Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 99: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 2] Where the Sun Never Touches

Chapter 99: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 2] Where the Sun Never Touches

Raven returned to Emberwatch, the wind biting sharper now as the sun dipped behind cloud-wrapped peaks.

Near the barricade, Durnehra stood beside a man clad in Velkarin Axis armor—polished, utilitarian, marked with the silver and black sigils of a middle command tier. Not quite a legate, but close.

The soldier’s stance was composed. One hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, the other clasped behind his back. Scar over his left brow. Veteran. Cold eyes.

Durnehra turned as Raven approached.

"Commander, this is the man I was talking about," she said.

Raven said nothing. Just met the officer’s gaze—and waited.

"You’re the outsider who leaped into the bears’ den to fight the Ashen Knives?" the commander said, voice edged with skepticism. "Surprised you didn’t end up all bruised and bloody like the rest of these fools. This is their home and food convoy, not an amusement for your pleasure."

"You’re welcome," Raven replied calmly.

"And I appreciate that. Doesn’t change the fact that I despise that you’re here, though, sticking your nose in our business."

"I was invited," Raven answered, unbothered.

"Ah, yes, the king’s invitation. And what a bucket full of vipers that is."

Raven raised an eyebrow.

A Velkarin officer mocking the invitation from Kharnath-Dur’s king—one not even from his own faction—and still showing sympathy to dwarves?

That was rare.

Velkarin officers were usually too proud to meddle in the politics of others, especially when it didn’t serve their command.

"Look," Ironsong continued, "you have my thanks for saving those people. And, as much as I hate it, I owe you a favor. But right now I need to determine where they took the stolen supplies."

"Maybe this note will help," Raven said, handing over the dwarven-lettered parchment.

Ironsong scanned the document. His jaw tightened.

"Kharnath-Dur, betrayed again. For gold, no less. Someone will answer for this. I need to secure the next caravan through the Merchant’s Gate. If you’re truly not here to cause harm, then help me."

A system ping flickered across Raven’s HUD.

[System Prompt: Quest Finished – " Solve the Ambush of the Caravan Envoy" (1/1)]

"Help you in what way?" Raven asked evenly, click the Close button of the quest menu.

"This letter points to a traitor with ties in the city. I want you to track them down. Kharnath-Dur trades regularly with Emberwatch, and it’s my responsibility to protect that link. Even if I’m just a captain of a border patrol of Velkarin army."

Raven tilted his head. There was a weight behind the words.

Bitterness.

A man caught between duty and politics.

"I’ll go to Kharnath-Dur and see what I can learn."

"Start with the inn. Gold and dark dealings often go hand in hand with drinking and lies. Don’t disappoint me. I hate putting trust in outsiders. Do us both a favor and prove me wrong."

"You’re a border commander?" Raven asked, direct.

Ironsong paused, then nodded. "Grew up here. Love this city. Hate how some of my own treat the dwarves like dogs. Just a soldier. One who still cares."

"I see," Raven said. A rare thing, empathy from Velkarin brass. "But why would someone want to suppress Kharnath-Dur?"

Ironsong’s voice dropped. "Greed. Even perfect dwarven engineering isn’t immune to exploitation. The war feeds opportunity. And some—both dwarves and Velkarin politicians—would rather chain craftsmen to forges than pay them. But to do that, Kharnath-Dur must fall. Quietly. Politically. Fewer casualties, more profit. Gold turns brother against brother. We were better off when we bartered for everything we needed.

Durnehra motioned for Raven to follow and led him out through a narrow path at the edge of Emberwatch. Hidden beneath a stone overhang was a seemingly unremarkable cave—its entrance scarred by deep cart tracks, but otherwise unguarded and forgotten.

Inside, the cave widened into a chamber where a massive metal platform sat sunken into the stone floor, large enough to hold two full-sized caravans. On the far wall, a rusted control lever jutted from a dwarven gear socket. Raven glanced around—too symmetrical, too intentional to be natural.

Dwarven.

Durnehra pulled the lever.

The platform groaned, then shuddered. Metal shrieked against ancient stone as the entire floor began to descend.

The deeper they went, the less it felt like descending into a city and more like entering a slumbering tomb. The shaft walls were covered in carvings—runes and geometric patterns that pulsed faintly with buried light. Not magical. Something older.

The air grew heavier. Not cold—compressed. Like pressure from something massive above—or watching.

Then the platform slowed.

They stopped at what looked like a docking platform—stone and steel, lined with rail slots and torch racks long burned out. Beyond that: a towering wall-fortress of blackened stone, wrapped in vines of oxidized metal and dwarven script. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

Pillars rose like giants, some cracked and leaning, but still supporting a cavern so massive, the ceiling vanished into darkness.

Floating near the distant heights, half-lost in shadow, a brass sphere the size of a cathedral glowed from within—pale golden gas swirling inside it like a captured sun. Intricate dwarven motifs wound across its surface, forming containment rings and anchor glyphs.

The light it cast was not warm. Just enough to see—and to remind them how deep they’d come.

Raven stepped off the platform in silence.

The city was subdued—quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Not the silence of abandonment, but of restraint. Every footstep echoed like it had permission.

Raven felt it immediately—the difference between being welcome and merely tolerated. He was a shadow among the clockwork, an outlier in a place where every citizen seemed wound into their role with mechanical precision.

The silence didn’t just blanket the city—it scrutinized him.

Dwarves moved with purpose, each task executed with a craftsman’s precision. There were no wandering conversations, no market chatter, only the rhythm of stone, steel, and boots on aged walkways.

Outsiders were rare. Raven felt it in every passing glance—measured, wary, brief. None stopped him. None dared. But eyes lingered, just long enough to mark him before turning away.

He pulled up the hood of his travel cloak and made his way through narrow corridors that curved like roots through the mountain’s bones.

Eventually, he found the inn—built seamlessly into the stone, shaped more like a bunker than a tavern. A dwarven lantern buzzed above the door, emitting a low glow from a rotating crystal core.

Raven entered without a word, approached the innkeeper, and signed the guest log under the name "Brannic Stonecoil"—a fabricated alias, common enough among dwarves to avoid suspicion, yet obscure enough not to attract attention.

"Single room. Quiet corner," he added.

The innkeeper barely looked at him, simply nodded and handed over an iron-banded key with a number etched into the head.

He followed the narrow staircase to the upper level, finding his room tucked at the far end of the hall. It was small—efficient, more stone than wood, with a single crystal lamp and a tightly sealed window framed in brass.

Inside, he finally exhaled.

The walls were thick.

The air still.

The silence here wasn’t just privacy—it was insulation.

Different from the inns of surface towns where noise always crept in—drunken laughter, the clatter of mugs, the scrape of boots—this place felt like it had swallowed every sound.

A sanctuary cut from the bones of the world. It was, in its own way, the first place that had truly felt safe since Emberstone.

The kind that let secrets survive.

He opened his player panel. The system flagged the area:

[Single Player Dungeon: Kharnath-Dur (Instance Phase Active)].

It was immersion-based—a mechanic ensuring players experienced the city’s story arc alone.

Perfect.

He tapped his inventory, and black light coiled around him. His sovereign armor shimmered into place—fluid, angular, and utterly out of place in the overworld.

But here, beneath the mountain, its color melted seamlessly into the shadows. In this earthbound sanctum, his presence would be myth.

No players. No eyes. No witnesses.

A knock at the door broke the silence. Raven didn’t move at first, only closed the system window and let his armor fade back into storage.

"It’s me," Durnehra called from the hall.

He opened the door. She looked slightly more formal now—cloak clasped, hands folded, tone steadier.

"High Speaker Maeryn Steelshard wishes to meet you," she said. "A gesture of thanks—from the palace. For your aid with the convoy."

Raven narrowed his gaze. "Personal audience?"

Durnehra nodded. "It’s rare. But you’ve become rare company."

He considered the offer for a beat, then stepped out of the room.

They moved through the inner city’s quieter veins—halls not lit for function but carved for ceremony.

Wide steps worn smooth by centuries of armored boots.

Murals of dwarves kneeling before towering mechanical titans.

Braziers glowed softly with crystal-fire, casting reflections across stone like water.

Raven took it in with a muted sense of awe—not the grandeur itself, but the precision behind it.

Everything here was too intentional, too exact.

This wasn’t built for tourists or pilgrims.

It was built to endure.

"The High Speaker is the head of our temple," Durnehra said as they descended another curling stairwell, her voice hushed despite the emptiness.

"We worship the god of Earth—stone, pressure, gravity, silence. Our ways are slow, deliberate. She’s supposed to be the anchor of that faith. But with her... it always feels like she’s shifting beneath the surface. Too graceful. Too smooth. Like something slick hiding in a stone’s shadow."

Raven listened carefully. The tone of reverence was there—but under it, something quieter.

"You don’t sound like her," he said at last.

"She looks like a layered person," Raven added, eyes scanning a carved relief on the wall.

Durnehra gave a short exhale, almost a laugh. "You could say that. This is just between us—but if you were a citizen, I wouldn’t even think of saying it."

She hesitated, glanced behind them, then continued.

"There’s something in her... I don’t know. Off. It’s not her piety, or even her politics. It’s the way she moves, the way she speaks—like every word is polished and placed. Like she’s always three steps ahead in a game no one else realizes is happening. Too slick. Too knowing. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but you... I think you can feel it too. There’s something more to her—and I don’t think it’s good."

The deeper they went, the more Raven felt it.

Not just reverence—but tension. The weight of eyes he couldn’t see. A city pressing against its own silence.

He said nothing. Just followed Durnehra into the dark.

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