I cannae help but ask why. My people would’ve hollowed those peaks out like an anthill centuries ago.”

  “Aye. Why didn’t they just keep digging?” added Zarrl.

  Rodriguez shrugged, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she tried to figure out how to explain modern environmental policy to beings whose entire civilization was built on the principle of extracting resources from the earth. "Different priorities, I suppose. We mine where it’s most profitable, and when the cost exceeds the payoff, we move on. Besides, we ended up putting a lot of the land under protection. National parks, wilderness preserves—so people could hike, camp, and see the mountains as they are.”

  Ghalrak’s jaw dropped. The idea that anyone in their right mind, even humans, would deliberately leave wealth untapped beneath the ground for the sake of preserving the view above it struck him as the most profoundly stupid thing he’d ever heard. “What? Ye mean to tell me ye leave the wealth of the mountains untouched for the sake of... lookin' at them?”

  Rodriguez, to her credit, did not flinch. “That’s right,” she said, her tone measured but not apologetic. “We set aside a lot of land. More all the time, now that people understand how quickly it disappears once you treat everything as raw material for industry. We don’t just look at it, though. Sometimes we ski down it.”

  The rest of the dwarfs were equally stunned, and for a moment there was a kind of aghast silence, as if Rodriguez had uttered some horrific blasphemy. A few of them groaned and buried their faces in the palms of their hands. “It’s not just about the view,” she said, holding her ground. “It’s about balance. We learned—sometimes the hard way—that ripping everything valuable out of the earth without a care has consequences. Air pollution, ecosystem damage, communities left behind after the mines close and the money runs out, not to mention water contamination. There’s a town not far from here where the water still runs orange because of what mining did to it a century ago.”

  The way Ghalrak stared at her, she might as well have just confessed to cannibalism. “Why would ye allow such waste?” he demanded.

  Rodriguez sighed. “We didn’t know better, at first. But we’re a little wiser now. We know now the world’s only so big—you can’t just move on forever. So, there are rules about that sort of thing.”

  At this, Ghalrak’s skepticism deepened, but his expression softened slightly. He’d seen, in the tunnels of the Under-Realm, places where greed had outpaced wisdom; he’d once walked through a cavern where the roof had collapsed decades before, entombing hundreds, because a mine captain had been too eager to meet a quota. Still, the human way seemed wasteful to him.

  “That’s because ye dinnae know how to do it properly,” he finally declared, thumping his fist against his chest. “Dwarf-mines are never so wasteful or inefficient. Give my kin a crack at those peaks, and we’ll hollow ‘em out for ye till not one speck of ore remains—without so much as a tremor to the surface.” He grinned, several of his gold teeth flashing. “Mutually beneficial, of course. Split everything that comes out in half betwixt us.”

  The other dwarfs nodded, some of them rubbing their hands together at the thought of unleashing their skills on such promising, untouched mountains. Already, in their imaginations, they were mapping out the veins, planning the angles and depths of shafts, calculating the size of work crews and the logistics of transporting ore. It was second nature to them, like breathing.

  Rodriguez weighed her words before speaking, careful not to sound patronizing. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps there’s an opportunity here,” she said. “A partnership. Your mining expertise, our environmental science. Maybe we can arrange some discussions with the Department of the Interior and see if we can find a middle ground.”

  She could already imagine the tidal wave of red tape: environmental impact reports stacked to the ceiling, congressional hearings with opportunistic senators denouncing “foreign extraction of American wealth,” and the inevitable lawsuits from environmental NGOs. The dwarfs would hate it, but perhaps, just maybe, they could be mollified by the possibility of access to previously forbidden mountains. Still, she didn’t envy whoever would have to explain the concept of an Environmental Impact Statement to Ghalrak Dramz.

  "We might be able to arrange some demonstrations," offered a man from the State Department delegation, smoothing his sharp lapel with the air of someone used to tense negotiations. "Perhaps a joint mining venture in a designated area as a demonstration. A proof of concept, to see how your people do it."

  Ghalrak's craggy face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Aye! That could be done easily enough! We’ll make it happen!”

  Zarrl produced A mechanical pencil from the depths of his jacket. Rodriguez had given it to him yesterday. He grabbed a blank napkin from the snack cart and set to work drawing a rough outline of a map. “Here, here, and here,” he declared, stabbing the paper with a callused finger. “These be the likely strike points for preliminary shafts. If the overlays your people gave us are accurate, there’s a granite shelf just beneath the ridgeline.”

  One of the younger dwarfs produced a battered field journal—the cover inscribed with both runic scrawl and the logo of a Denver microbrewery—and flipped to a page already cross-hatched with elevation profiles. “We could run a spiral tunnel down the north face,” he offered, his tone reverent, as if discussing the precise carving of a cathedral. “Minimal surface scarring, efficient ventilation, and perfect for demonstration purposes.”

  The Americans leaned in a little, compelled despite themselves by the dwarfs’ earnestness and technical fluency. These are not, as some have suggested, hobbits with hard hats, Rodriguez thought to herself.

  Even the diplomat, who had entered the bus with the air of someone resigned to restating official policy and fending off outlandish requests, found himself listening intently as the dwarfs rattled off drilling ratios and ore yield projections. “Impressive,” he conceded. “But there would need to be oversight, and a commitment to remediation. If we’re to allow foreign—pardon, extra-planar—entities to conduct extraction on U.S. soil, we’ll need to proceed with the utmost transparency.”

  Ghalrak, seizing on the momentum, pressed forward. “Aye," he said. "We could start small. Just a wee operation to show ye how it's done. Three hundred workers, maybe four hundred at most."

  “Three hundred?” Rodriguez said, eyebrows raised. “That’s a sizable crew, Captain.”

  Ghalrak shrugged, as if challenged to explain why the oceans were wet or the sky blue. “Not for us, missy. Besides, we’d bring our own food, tools, and even our own brew. Wouldn’t put a strain on your people. Dwarfs are low-maintenance when we’re working.” He smiled, and this time the gold caps on his teeth caught the late-afternoon light and glimmered with a promise of enterprise.

  Rodriguez turned to the diplomat. “We’ll need to clear this with headquarters, and probably the Department of the Interior, but there’s precedent.” She hesitated, then added, “It could actually be good PR, if managed right.”

  The diplomat smiled thinly and inclined his head. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “we can add it to the agenda of our discussions.”

  Ghalrak sensed the reservation in her tone and, realizing he and his companions were letting their enthusiasm run a bit rampant, caught himself and coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Aye. That’ll do, for a start,” he said, and the hush that followed was filled only with the low grumble of the engine and the hypnotic roll of tires on tarmac.

  The Dwarf turned back to the window as the bus quieted once more and reflected on all he’d seen in his journey so far. The Americans had warned him, at the outset of this journey, that their land was vast in size. But hearing it was one thing. Seeing it was another.

  Ghalrak had wanted to see the realm of the Americans firsthand, and that’s exactly what he was getting. No fancy or stiffly rehearsed and choreographed diplomatic ceremonies. He was getting a look at what it was like on the ground, seeing how it all worked.

  The experiences were as varied as one might expect in a long road trip. The first night out on the road, his hosts took Ghalrak and his Dwarfs to a small roadside eatery called “Waffle House.” Ghalrak had no idea what the krak a waffle was at the time, but it turned out to be a fluffy, golden square of batter with small indentations that held butter and sweet maple syrup. The Dwarfs had been skeptical at first—especially given their preference for hearty meats and strong ales—but one bite was all it took for them to change their minds. They devoured them with gusto, particularly Zarrl, who’d consumed so many he could barely walk afterward.

  In Arizona, they'd been taken to something called the Grand Canyon, which had genuinely impressed even the most stoic members of their party. Dwarfs knew better than most the grandeur that could be carved by water and time, but the sheer scale of the massive gorge had left them momentarily speechless.

  He was also deeply and consistently impressed with what he’d seen so far of the Americans’ transportation network. Roads that would have taken any other human realm decades to build stretched out beyond the horizon. The humans claimed, with deserved pride, that this network of roads linked every corner of their land with everything else, such that one could take a charter bus like the one Ghalrak rode in now from the northernmost border to the southern tip, or from the eastern seaboard to the western, and back again without ever leaving the roadway. A most efficient system, Ghalrak thought.

  In New Mexico, they stopped at a town called Santa Fe. The city was unlike any they'd ever seen—utterly different from what they’d encountered in San Diego and elsewhere. Rather than steel and glass, most of Santa Fe consisted of structures made of clay and wood in warm ochre tones. The architecture had a distinctive style that reminded Ghalrak a little of the desert fortresses in the southern reaches of the Under-Realm, though these were clearly built by different hands.

  When questioned, Rodriguez explained that the style was called “adobe” and was extraordinarily effective at keeping extreme cold and heat at bay. Ghalrak didn’t care much for it, from an aesthetic point of view, but he had to hand it to the Americans for making the most of what was available.

  What had truly captured their attention in Santa Fe, however, was the silverwork. The delicate filigree of the Native American jewelry they encountered at the large market in the city center had left the entire Dwarf contingent in a state of professional admiration. Zarrl had spent nearly three hours conversing with an elderly Navajo silversmith, and Ghalrak practically had to use a crowbar to finally pull him away. The vast quantity of stones on display—red jasper, turquoise, coral, carnelian, azure, and black onyx—was also quite respectable.

  But what had impressed them most was the craftsmanship and how different it was. The Navajo and Pueblo silversmiths favored organic curves that reminded him of water, with intricate patterns and delicate settings, over the more geometric and functional aesthetic of Dwarf craftsmanship. Ghalrak had happily purchased a few pieces as examples to bring back home.

  Then there was Las Vegas. Ghalrak had inferred, based on a few comments made by the Americans, that this city had a particularly famous—or notorious—reputation. When they got there, he understood why.

  It was an assault on the senses, unlike anything the Dwarfs had ever experienced. A riot of lights and sounds, the city rose from the desert like some sort of crazed fever dream—towers of glass and steel crowned with neon, streets packed with humans in various states of revelry, and the constant jangling cacophony of slot machines that poured forth from every building they entered. The Bellagio's dancing fountains had particularly captivated the Dwarfs—the marriage of engineering and artistry was evident in the precisely choreographed water jets moving in time to music.

  Also fascinating were the gambling halls. Games of chance existed in the Under-Realm. Many a coin and gemstone had changed hands over them. But they were typically simple affairs played around hearths or in feasting halls with carved bone dice or marked stones. But the elaborate machines in Las Vegas, the complex card games overseen by humans in crisp uniforms, and the sheer scale of wealth changing hands were something else entirely.

  The Americans had been somewhat concerned about taking their foreign guests to such a place to a place known for gambling, drinking, and general debauchery, but to their surprise, the Dwarfs had taken to it with surprising enthusiasm, particularly the all-you-can-eat buffets, which Ghalrak considered the best idea the Americans ever came up with. Feasting was a pastime near and dear to every Dwarf’s heart, and the buffets had provided ample opportunity for the dwarf delegation to engage in spirited eating and drinking competitions that left the restaurant staff slack-jawed. No one was surprised when Zarrl won most of those too, though in Ghalrak’s opinion, American drink was as weak as water. When pressed to try a drink called absinthe—which the Americans assured him was renowned for its potency—Ghalrak had drained the bottle in one go, smacked his lips, thought for a second, and shook his head in disappointment.

  The gambling, however, proved a more complicated affair. After filling their bellies, Ghalrak had watched in growing dismay as his companions lost sizable chunks of their coin at the blackjack tables. The Americans had warned them about the odds, but the Dwarfs had been confident in their mathematical abilities—a confidence that proved misplaced when faced with the house edge and professional dealers. It was only when Rodriguez suggested they try poker instead that their fortunes turned. As it happened, the stoic, stony expressions that were second nature to Dwarfs made them naturals at the game. What humans called a "poker face" was the default setting for Dwarfs. By the end of the evening, Zarrl had won back all they'd lost and then some.

  The more he ruminated on it all, the more Ghalrak found himself reconsidering his initial assessment of the Americans. When he'd first encountered them—when their strange metal vessel had appeared out of nowhere to save the Stonebreaker from the leviathan—he'd been wary. Suspicious, even. Dwarfs weren't known for readily embracing outsiders, quite the opposite, and these humans were stranger than most with their odd speech and bewildering technology. They were at once gregarious and guarded, sentimental and ruthless, fond of both bluster and humility. To a Dwarf, this was very difficult to parse.

  But after weeks in their company, first at sea and now on land, Ghalrak had found quite a lot to like and even respect about these bizarre people. In some ways, they were as pragmatic as any Dwarf could hope to be. Their roads, their military, and their industry all spoke to a people who valued efficiency and strength. They had tamed a harsh continent and turned it into something remarkable in just a few centuries, barely a blink of an eye by Dwarf standards. And while their ways were sometimes baffling (the notion of leaving precious metals in the ground still made his beard curl), the end result was undeniably impressive.

  They were also honest and, for the most part, not given to double-speak, which Ghalrak valued above almost all else. They distrusted promises and platitudes because they had been burned by both too many times. The whole trip so far, there were no staged pageants or carefully cultivated facades for the benefit of foreign dignitaries, no attempts to disguise the country’s blemishes or distract with empty spectacle. Instead, the Americans took a perverse pride in showing everything—their triumphs and failings, splendors and scars—without apology or artifice, almost as if the admission of fault was itself a badge of honor. There was honesty in that, a straightforwardness that Ghalrak could appreciate.

  But the honesty was not limited to their words. Ghalrak had seen it in the way the Americans acknowledged their own history—good, bad, and ugly. Every American settlement, no matter how large or small, contained museums and monuments. Some celebrated great achievements, others commemorated tragedies or injustices. And beneath it all, there was an underlying conviction—hard as granite—that for all their mistakes, their land was worth defending.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Their pride was matched only by their willingness to admit when they’d made a mess of things. Ghalrak could feel it in the way the locals treated the flag, the way they spoke of their battles and heroes, the way they never quite let cynicism eclipse hope. It was not the smug superiority he’d expected, but something closer to the stubborn optimism of miners who tunneled through miles of rock in search of the faintest glimmer of gold. It was, in its own way, a kind of faith.

  There were other moments, too, that had shifted Ghalrak’s view. He would never forget the small memorial they passed on the road: a plain stone marker, surrounded by flags and offerings, for fallen soldiers of wars long past. The Americans had stopped the bus and stood in silence for a full minute, heads bowed, before moving on. It struck Ghalrak that these people, for all their bluster, still remembered their dead—and in that moment, he saw something of the Dwarfs’ own reverence for the honored ancestors.

  He also saw in them more than a hint of his own people’s gift for innovation. Americans, he realized, were as ready to tinker with a problem as any Dwarf, though the means by which they did so were wildly different. Where a Dwarf would reach for the measuring calipers, the Americans reached for duct tape; where a Dwarf would consult centuries of technical lore to carefully and efficiently solve a problem, the Americans just threw ideas at the wall at a blistering pace to see what stuck. Where a Dwarf might spend months, even years, to solve a problem with a faulty machine, the American approach was usually “hit it with a hammer and see what happens."

  And to his surprise, this sort of controlled chaos actually worked more often than not. Ghalrak was forced to concede that, for all the Dwarfs’ reverence for mastery, there was something to be said for the reckless, iterative genius of these people, their willingness to try and err and try again until the world bent to their designs.

  Yet despite the similarities, there were things about the Americans that would forever remain alien to Dwarf culture. When they stopped for a meal at another roadside diner, Ghalrak witnessed a crowd of humans gathered around a battered television set mounted in the corner above the counter. The screen was filled with tiny men in garishly colored uniforms and some sort of armor, running back and forth across a field that, as far as Ghalrak could tell, was barely large enough to merit such a description.

  The patrons cheered and jeered and occasionally hurled pastries at the screen with such passion that the Dwarfs initially assumed it must be some kind of religious ritual. Rodriguez, the ever-patient liaison, explained that it was only a game called “football,” but that only left the Dwarfs even more confused because the game clearly wasn’t played with one’s feet.

  In fact, as far as Ghalrak could tell, all the humans involved in the sport seemed to spend more time standing around than actually fighting. And it was fighting, at least to Ghalrak. Rodriguez kept assuring him they were only playing, but you didn’t body-tackle someone like that unless you were bound and determined to kick their teeth in. The whole affair was monitored by officials clad in stripes like predatory wasps, who blew their horns at the slightest infraction and sent the participants marching back and forth in endless, infuriating retreat.

  But what fascinated Ghalrak most was not the game itself but the Americans’ relationship to it. The Americans invested an astonishing amount of time, energy, hope, and rage into teams whose only claim of kinship to them was a name, a set of colors, and a coat of arms. And, most bafflingly, they did so with full awareness that the outcome changed nothing of real consequence.

  Still, their sheer joy and enthusiasm for it had to count for something. If there was one thing he’d learned about these people so far, it was that they never did anything, no matter how small, by half-measures. A common idiom among the Americans was “go big or go home,” which, as Ghalrak understood it, meant the only acceptable approach to any endeavor was maximum effort, regardless of whether the thing itself was prudent, logical, or even a good idea in the first place. It explained a lot. So did another phrase beloved by these strange humans: “Because I can.”

  Still, nothing could have prepared Ghalrak for the American obsession with what they called “celebrities.” In the Under-Realm, fame was reserved for the truly exceptional. The great builders, the master forgers, the kings who died with weapons in their hands, all were worthy of a monument. In America, fame attached itself to the most curious of their breed—not artisans or warriors, but singers, jesters, and, most perplexingly, those who seemed to do little but cultivate their own notoriety.

  It was in Los Angeles that the full madness of this cult struck home. There were entire districts devoted to the memory of such people: sidewalks imprinted with their names, museums stocked with their cast-off clothing and drinking vessels. When Ghalrak inquired about the deeds that had earned these individuals such remembrance, he was presented not with tales of valor or invention, but with grainy footage of humans pretending to be other humans to tell a story. These, apparently, were called “movies,” and the industry that existed to make them raked in eye-watering amounts of gold.

  But as with their sports, there was something oddly endearing in the Americans’ approach. They made no pretense of subtlety. The pageantry was so naked, so guilelessly over-the-top, that it was difficult to resent. It was as if the whole nation had agreed on a running joke, and the punchline was simply: “So what?” If the world was insane, why not meet it on its own terms and be the loudest, brightest, shiniest person in the room?

  That, he reflected, was the crux of the matter. Ask a Dwarf to do something, and he might ask, “Why?” But ask an American to do something, and the response was usually, “Why the hell not?”

  He found himself almost envying it, this allowance to fail. The leeway to blunder grandly, fall on your face, make a damn fool of yourself, and then simply start anew. Among the Dwarfs, failure was a mark that could follow you to your grave; among Americans, it was considered character-building, and sometimes even celebrated with parades and commemorative coins.

  Ghalrak turned to Rodriguez. “I be inclined to see your phone again,” he said. When the trip first began, she volunteered to show him and the other Dwarfs how to use it. But being Dwarfs and thus quarrelsome, the bickering among Ghalrak’s fellows over who got to have a turn next grew so bad that by the end of the first day, Ghalrak had to knock a few heads together and draw up a schedule to settle the matter.

  Rodriguez grinned and handed her smartphone over to Ghalrak, who took it carefully between his thick fingers. In the Under-Realm, they had communication systems. But nothing like this slim rectangle of glass and metal that could seemingly do everything.

  What fascinated Ghalrak most wasn't merely the thrilling games or even the remarkable communication capabilities—though the ability to converse face-to-face with someone across vast distances felt profoundly transformative in its own right—but rather the astonishing wealth of information that lay at his fingertips. The very idea of having instant access to virtually all human knowledge through a small, sleek rectangle of glass and metal struck him as nothing short of miraculous. The humans insisted it was technology, not magic, but to him, the impact felt fundamentally the same. Thankfully, his skill at reading English had flourished to a level sufficient for navigation through this digital realm. Some of the Americans from the State Department—the segment of their government dedicated to engaging with foreigners—were generously tutoring him and a few others in the evenings.

  He tapped the screen with his thick finger, navigating to the "search" function that Rodriguez had shown him. With deliberate concentration, he typed "Colorado mines" and waited as images filled the screen. His eyes widened at the pictures of human mining operations—pitifully small by dwarf standards, but interesting, nonetheless.

  "Still trying to figure out how to get your hands on our mountains?" Rodriguez asked with a knowing smile.

  "Just educatin' myself," Ghalrak replied without looking up. "Ye cannae make proper deals without proper knowledge."

  The lieutenant nodded, impressed despite herself. The Dwarfs might look like something from a fantasy novel with their braided beards and armor, but they were shrewd negotiators and quick studies. The State Department officials had learned that lesson several times over during the past weeks.

  "We'll be reaching Denver in about thirty minutes," she announced, checking her watch. "We have accommodations arranged at the Brown Palace Hotel. It's historic—one of the oldest and most prestigious in the city. I think you'll appreciate the architecture. A lot of stonework."

  Ghalrak grunted in acknowledgment, yet inwardly, he found the American concept of "historic" quite amusing. To a dwarf like him, whose lifespan routinely stretched beyond three centuries and whose civilization had thrived for millennia, a building that was less than 200 years old felt almost like a child's plaything, fresh and untested. Nevertheless, he had learned the art of diplomacy over the years. After all, humans could hardly be blamed for their fleeting lives.

  "Sounds grand enough," he said, his voice rumbling as he handed the phone back to Rodriguez, his thick fingers brushing against the smooth surface. "Though I still dinnae understand why ye insist on putting us up in such lavish accommodations. A simple tavern with hearty ale and a roaring fire would suffice."

  Across the aisle, a State Department official leaned in, his presence commanding despite the cramped airplane seats. Harrington, that was his name—a tall figure with a neatly trimmed beard that framed his jaw and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose—leaned closer, his gaze earnest. "Captain Dramz," he said, his tone measured, "you're not just any visitors. You are the official diplomatic representatives of the Under-Realm. Protocol dictates we provide accommodations that reflect your esteemed status." He offered a warm smile, the kind that suggested he was accustomed to navigating the labyrinth of bureaucracy. "The President would have our hides if we put you up in a Holiday Inn. And frankly, the security arrangements are much easier to manage in certain establishments."

  "What he means," Rodriguez interjected, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "is that the Brown Palace is well-versed in handling VIPs and won’t bat an eye when a delegation of dwarfs struts through their lobby."

  Ghalrak let out a hearty chuckle, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. He had grown accustomed to the intrigued stares and hushed whispers that trailed their group like a persistent shadow wherever they went. At first, the attention had made him bristle, feeling like a peculiar curiosity on display, but gradually, he came to understand that to these humans, he and his kin were indeed just that—an enigma wrapped in mystery. He often reminded himself that these folk had never laid eyes on Dwarfs before, and their wide-eyed fascination was simply a reflection of their ignorance. “Fair enough,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “But I warn ye now, if yer fancy hotel’s beds are as soft as the ones in that Las Vegas place, my back will be complainin’ for days.”

  "Duly noted. Besides," Harrington continued, "the Brown Palace has the best whiskey selection in Colorado. We figured that might be of interest."

  "Now ye're speaking my language," Ghalrak exclaimed, his eyes glinting with renewed enthusiasm. A wide grin spread across his rugged face, brightening his mood considerably. While American whiskey couldn't hold a candle to the rich, robust flavors of proper dwarf spirits, he had developed a surprising fondness for its smooth taste, if nothing else. They know how to brew a good barrel, aye, but they’ve yet to master giving it a proper kick.

  The phone’s screen flashed with a photograph—Rodriguez’s teenage son, face obscured by a football helmet, but unmistakably grinning with pubescent bravado. The accompanying message, visible for an instant before Rodriguez’s hand darted in to reclaim her property, read: Suspended from practice, stole mascot’s head. Ghalrak’s eyes crinkled with mirth.

  “Yer bairns again?” he rumbled, settling back in his seat. Rodriguez, who’d spoken often and fondly of her two children, shrugged in put-upon exasperation as she read the text. “My youngest,” she admitted, “he’s a good kid, but he’s got a real talent for trouble. Swears he’ll join the Navy, be a man, all that, but I’ll be damned if he can go one week without getting on someone’s shit-list.”

  Ghalrak stroked his beard, which bristled with flecks of copper and soot, a badge of his trade. “In the Under-Realm, we’d put a lad like that to work. If he’s got the stones to misbehave, he’s got the stones to swing a hammer. Or, failing that, push a mine cart a few leagues.” He nodded, more to himself than to Rodriguez. “It’s the only good way to keep a mischief-maker out of real trouble: tire him out, show him the cost of every mistake, and praise him only after the third try. Ye could always send ‘im tae us for a season or two,” Ghalrak continued, deadpan. “We’d set ‘im straight right enough, aye. No room for laziness in the depths of the mines, nor in the fiery forges. He’d shape up and learn a trade in the bargain, and perhaps even find a bit of purpose along the way.”

  Rodriguez grinned, then paused, her expression shifting from amusement to a kind of wary intrigue. “You’re making a joke, right?” she asked, though the question already hinted at an answer. “Because I can’t tell if you’re actually volunteering to take my son off my hands.”

  “Aye. Why not?” Ghalrak shrugged, the motion rippling across his broad shoulders. He turned to the window as the shuttle careened along the interstate. “Lad’s got too much idle time, if you ask me. Nothing tempers a wild heart, nor steels a soul, quite like the rhythm of a pickaxe echoing through the deep halls of the mines, or the bone-deep ring of hammer on anvil in the forges. He needs to work with his hands, ye ken. We’d have him swinging a sledge from sunrise to sundown and hauling ore until he forgot his own name, and by dusk he’d be too tired to plot even the smallest prank.”

  Rodriguez stared at him for a moment, caught between laughter and genuine consideration. "You know what? If he gets in trouble at school one more time, I might actually take you up on that."

  As they reached the Denver city limits, Ghalrak took a keen interest in how the city differed from those he'd seen so far. His initial impression was that Denver appeared to be engaged in a fierce struggle with its own identity, caught in a tug-of-war between the sleek, gleaming skyscrapers of glass that soared majestically into the sky and the gritty, timeworn brick buildings that clung tenaciously to the ground below. The air was filled with the distant wail of sirens, echoing like a mournful cry, while the impatient honks of horns from vehicles ensnared in a chaotic gridlock erupted sporadically, creating a cacophony that reverberated through the streets. Ghalrak had observed that this symphony of urban noise was a recurring theme in every American city, and by now, he had learned to tune it out, allowing the vibrant pulse of the city to wash over him.

  The Brown Palace revealed itself as a venerable edifice, its sturdy stonework and beautifully polished wood exuding an air of timeless elegance. Inside, the atmosphere was imbued with the faint, rich aroma of aged leather mingled with the warm, inviting scent of whiskey—a fragrance that Ghalrak found immediately appealing, evoking a sense of comfort and nostalgia. As their delegation glided through the expansive lobby, Harrington gestured expansively toward the soaring vaulted ceilings, which seemed to stretch upward to the heavens. "Crafted with Colorado red granite and Arizona sandstone," he announced with pride, his voice echoing slightly in the grand space.

  Ghalrak merely grunted, his rough, calloused thumb gliding over the cool, textured surface of a stone column. "Not bad," he murmured thoughtfully, his voice a low rumble. Though it was still far from reaching the esteemed standards of Dwarf craftsmanship, it certainly held its own merits. Leaning in slightly, he squinted to examine the stone more closely. Granite was among the most prevalent materials his kin employed in their ancient craft; its remarkable density and durability rendered it ideal for propping up the vast tunnels that snaked deep beneath the earth, as well as for shaping it into resilient dwellings and formidable structures. As he peered intently at the stone, he took a moment to admire its striking reddish hue. The granite typically extracted from the Under-Realm was predominantly gray, black, or white—a palette as predictable as the stone itself. This, however, was different. Aye, it possessed its own unique charm, Ghalrak conceded. He sensed that once trade routes were established, there would undoubtedly be a great demand for this stone within the depths of the Under-Realm.

  Ghalrak’s attention lingered on the lobby’s ornate columns, but it was the sandstone that commanded his fascination. Pale gold, veined with streaks of ochre and tawny red, the stone lacked the brute resilience of granite—it was soft, almost yielding, a stone whose crumbling dust would swiftly claim the careless—but in the trained hands of a Dwarf carver, it possessed a malleable finery that invited the chisel like butter invited a hot blade. This was a material meant for art, not for war; for memorial and beauty, not for defense. Had this hotel stood in the Under-Realm, its columns would bear the marks of a thousand years’ patient labor. Every span would erupt with scenes of old legends, wars, great battles, and sagas. No Dwarf would ever polish such a stone smooth and then do nothing with it.

  The sharp, explosive sound of a window shattering abruptly jerked him from his tranquil reverie, the sharp crack echoing like thunder in the stillness. In an instant, the men of the security detail sprang into action, their hands reaching for their weapons, eyes wide with alarm. But when Ghalrak caught sight of the makeshift mechanical bird-construct he had fashioned back in San Diego soaring through the air with a grace that belied its clunky appearance, he raised a hand, signaling them to halt. "Nay! Nay, dinnae shoot it! That's mine!" he shouted.

  Rodriguez turned, brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

  "This be mine," Ghalrak declared, his voice rich with pride as he extended his arm, inviting the bird to perch upon it. With a delicate flutter, it landed softly and opened its beak, revealing a small scroll nestled within its confines. Ghalrak took the scroll with careful fingers, unrolling it to reveal its contents, and nodded once, a look of determination crossing his weathered face.

  "What is that?" Harrington pressed, curiosity mingling with skepticism.

  "Instructions," the Dwarf replied, his tone steady and resolute. "From my king."

  The humans' jaws dropped in disbelief, their eyes widening in astonishment. Rodriguez shot Ghalrak an incredulous look. "I can't believe you've had instant communication with your king this whole trip."

  "Aye," Ghalrak affirmed with a nod.

  "Why didn't you tell us?" Harrington demanded, frustration seeping into his voice.

  Ghalrak shrugged nonchalantly, his expression impassive. "Ye dinnae ask," he stated simply.

  "What does it say?" Harrington pressed, leaning forward, eager for answers.

  "It says what I thought it would," the Dwarf grunted, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. "His orders are to establish good relations betwixt your folk and mine, an' he wants your leader, the man Bannister, tae come pay 'im a visit as soon as possible. He desires to meet him face-to-face, as I do, but I reckon he wants me tae do it first and tell him what I think. My king doesn't want tae waste 'is time."

  Rodriguez shot Ghalrak an incredulous look, disbelief flickering across his features. "I can't believe you've had instant communication with your king this whole trip."

  "Instant? Nay. Not like yer phones, ye ken," Ghalrak replied, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "But I dispatched a missive tae him when I first got here, aye, and don’t apologize for it neither. Ye would have done the same, would ye not?"

  Harrington sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "This is all moving way too fast."

  "That be a matter of opinion, laddie," Ghalrak countered, his voice steady and unyielding. “It be moving at just the right speed, to my eye. Fear not, I’ve nae bad-mouthed ye to my king, if that’s what’s upsettin’ ye.”

  Harrington forced a diplomatic smile. "I appreciate that, Captain Dramz. However, standard protocol would have been to inform us about communications with your government."

  "Aye, and standard protocol for me is to report to my king," Ghalrak replied, tucking the scroll into his jacket pocket. The mechanical bird remained perched on his shoulder, its tiny gears whirring softly. "Besides, I thought ye humans were all about free speech and such. Was I mistaken?"

  Rodriguez stepped between them before Harrington could respond. "No one's questioning your right to communicate with your king, Captain. It's just that—"

  "Just that ye like to know everything," Ghalrak finished for her. His tone wasn't accusatory, merely matter-of-fact. "That's fair enough. I'll not fault ye for it. Mayhap I should’ve told ye.” He looked toward the hotel staff, who had rushed over at the sound of breaking glass now stood awkwardly nearby, unsure how to address the situation. had rushed over at the sound of breaking glass now stood awkwardly nearby, unsure how to address the situation. He beckoned to the lead concierge.

  "I be needin’ somethin’ to write with, laddie.”

  The concierge hurried off, returning moments later with an elegant hotel stationery pad and a gleaming fountain pen. Ghalrak nodded his thanks and began scribbling a response in the flowing runes of the dwarf tongue, his thick fingers surprisingly dexterous as they guided the pen across the paper.

  Harrington watched with barely concealed frustration. The State Department had carefully planned this diplomatic mission—every meal, every hotel, every meeting had been arranged to showcase American culture while gathering intelligence on the dwarfs. And now it turned out this stubborn, bearded diplomat was conducting his own back-channel communications right under their noses.

  "Sir," Rodriguez whispered to Harrington, "should we inform Washington about this?"

  "Absolutely," Harrington replied under his breath. "The President will need to know immediately that the Under-Realm’s head of state is requesting a meeting. Do it. Now.”

  Rodriguez nodded and stepped away, pulling out her phone. As she did, Harrington asked, “What else did your king have to say?”

  Ghalrak stroked his beard thoughtfully, weighing how much to share with these humans. The king's message contained more than just a request for a meeting—he wanted assessments of American military capabilities based on intelligence gathered from their encounters with the Lexington, speculations about trade opportunities, and questions about whether the Americans could be trusted as long-term allies. But the dwarf had been a diplomat long enough to know when full disclosure served his interests and when it didn't.

  "He asks about your weapons," Ghalrak said finally. "About your ships and your armies. He asks if ye be true to your word when ye make promises. I told him ye seem an honest sort, if more than a bit strange.”

  As he spoke, he finished his note and carefully rolled the parchment into a tight cylinder. With practiced hands, he secured it in the mechanical bird's beak, then whispered something in a guttural language that sounded like stones grinding against one another. The bird's eyes—tiny rubies that caught the lobby's chandelier light—glinted as if with understanding.

  "Off ye go, then," Ghalrak said, tossing the contraption into the air. Its wings extended with a soft whirring noise, and it soared through the broken window and into the Colorado sky.

  "We'll... add that to the hotel bill," Harrington muttered, watching the bird disappear.

  The dwarf captain turned to face the Americans fully, his expression softening. "I meant what I said. Ye promised tae show me your home, and ye have. Ye havnae staged it or tried to gussy up the ugly bits, neither. I respect that. In the Under-Realm, that sort of honesty is valued above all else. We Dwarfs hold no patience for those who'd hide their true intentions behind flowery words and false smiles. None is so reviled among my kin as the liar and the oath-breaker.”

  Harrington nodded, some of his tension visibly easing. "I appreciate your candor, Captain. And I assure you, we'll relay your king's request to President Bannister immediately."

  "Good," Ghalrak said, his eyes shifting to the grand staircase that spiraled upward. "Now, about that whiskey ye mentioned..."