The Ashen Spire roared like a wounded titan, its peak vomiting rivers of molten rock into the sulfur-choked sky. Captain Alastair Reid sprinted through the collapsing forge, the Forgotten Flame's containment unit searing his back even through its insulated casing. Behind him, the mountain screamed—a symphony of shearing stone and hissing magma that made the Battle of Aleppo sound like a tea party.
"Left!" bellowed Williams, yanking Reid sideways as a lava bomb cratered the path ahead. The sergeant's face was a grotesque mask of soot and sweat, his grin white and manic. "Next time, let's rob a bank instead. Less heat, more cash."
Reid didn't waste breath replying. Ahead, Dr. Eleanor Whitaker zigzagged through falling debris, Excalibur's reforged blade clutched in one hand like a divine crowbar. The sword pulsed blue-white, its light carving a fragile path through the ash storm.
"Maeve!" Whitaker shouted, skidding to a halt where the corridor forked. "We need a barrier—now!"
The druidess staggered into view, her ley-line markings glowing like live wires under charred skin. She slammed her palms against the trembling stone, and the air shivered. Vines of crystalline energy erupted from the walls, weaving a lattice that momentarily held back the advancing lava.
"Temporary fix!" Maeve gasped, blood trickling from her nose. "The mountain's too corrupted!"
"Temporary's all we need," Reid snapped, shoving the Flame into Singh's waiting arms. The lance corporal had transformed the medical pack into an improvised sling, her movements clinical despite the arm she'd slung in a makeshift brace.
"Four critical, twelve mobile," she reported, somehow audible over the din. "Druids are shielding the rear, but Seraphine's puppets are climbing the magma flows like ants on syrup."
As if summoned, a scaly hand burst through Maeve's barrier. Then another. Then a dozen. Seraphine's lava-forged constructs oozed through the gaps, their obsidian claws scoring grooves in the stone.
Reid's rifle coughed three times—crack-crack-crack—dwarven rounds shattering the lead creature's molten core. "Williams! Suppressing fire on the right flank! Whitaker—"
"Already on it!" The historian ducked under a swinging claw, Excalibur's tip tracing a glowing sigil midair. The rune flared, and a shockwave of ley-energy vaporized three constructs into glass shards. "Though I'd appreciate less improvising and more running!"
They fled deeper into the Spire's bowels, Maeve's barriers flickering like bad theater lights. Reid's HUD showed the exit 200 meters ahead. 150. 100—
The floor dissolved.
Singh caught Reid's harness as he teetered over a newborn chasm, magma churning below. "Captain, we need to—"
A rumble cut her off. Above, the ceiling yawned open, disgorging a nightmare—Seraphine's personal mount, a lava wyrm with a dozen spiked tails, ridden by a figure in blackened armor.
"Ah, Reid," Seraphine's voice slithered through their comms. "Leaving so soon? And without returning what you stole."
Maeve's scream split the air. She knelt clutching her temples, ley-lines writhing up her arms. "It's here—The Weaver's watching through the Flame!"
Whitaker cursed, fumbling at her belt. "Distract the witch! I need ninety seconds!"
Reid met Williams' eyes. The sergeant sighed, hefting his grenade launcher. "You owe me a pint. No—ten pints."
The wyrm struck. Reid dove sideways, rolling behind a shattered column as acid saliva ate through stone. Williams' grenades pocked the beast's hide with glowing craters, but it kept coming—until a druid's lightning bolt fried its left eye.
"Fifty seconds!" Whitaker yelled, wires and crystals spilling from her pack as she jury-rigged the Flame's containment unit.
Reid's rifle clicked empty. He drew Gareth's dagger—the dead knight's parting gift—and lunged at the nearest construct. The blade bit deep, spraying molten slag that blistered his cheek.
"Thirty!"
The wyrm's tail caught Reid mid-charge, slamming him into a wall. Ribs snapped. Vision blurred. Somewhere, Maeve was shouting—
"Now!"
Whitaker's device flared. The Forgotten Flame's radiance exploded outward, pushing—against gravity, against heat, against reality itself. The wyrm screeched as its flesh unraveled. Seraphine's snarl echoed through collapsing stone.
"Go!" Singh hauled Reid upright, half-dragging him toward the exit. "Move!"
They fell into sunlight as the Spire's peak imploded behind them, pyroclastic flow licking at their heels. The escape hovercraft waited 100 meters downhill, its rotors screaming.
Williams collapsed into the cargo hold, grinning through cracked lips. "Next vacation: Antarctica. No magma. No elves. Just nice, boring penguins."
Reid stared back at the dying volcano. Somewhere in that inferno, Seraphine's laughter echoed.
They'd kept the Flame. They'd kept Excalibur.
But as Maeve slumped against the bulkhead, her eyes reflecting distant constellations no human should see, Reid knew—
The real fire was just beginning.