The air above the Ashen Spire shimmered with heat haze, the acrid stench of sulfur clinging to every breath. Captain Alastair Reid ducked behind a jagged obsidian outcrop as a fire elemental's molten fist cratered the ground where he'd stood moments before. The creature roared, its body a writhing mass of magma and charred bone, its eyes twin pits of green flame that tracked his every move.
"Williams!" Reid barked into his comms. "Status on those disruptors?"
"Charging, sir!" came the reply, punctuated by the crack of a grenade launcher. "Though if you've got a better idea than 'shoot the lava monster,' I'm all ears!"
Reid risked a glance over the rock. The battlefield was a hellscape of erupting geysers and crackling ley-line energy. Seraphine's elite forces—armored in blackened scale-mail that drank in the firelight—pressed forward, their corrupted druids summoning waves of heat that warped the air itself.
Gareth would've hated this, Reid thought, loading a fresh magazine into his dwarven-forged rifle. The late knight had always preferred straightforward enemies—the kind that stayed dead when you stabbed them.
"Whitaker!" Reid shouted. "We need Excalibur now!"
Dr. Eleanor Whitaker crouched nearby, her face smeared with soot and sweat as she fumbled with the reforged blade. The sword pulsed in her grip, its blue-white light fighting against the Spire's oppressive glow. "I'm trying, Captain! The ley-lines here are—oh god—"
The ground heaved. A fissure split open beside them, vomiting a column of superheated gas that sent three Valkyrie soldiers stumbling back, their uniforms smoking.
"Less geology, more sword-waving, Doc!" Williams called from across the battlefield, his voice strained as he parried a flaming axe with his rifle's stock.
Whitaker snarled a curse that would've made a sailor blush and raised Excalibur high. The blade flared, its light cutting through the ash-choked air like a beacon. The nearest fire elemental shrieked as its molten form splintered, collapsing into inert stone.
The victory was short-lived.
The Spire itself seemed to howl in response. The ground trembled, and new fissures spiderwebbed across the battlefield, venting plumes of ash and fire.
"Stabilizing the ley-lines!" Whitaker shouted, her voice equal parts triumph and terror. "Also, possibly triggering volcanic eruptions!"
"Define 'possibly!'" Reid ducked as a chunk of obsidian the size of a football sailed past his head.
"Eighty-seven percent certainty!"
"Wonderful," Reid muttered. "Add 'surviving a volcano' to the mission report."
Maeve felt the Weaver's voice before she heard it—a serpentine whisper threading through the ley-lines that connected her to the Spire.
So much fire… it crooned, its words vibrating in her molars. Let it burn. Let them all burn.
She pressed her palms to the shuddering earth, her druidic markings flaring as she fought to contain the spreading fractures. "Not… today…" she gritted out. Vines exploded from the barren rock, lashing across the fissures in a desperate lattice.
A hand gripped her shoulder—Singh, her medic's insignia gleaming dully through a patina of ash. "We need to move the wounded!" The lance corporal had to shout over the Spire's thunderous growls. "Can you hold this sector?"
Maeve nodded, though her vision swam. The Weaver's laughter echoed through her skull.
You'll fail, it whispered. You always do.
"Quiet," she hissed, not sure if she was addressing the cosmic entity or her own doubts.
Reid's knife scraped against necromantic steel as he parried a downward strike from Seraphine's lieutenant—a hulking figure whose armor hissed with trapped souls. The lieutenant's blade, etched with glowing green runes, left afterimages in the air as it moved.
"Your bones will feed the Spire, human," the lieutenant rasped, their voice echoing from within the helm.
"Original," Reid shot back, pivoting to avoid a decapitating swing. "Heard that one in Kabul. And Aleppo. And—"
His boot slipped on loose scree. The lieutenant lunged, their blade scoring a line of fire across Reid's ribs.
Pain blossomed, hot and immediate. Reid barely registered Singh's distant shout—"Captain!"—before instinct took over. He dropped, swept the lieutenant's legs, and drove his knife upward through the helmet's eye slit.
The lieutenant collapsed, their armor clattering emptily against the rocks.
"And… Syria," Reid finished, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side. His fingers came away glistening.
The Spire's peak loomed above them, its vents glowing like demonic eyes. Whitaker staggered to Reid's side, Excalibur's light now flickering erratically.
"The disruptors are failing!" she shouted. "We need to reach the forge now!"
Reid followed her gaze to a jagged archway halfway up the slope—an entrance carved with runes that hurt to look at directly. Even from here, he could feel the heat radiating from within.
"Williams! Covering fire!" Reid barked. "Singh, fall back with the wounded! Whitaker, Maeve—with me!"
The druidess appeared beside them, her skin ashy pale. "The Weaver… it's stronger here," she warned. "It wants the Flame."
"Join the queue," Reid muttered.
They fought their way upward, past geysers that erupted in their wake and elementals that died screaming under Excalibur's light. The archway yawned before them, its interior pulsing with an ominous orange glow.
Williams' voice crackled over the comms as they crossed the threshold. "Don't die in there, Captain! I'm not explaining to Crowe that you got eaten by a volcano—"
The transmission dissolved into static.
The chamber beyond defied reason—a cavernous forge where the walls themselves bled magma. At its heart sat an anvil of pure star-metal, and upon it rested a shimmering orb of liquid fire that cast dancing shadows on the ceiling.
The Forgotten Flame.
Whitaker sucked in a breath. "It's… it's a stellar core fragment. The druids must've trapped a dying star here."
Maeve recoiled, her hands pressed to her temples. "Can't you hear it? The Flame's screaming."
Reid stepped closer, squinting against the heat. The orb's surface rippled, showing fleeting images—a star collapsing, a blade being quenched, a hundred hands (human and Aeltherian) working in unison.
"We need to move fast," he said. "Seraphine's still out there, and this place is—"
The ground heaved. Cracks raced across the forge floor as the Spire's eruptions redoubled.
Maeve grabbed Whitaker's arm. "The ley-lines are tearing apart! If we take the Flame without stabilizing—"
A section of ceiling collapsed, spraying molten rock. Reid shoved both women aside as debris cratered the spot where they'd stood.
"Stabilize how?" he demanded.
Whitaker's gaze locked on Excalibur. "The sword's connected to the same energy matrix. If I can use it to anchor the lines—"
"You'll what? Play jump-rope with a volcano?"
"Essentially!"
Reid stared at her. "You've been spending too much time with Williams."
Another tremor shook the chamber. Somewhere above, stone screamed against stone.
"Do it," Reid ordered.
As Whitaker plunged Excalibur into the forge's heart, Reid caught Maeve's eye. The druidess's gaze was haunted.
The Weaver's close, that look said.
Closer than you think.