The path sloped downward through ribs of basalt and veins that glowed faintly red, as if the mountain itself were embers. The Terran Stonewardens led in silence, their feet sure on the stone. Each carried a shard of fireglass bound in iron wire, and the shards pulsed together in rhythm, a heartbeat that grew stronger the deeper they went.

The air thickened with heat. Sweat beaded on the company’s foreheads despite the slow, steady pace. Even Thorne’s fur clung dark with damp. Theo muttered something about his eyebrows catching flame, but the joke wilted in the stifling air. No one spoke after that.

At the final turn the tunnel opened into immensity. The Sanctum of Stoneheart spread before them, a cathedral hollowed from the mountain’s core. The floor fell away in broad concentric rings descending toward a central pit of molten fireglass, its light beating upward in dull crimson waves. The rings were bridged by spans of dark stone suspended on chains thicker than a man’s torso. Every movement, every breath, set the bridges trembling, and the tremor passed through the air like a low chord from a buried organ.

The Stonewardens halted at the outer rim. One of them struck his hammer’s haft to the ground; the sound carried for long seconds before dying somewhere deep below.

“The forge remembers,” said the eldest, his voice a gravelled echo.
“Every hand that sought its flame. Every heart it burned.”

Aldryn’s expression turned grim. “These halls were once the seat of Terran creation. Fireglass forges bind memory to metal. Each spark is an echo of a craftsman’s will. If you strike false here, the forge strikes back.”

Boaz stepped forward to the edge. The light caught in his eyes, reflecting the molten whirl below. “Then it knows me already,” he said quietly. “I’ve struck false before.”

Kiera laid a hand on his arm, gentle but firm. “Not this time.”

The Terrans formed a half-circle behind them, chanting in the old tongue. Their deep notes resonated through the ribs of the chamber until even the molten core vibrated in sympathy. Heat shimmered upward, making the air bend and breathe like something alive.

Theo squinted toward the center. “So that’s where the leaf is?”

Suspended above the heart of the forge hung a small, perfect sliver of crimson glass, turning slowly within a column of molten light.

“The Leaf of Fireglass,” Aldryn murmured. “Forged before the Sundering. Waiting for the one who can temper its rage.”

Lyra shaded her eyes. “Looks like it’s daring us to try.”

“Let’s not keep it waiting,” Jaxson said, though his voice carried an edge of nerves he couldn’t hide.

Boaz tightened the strap across his chest, feeling the Sigil’s hum grow stronger against his skin. Each beat seemed to sync with the forge’s rhythm, heart answering heart. He drew a slow breath, tasting iron and ash. “Our familiars should stay here. This is made for two legs, not four, and we can’t afford to be thinking about where they are.” As Boaz spoke this, the familiars nested or sat nearby.

Aldryn’s staff struck once against the stone. “Remember,” he warned, “the forge hears truth, not pride. Step forward only when your heart is clear.”

Chains groaned. The first bridge extended toward them, plates sliding into place with the sound of grinding stone. Boaz looked back at his companions, each face lit by molten red: courage, fear, determination, doubt, and then stepped onto the bridge.

It held.

Heat roared upward, wrapping him in sound and light. The descent had begun.

The bridge swayed underfoot, groaning like something alive. Each chain link was thick as a man’s arm, yet it trembled in time with the pounding of the forge. Below, molten glass churned and spat up waves of red light. Boaz led the way, his steps careful, his hand hovering near the Sigil as if to steady its pulse.

The company followed in single file. The nearer they drew to the heart of the Sanctum, the brighter the Sigil glowed. It was soft at first, then deepening into the same molten hue that burned below. When Boaz reached the innermost ring, the Sigil flared.

A sudden shudder ran through the forge. Bridges split, rearranging themselves like shifting gears. Gaps yawned open; slabs reformed across the molten pit, each one stretching toward a different direction.

“Stay close!” Jaxson called out, but even as he spoke, the bridge beneath his feet swung wide, snapping him onto another ring entirely.

Theo shouted something, half lost to the roar. Lyra reached for him, but her platform jerked sideways, carrying her off. In a breath, the fellowship was scattered across the chamber, each on a different floating span, the molten light rising between them like a living barrier.

Aldryn had stayed behind with his staff braced against the rim, eyes wide with understanding rather than fear. “It begins,” he whispered. “The forge remembers.”

Stone rumbled beneath Jaxson’s boots. The narrow ledge he stood on pitched sharply forward, leading into a gauntlet of falling debris. Blocks of granite crashed down at irregular intervals, each shattering and reforming itself seconds later.

“Alright,” he muttered. “You want fast? Let’s be fast.”

He darted forward, ducking under the first collapse. Perivigilum flared, a flicker of foresight. A stone fell; he leapt early and cleared it cleanly. Another break ahead, but he lunged too soon this time, the foresight pulling him into danger rather than out.

He landed hard, winded. “Too eager,” he hissed. “Not this time.”

The next time he moved slower, waiting until the vision faded, trusting instinct over magic. His rhythm steadied. The stones no longer seemed hostile, only testing. When he reached the end, the bridge folded beneath him and carried him onward, the path earned.

Lyra’s ring was shrouded in half-light. Her reflection rippled across every surface. There were dozens of her, all whispering. “You’re not ready.” “They let you tag along out of pity.” “They don’t even need you.” She laughed, or tried to. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

The whispers turned crueler, matching her voice perfectly. Each word struck deeper until her illusions began to betray her: walls bending wrong, footing vanishing. Mika growled far behind her on the ledge where she was sitting, but Lyra didn’t hear.

Lyra closed her eyes. The noise swelled, her own voice against itself. And then, quietly, she whispered, “You forget that I’ve lived with worse.” She concentrated on the illusions, imagining them falling into the light below. When she opened her eyes again, only one reflection remained. Hers. Real, weary, unbroken.

The bridge ahead lit faintly, welcoming her across.

Theo faced a ring covered in floating runes. There were dozens, hundreds of glowing symbols shifting midair like insects of light. Each time he tried to read them, they changed. Each time he looked away, they rearranged themselves entirely.

“Oh, I hate riddles,” he muttered. Tink chirped from where she was sitting on the ledge. He exhaled, hands trembling. “Alright then. Not a riddle. A pattern.”

He slowed his breathing, tracing connections in the air. The runes shifted, but not randomly, musically. Each pulse responded to another across the chamber. The forge itself was singing through them. Theo smiled. “You’re not chaos, you’re rhythm.”

He lifted his finger, drawing invisible lines between the lights and joining them as he might a circuit. The runes aligned, forming a sigil that shimmered, then struck outward. The scattered bridges shuddered into place, some stabilizing paths toward the others.

“See, Tink?” he said looking back, panting. “Told you. Simple physics.”

Kiera faced a wall of living flame. It rose from the stone like a curtain, flaring in time with her heartbeat. The heat was unbearable; the air shimmered with despair.

She tried to step closer but the flame surged, pushing her back. The fire roared, but not maliciously: mournfully. It wanted to consume. Kiera closed her eyes and began to hum, soft at first, then steady. Her melody was one she’d sung over dying comrades at Cirol: notes of release and return.

The flame quivered, its rage subsiding. She sang louder, the song carrying into the forge’s heartbeat. The wall bowed, its surface shifting from red to gold to white. When the song ended, the flame divided before her like a gate. She stepped through untouched, light falling gently behind her.

Meanwhile, in the middle of all this, lay a forge without fire, an anvil without tools. The emptiness was complete there at the center. Boaz circled the forge once. The Sigil pulsed against his chest, faint and steady, as if waiting. He placed his hands on the cold anvil. “No hammer. No tongs. No fire. So what do you want from me?”

No answer came. Only the heartbeat of the forge, slow and deep.

He thought of his father’s forge in Forlon, how Truan had made him stand there for hours watching, listening, before allowing him to strike. “The hammer listens to the hand that listens first,” his father had said.

Boaz drew a long breath, closing his eyes. He felt the hum beneath his palms, the vibration of the stone, the rhythm of each heartbeat around the chamber. Jaxson’s restraint, Lyra’s courage, Theo’s pattern, Kiera’s song: all of it echoed through the forge.

The Sigil flared. Not commanding, but guiding. He moved his hands slowly, shaping air as though it were metal, following the pulse, the rhythm, the breath of the fireglass below. Sparks kindled between his fingers. They weren’t flames, but light drawn from within the stone itself.

The forge awoke.

The molten pit brightened, bridges shuddering into alignment. Across the chamber, each companion stood renewed, trials passed, their lights converging on the center where Boaz stood.

High above, the Leaf of Fireglass began to turn.

Bridges groaned and settled into place, locking together with a sound like a thousand anvils striking at once. The Sanctum’s roar softened to a deep, steady rhythm, like forge bellows breathing in perfect time.

Boaz opened his eyes. Heat shimmered across the air, not oppressive now but purposeful. The molten pit pulsed like a heart, casting long, rippling shadows across the interwoven spans of stone. Each platform bore one of his companions, their trials behind them, but their faces, their posture, showed that something had changed. Each one carried a fragment of that rhythm. He could feel it through the Sigil. They’re not separate anymore.

“Boaz!” Jaxson’s voice echoed across the chasm. “You alive over there?”

He smiled faintly. “For now. Stay where you are, the forge’s still moving.” Indeed, the bridges had begun to shift again, but not chaotically, with pattern. Each motion corresponded to a sound, a pulse. Theo saw it first, tracing the sequence with quick, precise gestures.

“Every bridge responds to a note,” he called out. “Kiera, your song—try matching its pitch!”

Kiera’s voice rose, clear and unwavering. The closest bridge steadied, its oscillation syncing to her melody. Stone that moments before had threatened to collapse now glowed a gentle red, firm and alive.

Lyra cupped her hands around her mouth. “If this thing’s music, it’s missing a beat.”

She closed her eyes, focusing the way she did before weaving an illusion. A faint hum spread outward, refracting the molten light into prismatic threads that danced above the bridges, each pulse of color marking a safe path forward.

Theo grinned. “That’s my cue.” He raised a rune midair, twisting its edge until it resonated with Kiera’s tone. A pulse of energy rippled outward, linking one bridge to the next like a completed circuit. The forge responded instantly. The rhythm quickened, alive with harmony.

“Now!” Boaz shouted. “Move when it beats!”

The company advanced. Not hurriedly, not recklessly, but in rhythm. Jaxson timed his leaps between beats of the forge’s pulse, crossing spans that would’ve fallen to pieces seconds earlier. When Lyra’s footing faltered, he caught her arm, hauling her to safety just as Theo’s stabilizing rune flared beneath them.

From the outer rim, Aldryn raised his staff high and murmured a phrase in the old Terran tongue. Runes that had been carved into the chamber’s walls flickered to life, channeling the raw power inward. “The forge is listening,” he called. “Keep it listening!”

They did.

Kiera’s song rose into a fuller melody, Lyra’s light weaving through it. Theo’s constructs etched themselves along the bridges, runes glowing beneath each footfall. Jaxson became motion itself, timing, rhythm, precision, while Thorne, padding the safer paths outside the innermost circle, paced and watched but did not enter the living center.

Through it all, Boaz moved among them, not directing, not commanding, but harmonizing. Each call, each motion fit within the greater rhythm: a craftsman amid his guild, not a king among soldiers. “Hold the third bridge!” he called. “Kiera, soften the tone. Too sharp and it’ll crack!”

Kiera adjusted her voice, her melody dipping lower. The bridge cooled, steadying. Boaz nodded. “Good. Now strike it again.”

She did. The vibration deepened, the forge resonating in answer.

Theo wiped sweat from his brow. “You’re conducting a volcano!”

Boaz laughed, the sound startlingly free. “No,” he said. “It’s conducting us I think.”

As they drew closer to the heart, the Sanctum’s light intensified. The molten column at its center began to rise, slowly, majestically, carrying with it the Leaf of Fireglass, now spinning faster, shedding droplets of red light that drifted down like sparks.

The bridges aligned one final time, forming a spiral path toward the heart of the forge. The air grew so bright it was hard to see, but the heat no longer burned. It welcomed.

Aldryn’s voice reached them, faint but strong:

“You’ve tempered chaos into rhythm. Now, Boaz, finish what the mountain began.”

Boaz looked to the others, their faces rimmed with light, Jaxson steadying the chains, Kiera still singing, Lyra focused and bright, Theo’s runes humming in unison. He felt the Sigil pulse once more, not as command, but invitation.

He drew a long breath and stepped toward the final span, the one leading into the molten light. “Let’s finish the song,” he murmured, and walked into the heart of the forge.

The bridges locked into stillness, each ring of the Sanctum cooling to a dull glow. From the outer rim, even the Terrans’ chant faded to silence. Aldryn stood beside them, his staff lowered.

“This is where we stop singing,” the eldest Stonewarden said to Aldryn. “The trial of flame is not for Terran or Aguan blood.”

Telen met Boaz’s gaze across the chasm and gave a single nod. Shaye crossed her arms, jaw tight, but said nothing. They knew better than to follow.

Boaz stepped alone onto the final span.

The air grew dense, alive with heat that was not hostile but aware. The molten pillar rose from the heart of the forge, clear as liquid glass and shot through with slow crimson veins. Inside it hovered the Leaf of Fireglass — perfect, patient, burning from within.

The Sigil at his chest answered, its light deepening from silver to red. It did not demand; it waited. He unfastened the Sigil from his neck. Its iron frame glowed faintly, one half dark, one half pale. The Agua’s Mother-of-Pearl leaf rested cool within it. The other arm waited empty, rough-edged where the second leaf would bind.

He held it out toward the light.

The fire did not yield. It shimmered, testing him. Images flickered in the molten column: Terran forges of old, the Sundering’s firestorms, faces twisted in pride and ruin. Then the reflection changed: his own face, young and afraid, staring into a forge that burned hotter than his will.

“I know,” he murmured. “I failed once. I struck to prove, not to shape. Never again.” The molten column quivered. Threads of glass stretched toward him, hesitant, like the feelers of a creature unsure whether to trust.

Boaz closed his eyes. He steadied his breath to the rhythm of the forge, letting thought fall away. The Sigil began to hum, a note so pure it seemed to come from within the stone itself. The Mother-of-Pearl leaf gleamed, casting soft white light across his hands.

Red met white. Fire met pearl. The tones intertwined, two harmonics seeking balance. He stepped closer, until the molten light wrapped him from shoulder to wrist. The heat flared, yet did not burn. The Sigil drew the fire inward, veins of red light racing along its frame until it blazed like a living brand.

Without tools, without flame, Boaz began the act of forging.

He turned the Sigil slowly, following the forge’s unseen rhythm. Each motion answered the pulse beneath the stone. Where his hand moved, the molten glass followed, flowing from the pillar toward the empty arm of the Sigil. The air filled with a sound not of hammer or anvil but of pressure: metal bending through will alone.

Light poured through him, brilliant and terrible. The Mother-of-Pearl leaf glowed cold, tempering the Fireglass as it joined. Steam hissed around him, not from heat but from union. The opposites were binding, each shaping the other.

The chamber shook once, deep and final. Then the forge sighed, releasing him. When Boaz opened his eyes, the molten column had vanished. In its place stood a ring of cooled stone, veined with faint red lines like fading embers. The Sigil in his hands had changed: both leaves now complete, one gleaming white, one translucent crimson, their lights pulsing in slow unison through the iron frame.

He exhaled, trembling, and lowered the artifact. It was warm, weighty, alive.

For a heartbeat he did not move. Silence pressed close, so absolute it rang in his ears. His knees trembled; when he tried to shift his stance, the Sigil’s hum sank through his bones like a second heartbeat. He let it. There was no pain, only the weight of something larger than strength: acceptance. He had been the hammer, then the ore, and now, at last, the bell that rang when struck true.

The air smelled of rain on iron. For the first time since Forlon, he wasn’t afraid of the fire.

Behind him, the others lingered at the edge of the circle. Thorne paced on the outer ring, ears flat, a low rumble in his chest that wasn’t warning but awe. No one spoke. Even Aldryn bowed his head, his voice barely audible:

“Two leaves bound. Fire and water in accord. The mountain remembers.”

Boaz looked down at the Sigil. The glow within it no longer raged, it breathed, calm and steady, like a heart finally finding its rhythm.

For a long moment, nothing moved.

The red glow from the forge dimmed to a steady pulse, and then, slowly, the light began to spread outward. It moved through the floor first, racing in thin, delicate veins across the black stone. Wherever it passed, cracks sealed and molten residue cooled to smooth obsidian. The heat in the chamber shifted from punishing to sustaining. Warm, not searing. Alive, not devouring.

At the outer rings, the Terrans and the Aguans, Telen and Shaye, fell silent. The Terran’s pallid, stone-hued skin drank in the glow; color returned in faint waves, like blood rediscovering its course. One by one, they knelt, not to Boaz, but to the rekindled heart of the forge. The eldest Warden pressed his hand to the stone and whispered something in the old tongue, and the mountain answered with a low hum that filled the air.

A pair of younger Stonewardens murmured like men waking from a dream.

“It sings again,” one whispered.
“So long we think song lost,” the other said, tears carving tracks through soot. “But song was… sleeping.”

Their words rolled through the chamber like low thunder, and the echo answered, but not as language, as resonance, the stone remembering the cadence of creation.

Aldryn walked across the completed bridges and approached the edge of the central span, stopping where molten scars still smoked. His eyes flicked from the Sigil to Boaz’s face.

“Well done,” he said quietly. “You didn’t force it.”

Boaz managed a weary smile. “Didn’t need to. It wanted to be whole.”

Kiera stepped forward, the hem of her cloak brushing cooling glass. She looked down at the chamber floor where small crimson motes floated up, drifting like fireflies. “It’s healing itself.”

Theo crouched, rubbing his hand across a smooth patch of stone. “Not just healing,” he said. “Look at these patterns. They’re channels. Like veins in metal. The whole mountain’s a forge that breathes.”

Lyra leaned on her crossbow, half-smirking. “Let’s hope it doesn’t sneeze.”

Jaxson chuckled low but said nothing. Even he seemed reluctant to break the spell of the place.

Boaz lowered his gaze to the Sigil again. The twin leaves, Mother of Pearl and Fireglass, gleamed within the frame, their light mingling into a slow swirl of rose-gold. The iron between them no longer seemed rigid but flexible, almost organic. It pulsed faintly, in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“The Sigil feels… different,” he said. “Heavier, but not from weight. Like it’s remembering something.”

“Memory is the truest form of metal,” Aldryn said. “You’ve given it back its song.”

A gentle tremor passed through the floor. It was almost like the sigh of deep bellows releasing after long labor. Dust drifted from the ceiling, but it was clean dust, pale and dry, not the black spores that had plagued the tunnels above. Far away, a faint breeze stirred, cool and sweet, whispering through cracks long sealed.

Shaye and Telen had approached over the bridges now too. Shaye tilted her head. “The air, do you feel that?”

Telen lifted his chin. “The rot’s gone.”

They weren’t wrong. The scent that filled the Sanctum now was sharp and clean, like rain on hot stone. From distant corridors came the sound of trickling water, faint but unmistakable. The forge’s restoration was rippling outward through Durn-Kelmar. The corruption that had come from the surface world was retreating.

Aldryn turned toward the Stonewardens. “The mountain breathes again. The curse is lifting.”

The eldest Terran nodded once. “Long we keep flame caged. Now flame serve, not rule. Black growth… wither.”

He turned to Boaz, voice deep as the stone itself.

“Fire obeys hand that listens.”

Boaz bowed his head slightly. “I promise to keep listening.”

They began the slow ascent. The spiral ramp curved upward in deliberate coils, every step lit by newly awakened glow pulsing through the rock. The company climbed in silence; the Terrans walked beside them now, not ahead, their steps measured, almost reverent. Pockets of molten light receded into thin veins that threaded the walls like living script. Far below, the Sanctum throbbed like a sleeping heart, each beat softer with distance.

Small, luminescent things like moths, but stone-colored, shivered free from cracks and drifted in the warm updrafts, fragile as ash and bright as embers. Thorne tracked one with solemn eyes and let it pass. Eira rode the lift of air without a sound. Even Mika’s usual restless energy had ebbed to a watchful calm.

Aldryn’s voice came low as they climbed. “I have felt a mountain sleep,” he said. “Never watched one dream.”

Boaz answered without looking away from the path. “It felt like it knew me. Not fire, but understanding. As if it was asking if I’d changed.”

“Fire remembers the hands that shape it,” Aldryn said. “That is why it burns the proud.”

“Then why did it spare me?”

“Because you did not ask it to obey,” the old man said. “You asked to learn, to unite.”

Their boots rang less with every tier: echoes softening, then resonating, as though the stone itself had taken back its voice. The air cooled, shifting from furnace heat to the clean warmth of a forge banked for rest.

Shapes appeared at the final turn, six Terrans in runed armor, helms under their arms, faces streaked with dust.

The Stonewardens of Durn-Kelmar’s council stood waiting.

The eldest, Ghor, leaned on a war-hammer dark with age, eyes sharp as fractured flint. Beside him stood a bearded elder whose plaits were bound in copper rings that glowed faintly red. The moss-marked Warden carried the scent of deep earth. The one-eyed veteran, scar pale as ash, studied Boaz with the wary reverence he had once reserved for the Sigil’s flame. The younger woman elder, whose armor bore precise geometric etchings and patterns that pulsed with measured light, was also there. Behind them, Dorn and Kegh, the gate champions, stood silent, no longer barring the way, but bearing witness.

Ghor spoke first, rough and uncertain in Common. “The fire… lives. We feel it… under every stone.”

The copper-ringed elder bowed his head. “Halls grow warm again. Long cold. Long dead. Now… with heartbeat.”

The moss-marked Warden stepped closer, palm grazing the floor. “Hot… but clean. No rot. No black breath.”

The woman’s eyes caught on the Sigil. “You carry flame, and water,” she said carefully, accent hard but musical. “Show us, please. We must see.”

Boaz lifted the Sigil. Its twin leaves gleamed: Fireglass deep crimson threaded with gold, Mother-of-Pearl soft and iridescent as dawn. The two pulsed together, breathing as one.

The elders drew near in an awed hush. The one-eyed veteran whispered a word in Terran none of the company knew. The copper-ringed elder reached a hand toward the artifact, stopping just shy. “Two hearts,” he said, brokenly. “Red and white. Flame and tide. Not fight…no. Hold each other.”

Aldryn inclined his head. “Fire tempered by water. Creation remembering purpose.”

Ghor’s gaze measured Boaz a long moment. “You… command this?”

Boaz shook his head. “No. It commands itself. I only listened.”

The moss-marked Warden’s sternness cracked into a small smile. “Then you are wise. Many strike. Few listen.”

The younger woman straightened. “Mountain live again. We must think… must speak in Council. Old law say…when fire wake, Wardens gather.”

Ghor nodded heavily. “You rest. We… talk. Night long.”

He turned and gave a brief command in Terran. Dorn and Kegh saluted, fists to chest, then gestured for the fellowship to follow. They wound through corridors whose carvings shone with amber veins tracing the walls like letters returning to their lines. The air smelled not of confinement but of rain on stone. As they walked, faint murmurs lifted from the deep, a hum that might have been gears turning or hearts rediscovering rhythm.

Theo ran his fingers along the wall. “It’s alive,” he said. “Listen to it breathe.”

Kiera nodded, eyes reflecting the soft glow. “It doesn’t feel angry anymore. It feels… at peace.”

Lyra’s smile was tired but real. “Imagine that. A mountain with better manners than most men.”

At last Dorn stopped before a heavy door banded with brass and newly polished stone. He spoke in low Terran to the guards there, then turned back to Boaz. “Rest here. Eat and drink. You are safe. The elders will come after council.” His Common was rough but clear, easier than the others’. He bowed, a warrior’s gesture, not a servant’s, and stepped aside.

Inside, the chamber glowed with gentle forge-light from veins in the wall. Thick slabs of carved basalt formed benches and tables. Steam rose from shallow bowls of mineral water that smelled faintly of copper and salt. It was simple, but alive with warmth.

They had scarcely set down packs when a younger Terran entered: broad-shouldered, hair braided back, carrying a low tray with both hands. He spoke more fluidly than the elders, though his accent still clipped the edges of words.

“Guest-table,” he announced, proud and shy at once. “No Schraff yet for you, bad for soft-bellies.” He winked, realizing the joke a second too late. “I mean… surfacers. Not insult.”

He uncovered the tray. On it sat a black-stone pot of root stew glistening with clear fat; a platter of flat, blistered bread stamped with chevrons; a mound of pale cave-mushrooms seared at the edges; and a kettle of thin, bright tea that smelled like hot rain.

Jaxson leaned in. “What’s in the stew?”

“Redroot, brine-tuber, a little deep-goat,” the Terran said. “No fungus-rot, no black vine. Clean.” He thumped his chest with a grin. “I taste first. Still here.”

Lyra sniffed the tea. “This smells like lightning.”

“Sky-leaf,” the Terran said, pleased. “From vents. Makes throat brave.”

Theo lifted a piece of bread, studying the chevrons. “Decoration?”

“Guide,” the Terran said gravely. “Lines show breaks easy. Bread listens to the knife.” He considered this, then added, “Also… looks nice.”

The company ate, and the food was better than it looked: honest and clean. The tea burned in a friendly way. Kiera laughed when Lyra’s eyes watered; Lyra accused the tea of being spicy. Even Aldryn took seconds of the mushrooms, conceding with a sigh that not all fungus was a villain.

The Terran server lingered, watching them eat with obvious satisfaction. “Good,” he said at last. “I am Bragh. If you need more, hit the gong once. Not twice. Twice brings hammer-guard.” He frowned, thinking. “Not for you. Rule just… old.”

He collected empty crockery, nearly saluted, then remembered himself and bowed instead. “Sleep strong. Council speaks by dawn.”

When Bragh had gone, a soft, contented quiet spread through the room. Aldryn lowered himself onto a bench with a long exhale. “Let them speak. The mountain has its own council to keep.”

Jaxson leaned against the wall, running a hand through sweat-matted hair. “And we just wait?”

“Patience,” Aldryn said. “The forge remembers those who rush.”

Theo waggled his sore fingers. “It remembers me plenty.”

Kiera took Boaz’s hands without asking. The skin at his wrists was reddened where the molten light had wrapped him. He hadn’t noticed. She breathed softly, and coolness spread under her touch, no miracle, only care, though it felt like grace. “It’s nothing,” he said. She gave him a look that said let me be useful, and he let her.

Lyra had already found a soot-dark section of wall and begun sketching the Sigil’s outline with her index finger: two leaves and the ring, a geometry that satisfied something in her. “It’s better balanced now,” she said to no one, “less like a threat, more like a promise.”

Theo cupped both hands over one of the steaming bowls and hummed a low note. The surface shivered, making a faint lattice in the condensation that clung to the stone rim. He nudged the pitch and the lattice shifted. “Ha. The room’s tuned,” he said. “You can hear the way the walls want to stand.”

Telen sat easy-backed on a block, watching. “Terrans guard their rest as fiercely as war,” he observed. “They make the quiet like other folk make spears.”

Shaye smirked. “A strange kind of peace, when the walls themselves listen.”

Boaz sat last, the Sigil warm against his sternum, its hum no longer fierce but steady, like a heart settling after a hard truth. He watched the thin thread of steam rise from the kettle, and beneath the moment he felt Forlon’s forge: the weight of the hammer, the glow on his father’s face, the familiar hand on his shoulder. But when that hand fell away in the memory, it wasn’t grief that hollowed the space, it was a quiet, unexpected breath, as if the place his father once filled was now being shaped for something new.

Aldryn watched him from the edge of the lamplight. “What are you hearing?”

“That it’ll be harder from here,” Boaz said. “But truer.”

The old man’s eyes warmed. “Both are signs you’re on the right road.”

Kiera finished tending his wrists and folded his hands together between both of hers for a moment. “Rest,” she said. “You did what only you could do.”

Boaz lay back on the stone bench. The warmth that seeped through the rock felt earned, not given. He drifted, woke, drifted again, and in the drift he dreamed of Forlon: the old anvil, the banked coals, the quiet of a day before a storm. Truan stood at the hearth, hammer lifted, but when it fell there was no clang, only the round, gentle note a bell makes when the wind knows it. His father turned, and where he expected admonition, he found a nod, simple and sufficient.

When he woke, the room was dimmer; the forgelight had settled into a dusk-like glow. The others breathed evenly. The kettle steamed a little still, as if reluctant to grow cold.

From somewhere far below, the forge gave a single deep pulse, neither warning nor command, but promise. Above them, through walls and hidden stairs, the Wardens of Durn-Kelmar gathered by old law where six rings meet, and Ghor’s hammer rang once to open council.

The heart of the mountain beat on, steady and whole, while the fellowship rested and waited for dawn.

Leave feedback on this chapter