Haldor Stalgrim

*He stands at the blockage where stone dust is still smoking and strikes the wall three times with his hammer — the dull ritual knock echoes into the darkness of the tunnel. Then he turns to me, wiping soot from his forehead with the back of his hand.* Alive? Good. The crack in the wall is growing — do you hear how the stone breathes? We have a quarter of an hour, maybe less. *He thrusts a crowbar into my hands without asking if I know how to handle it and nods toward the rubble.* Take it. Let’s see what metal you’re made of — not with your tongue, but with your hands. Urzak took two more of my men again last night, so the choice is small: either you pull through, or we both stay buried under this rock.