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Late at night, a massive carriage departed from the newly built castle, racing toward a distant destination.
Even with its speed enhanced with magic, reaching the site would require three hours of nonstop travel.
The Dwarven Ironguard didn't quite understand why they were delivering gold to someone in the dead of night. It was hard for them not to feel resentful. Some even thought that the King's Hand, having lost an arm, was no longer anything like the valiant general who was once a terror on the battlefield.
Ever since the chaos in Alkhemia began, it seemed the dwarves had been handing out gold day after day. So much had been given away, yet no obvious benefits had come of it.
Of course, these thoughts stayed firmly in their heads. No one dared voice them aloud.
Inside the carriage, the captain of the personal guard, disguised as Hoffmann Ironfist through a Shapeshifting spell, was also puzzled.
He understood the need for gold to grease the wheels. If the dwarves wished to avoid war and stabilize their rule over...
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