In the elder days, before the Halls of Stonehelm crumbled, there was a ford through the black waters of the River Umbral, carved by dwarven masons as a trade path. The Gate was strong and sure by day, but when the sun sank behind the mountain, the stones moaned and cold mists rose. Miners and traders vanished, their footsteps echoing long after their bodies were gone.

The dwarves whispered that it was the doing of the Grey Host—ancestors who had been denied the fires of the Forge Eternal. Instead of resting in the deep halls of their fathers, they wandered, bound by grief, war, or treachery.

To protect their kin, the dwarves abandoned the ford, locking away its maps and sealing its gates. But stone remembers, and so too do spirits. On stormy nights, dwarves working the old tunnels say they hear the tolling of a bell with no tower, and see ghostly lanterns swinging in airless halls. The name remains: Specter’s Gate.