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He reached up to the amulet that hung around his neck, his fingers closing around the cool metal. A gift he’d left for Hali, along with a note to tell her he would return. He’d almost given in to the temptation to take the amulet with him, to keep it close as a talisman, but he knew it was too risky. If the Obsidian Circle got their hands on her, they would stop at nothing to use her against him. He couldn’t let that happen.
“Emberhearth. Pay attention.” Agnith’s voice was a sharp slap, pulling Osric from his thoughts.
“My apologies, Master.” Osric dipped his head in a quick bow, the long braids of his warrior’s tail sweeping the ground. “I was merely scouting our surroundings.”
“Then you saw the path ahead. What do you make of it?”
Osric blinked, trying to focus. They were approaching a towering cliff face of striated basalt, the sheer rock rising up before them. “It looks to be an ancient lava flow,” he said slowly. “The basalt would have cooled and solidified, trapping the molten rock within. There may be tunnels and chambers within the flow that we can use to our advantage.”
Agnith’s stony expression didn’t change, but he gave a single nod of approval. “Very good. Let’s see if we can find a way through.”
They continued on in silence, the only sound the crunch of their boots on the obsidian and the distant rumble of the caldera. But despite his best efforts, Osric couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and ash, and a strange, almost otherworldly chill clung to the darkness. This was more than just a feeling of unease; it was a certainty, a warning that he couldn’t ignore.
When they reached the base of the cliff, it loomed over them like a sheer wall of night, the striations in the basalt almost glowing in the reflected light of the caldera. Ancient runes were carved into the rock face, their meaning lost to all but a few. “This is it,” Agnith said. “The entrance to the Forge of Vulkan’s ancient stronghold. But it will not open for just anyone.”
He turned to the others, and they fanned out in a line before the cliff, their dark silhouettes stark against the glowing runes. “We must attune the entrance to our presence. Form the circle.”
As they joined hands, Osric caught Fyra’s eye, and for a brief moment, he saw the same doubt and unease reflected in her eyes. She was one of the younger elders, still in training when he was ripped from their people. He wished he could offer her some reassurance, but he wasn’t even sure he could reassure himself.
The elders began to chant in a lilting, otherworldly cadence, their voices rising and falling in an intricate pattern. As the words washed over him, Osric felt a strange tingle at the back of his mind, a sense of familiarity, like a half-remembered dream. His skin prickled with the raw power of it, and his tattoos began to glow, the molten patterns pulsing in time with the chant.
The ground beneath them rumbled, and the air filled with the acrid scent of sulfur as the magic built, a living, breathing thing. The runes on the cliff face shimmered, and then, slowly, they began to move, the stone shifting and parting like a curtain of lava.
The way was open.
The air inside the cavern was thick with sulfurous fumes, and the walls pulsed with an eerie, orange glow. The heat was oppressive, a living thing, but Osric ignored the sweat running down his back, the dryness of his throat. He had to stay focused, had to be ready for whatever trials lay ahead.
“The Hammer of Earthblood is a sacred weapon, forged in the heart of the mountain in the time before memory,” Agnith said. “But it demands a worthy champion to claim it. We must prove ourselves in the eyes of the Forge if we are to harness its power.”
Osric nodded, but his mind was racing. The Hammer of Earthblood. It was said to be a mighty weapon, capable of sundering mountains with a single blow. In the hands of the Obsidian Circle, it would be a devastating tool of destruction, laying waste to everything in its path.
The Obsidian Circle had to be stopped, of that he was certain. Their dark magics, their ruthless pursuit of power at any cost—it was a threat to everything he held dear. But to wield a weapon like the Hammer of Earthblood . . . it felt wrong, somehow. The kind of wrong that no amount of victory could make right.
He thought of Hali, with her bright eyes and her boundless imagination. She had spoken to him of the complexities of good and evil, of the shades of gray that colored the world. He had tried to warn her, to show her the darkness that lurked in the hearts of men, but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if she was right. If the Forge’s way, his way, was truly just.
Agnith led them into a vast, cathedral-like chamber, the air thick with the stench of brimstone. Lava flowed in rivers on either side of a narrow causeway, the sweltering heat of it almost unbearable. “The first trial,” Agnith said. “We must cross the River of Fire.”
As he spoke, the lava began to rise, the rivers surging and frothing as the molten rock rose higher, threatening to engulf the causeway. “Hurry,” Agnith said. “We must reach the other side before the lava engulfs us.”
With a cry, he broke into a run, his boots pounding on the stone as he raced towards the far side of the causeway. Osric hesitated for a moment, the heat washing over him, and then he, too, was running, his heart pounding in time with his footsteps.
The lava was rising faster, the heat of it scorching his skin. He was almost there, almost to the other side, but the lava was surging higher, a wall of fire threatening to engulf him. With a desperate leap, he threw himself forward, his fingers grazing the edge of the causeway, and then Valthrun’s strong hand closed around his wrist and hauled him up.
“Thank you,” Osric gasped, his heart still racing. But there was no time to rest. The second trial awaited.
“The River of Fire,” Agnith said, “must be crossed without touching the lava flow. Use your mastery of Ignan magic to shape the molten rock into stepping stones, but be quick. The lava is constantly shifting, and it will only hold its form for a few heartbeats before it begins to cool.”
Aunir and Valthrun stepped forward, their hands already wreathed in flames as they surveyed the churning lava. Osric followed their lead, drawing on the well of power that burned within him, a primal, searing force. He reached out to the lava with his mind, calling to the molten rock, and to his relief, it answered. The lava surged and shifted, obeying his command as he shaped it into a narrow pillar.
“Go,” Aunir said, and Osric nodded, his focus never wavering. He leapt onto the pillar of lava, his boots sinking into the molten rock. The heat singed at his flesh, but he ignored the pain, to focus on maintaining the flow. With a grunt of effort, he propelled the pillar forward, and then leaped to the next one, and the next, the lava roiling and shifting beneath him with each bound.
He was halfway across the chamber when he heard a cry of alarm. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Fyra’s pillar of lava crumbling beneath her, the molten rock cooling and hardening too quickly. She was teetering on the edge, the heat of the lava flow threatening to pull her down.
“Aunir, to me!” Osric called. “We need to sustain the flow for her.”
Aunir nodded, and together, they worked to keep the lava soft and malleable as Fyra made her way across. She stumbled as she reached the final pillar, the lava threatening to give way, but Osric was there, his hand outstretched. “Quickly,” he said. “Before it hardens.”
Fyra’s eyes widened, and she scrambled forward, leaping from the pillar to his outstretched arm, and then he hauled her up to safety. She clung to him for a moment, her face pale, and then she nodded her thanks, and they continued on.
