The mountain loomed above them like a sleeping titan, its slopes veiled in mist and the jagged lines of long-forgotten roads carved into the stone. Somewhere within that expanse, hidden behind layers of history and ash, lay the Forge Temple.
Kael could feel it now—not just in the relic's warmth, but in his bones. Like something that had been waiting centuries for him was finally drawing breath.
"This place gives me the creeps," Doran muttered, arms crossed as he stared at the mountain pass. "Which is saying something, because I've camped with goblin traders. They sleep with their eyes open."
"Then maybe you'll finally learn to sleep with your mouth shut," Kael said, dry.
Doran opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it. "Fair."
They trudged on.
The road narrowed as they ascended, the broken path flanked by statues eroded beyond recognition—warriors, maybe, or old gods long since turned to myth. Moss and firevine curled up their bases like nature was trying to reclaim what man once honored.
"Kael," Arinya said as they passed the fourth statue. "That one's glowing."
He turned his head slightly. "Describe it."
"Cracked armor. Sword driven into the ground. There's an engraving in Old Lurathi... I can read some of it." She traced her fingers over the stone, lips moving. "Where fire dies, let fire rise."
Kael's brows drew together.
"I've seen that phrase before," he murmured.
Doran raised an eyebrow. "In a book?"
"In a dream."
A cold wind swept across the ledge then, carrying the scent of metal and soot. And something else—magic. Deep and humming and old.
Ahead, the mouth of a vast cavern yawned open like a scar in the mountain's face. Twin doors stood halfway buried in rubble, each forged from blackened steel and rimmed with molten veins that pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
They'd found the Forge Temple.
The three of them paused, standing at the threshold. For a moment, the world felt still. The wind stopped. Even the birds were silent.
Kael reached out and placed his hand against the metal. The relic beneath his shirt flared.
With a hiss of steam and a low mechanical groan, the doors responded. Gears shifted deep within the mountain, and the temple opened.
Inside, the forge chamber stretched like a cathedral—arched ceilings of obsidian and bronze, suspended bridges over channels of liquid fire, and anvils arranged like pews facing a massive altar of stone and steel. Along the walls, ancient murals told stories of weapons that changed the fate of empires… and the wielders who vanished after using them.
Doran's eyes lit up. "Okay, this is worth the creepy hike."
Arinya stepped beside Kael. "This was a sanctum of the Emberbound. Artificers who built living weapons."
Kael took a slow breath. "Then one of them built mine."
As they moved deeper, the relic seemed to pulse in rhythm with the glowing channels underfoot. Kael's steps grew surer—his senses sharpened. The blindness that once confined him now guided him like a sixth sense. He could feel the path, feel the forge's presence.
"Over there," he said suddenly, pointing toward a sealed dais. "That's where it's waiting."
Arinya looked at him. "The staff?"
"I can hear it calling."
They approached cautiously. Doran hung back. "I'll just... supervise from over here. In case the staff is cursed. Or possessed. Or explodes."
Arinya touched Kael's arm lightly. "Before you open it... do you think you're ready for what's next?"
Kael paused.
He thought of the Ashseekers. Of the relic's awakening. Of the voice that whispered in his dreams. Of the staff that had no name yet—but somehow, he already knew it was his.
"No," he said finally. "But I'm not waiting anymore."
He pressed both hands to the seal.
With a sudden flash of light and a resonant clang like a thousand swords striking at once, the dais unfolded. Inside, resting on a stone cradle, was the staff.
It was six feet of darksteel and ashwood, wrapped in silver threads like veins and crowned with a small obsidian ring that hovered, spinning, just above its tip. Runes shimmered along its length—runes Kael couldn't see but somehow understood.
The moment he touched it, the relic on his chest flared to white.
His knees buckled as the world tilted—and in that instant, Kael wasn't in the temple anymore.
He was on a battlefield made of glass. Fire fell like rain. Shadows walked with crowns. And a younger version of himself—unscarred, unburdened—stood at the center, wielding the staff like it was an extension of his soul.
A voice whispered behind his ear.
"You are not the first."
He gasped, jerking back to reality. The staff was still in his hand. Cold now. Quiet.
But his connection to it was alive.
Arinya was beside him, holding him steady. "Kael—what happened?"
He didn't answer right away. He raised the staff and spun it once. The air shimmered in its wake. It was weightless. Perfect.
"I think I've walked this path before," he said. "In another life."
Doran cleared his throat from the doorway. "Okay, all beautiful and mystical, love the aesthetic... but we've got company."
Kael turned sharply.
Down the mountain trail, dust plumed. Shapes moved fast and coordinated—too fast for mercenaries.
"Scouts," Arinya said. "From Velhara."
Doran groaned. "Of course her fiancé sends a scouting party now."
Kael's brow twitched. "Fiancé?"
"Complicated politics," Arinya said quickly.
"We're unpacking that later," Doran added.
Kael turned toward the door, staff at his side. "We hold them here."
Arinya looked at him. "Just the three of us?"
He nodded. "We have the terrain. The high ground. And the element of surprise."
Doran looked at his chicken-shaped dirt map. "Tactical poultry never fails."
As the enemies approached, Kael stepped forward, blind eyes glowing faintly, staff in hand.
Let them come.
This time, he was ready.