The air inside the Ashen Spire's forge tasted like a blacksmith's fever dream—molten metal, charcoal, and something faintly herbal that made Reid's sinuses prickle. The chamber stretched upward into shadow, its walls ribbed with glowing veins of magma that pulsed like the arteries of some slumbering titan. Ancient anvils the size of cars lay scattered across the floor, their surfaces etched with runes that hurt to look at directly.
"Well," Williams said, wiping sweat from his brow, "this is either the coolest forge in existence or the waiting room for hell's foundry. Jury's still out."
Dr. Eleanor Whitaker adjusted her heat-resistant goggles, her tablet already scanning the nearest wall. "Both. The druids built this place as a crucible for their greatest weapons. See these markings?" She pointed to a fresco depicting robed figures working alongside humans in archaic smithing gear. "This predates the Sundering. Proof that our ancestors collaborated with Aeltherians long before the Gate opened."
Maeve stood apart from the group, her fingers trailing over a stone pillar carved with leaping flames. The ley-line markings on her skin glowed faintly, mirroring the magma's rhythm. "I've… seen this place," she murmured. "In dreams. Or memories."
Reid moved to her side, his boots crunching on brittle obsidian shards. "Good memories?"
"Terrifying ones." Her gaze fixed on the chamber's heart—a raised dais where a sphere of liquid fire hovered above a pedestal, contained within a cage of rotating druidic sigils. The Forgotten Flame.
Whitaker joined them, her tablet whirring as it analyzed the energy readings. "The wards are a blend of druidic incantations and mechanical failsafes. To retrieve the Flame, someone needs to align these sigils and survive the ten-thousand-degree plasma contained within. Simple, really."
"Define 'simple,'" Reid said flatly.
"Approximately a ninety-seven percent chance of catastrophic failure."
"So you're saying there's a chance," Williams called from across the chamber, where he'd found a partially melted sword taller than he was. "Think this'll fit in my checked luggage?"
Maeve approached the dais, her reflection warping in the Flame's heat haze. As she neared, the sigils flared angrily, projecting holographic warnings in a language that made Whitaker gasp.
"It's Old Druidic!" she said, scrambling to record the symbols. "A warning—'Only the worthy may bear the Flame. All others burn.'"
"Helpful," Reid muttered. "Any tips on how to prove we're 'worthy'?"
Before Whitaker could answer, Maeve pressed her palm to the pedestal.
The chamber shifted.
Stone groaned as the walls dissolved into smoke, replaced by a vision of the forge in its prime. Ghostly figures moved through the mist—druids chanting alongside human engineers, their hands guiding flows of molten energy into weapons of gleaming light. Maeve staggered, clutching her head as the vision overtook her.
"You failed us," hissed a voice from the flames. The Eternal Court's crest materialized in the magma—Seraphine's symbol. "Your rebellion died screaming. Will you let these mortals share their fate?"
Reid grabbed Maeve's shoulder, yanking her back as a tendril of fire lashed out. "Stay with us, Maeve. That's not real."
"It is real," she whispered. "The Flame remembers. It knows my doubts. My… failures."
Across the chamber, Lance Corporal Parvati Singh called out, "Captain! You need to see this." She stood before a stone slab etched with glowing text, her medical scanner repurposed as a translation device. "These inscriptions—they're not just warnings. They're a countdown."
Reid joined her, squinting at the shifting runes. "Explain."
"The forge's stability is tied to the Flame. Remove it, and the Spire's magma chambers destabilize. We'll have minutes before the entire volcano erupts."
"Fantastic," Reid said. "Whitaker? How long to bypass the wards?"
The historian was already elbow-deep in a crystalline control panel, her gloves smoking from proximity to the Flame. "If I reroute the energy through Excalibur's residual charge… maybe five minutes. But Maeve will need to channel the Flame's power once it's free."
"No pressure," Williams said, hefting his rifle. "Just cradle a mini sun while running from lava. Tuesday stuff."
Maeve stared at the Flame, her face lit gold by its glow. "I couldn't protect my people before. If I falter now…"
"You won't." Reid stepped between her and the dais, blocking her view of the Flame. "We've all got pasts, Maeve. But right now? You're the only one here who's walked through fire and come out stronger. That's not doubt—it's proof you're worthy."
The druidess held his gaze, then nodded.
Whitaker's fingers flew across the controls. "Three… two… one!"
The sigil cage exploded in a shower of sparks. The Forgotten Flame surged free, arcing toward Maeve like a comet. She caught it, her scream echoing through the forge as the Flame's energy spiraled up her arms, igniting her ley-line markings into blinding constellations.
The ground heaved. Fissures split the walls, vomiting rivers of lava.
"Time to leave!" Singh shouted, dragging Whitaker toward the exit.
Reid grabbed Maeve's elbow, steering her past collapsing pillars. Behind them, Williams lobbed a grenade into an unstable magma vent, buying seconds as the blast redirected the flow.
"Next time," he panted, sprinting alongside Reid, "let's steal something less explodey. A nice tapestry, maybe!"
The forge collapsed in their wake, molten rock chewing through stone as they fled. Maeve clutched the Flame to her chest, its light burning away the shadows—and perhaps, a fraction of her guilt.
For now, survival was enough.