Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

The corridors of the Forge of Vulkanos were a world unto themselves, a subterranean labyrinth that stretched for miles beneath the Ashen Peaks to the south out of Luminara. They were a living, breathing thing, pulsing with the heat of the forges, and the clamor of hammers against anvils and the hiss of molten metal as raw ore was pounded into submission. The air was thick with the scent of seared flesh, and the harsh tang of burning coal, and the raw, primal power of white-hot lava as it was forged into being. It was more than any outsider could bear, and even most of Osric's own kind found it too much to take, once they reached their majority. But it was the only home Osric had ever known, and he would sooner have torn his own heart out than leave it behind.

Sweat running down his bare chest, his muscles aching from his usual pre-dawn ritual of toiling over an anvil, Osric wound through the twisting corridors, following the familiar currents of heat that rose up from the depths. The stone floor was slick with condensation, and the further he descended, the more the heat swaddled him, a heavy, suffocating blanket. But it was a comfort to him, a reminder that he was never truly alone.

Finally, he reached the chamber of his mentor, Agnith, the master blacksmith of the Forge, and Osric's de facto guardian sever since that night. Agnith was a towering figure, even by Emberforged elf standards, with a thick braid of fiery red hair and a voice that boomed like a cannon. He surveyed Osric with a single, steely eye, and gestured for him to approach.

"Osric," Agnith rumbled, setting down his hammer. "What brings you to my domain, child of the Embers?"

Osric's bare feet slapped against the stone floor as he crossed the threshold, the heat rising up to swallow him, the air thick with sweat and the raw, unyielding power of the flames. He shambled toward Agnith, who loomed over the anvil, one thickly-muscled arm crossed over his leather apron as he studied Osric.

"Agnith." Osric stopped a few paces from the anvil and dropped to his knees. "I seek your guidance."

Agnith's expression didn't soften. "You have always been a quick study, Osric. But you are not so quick to come to me with your questions."

A shudder of shame rippled through Osric, and he kept his gaze fixed on the ground. "I . . . I did not wish to disappoint you."

"And is it not more disappointing to me, then, when you fail, because you did not seek my counsel?"

A gnawing ache of guilt coiled in Osric's belly. He had no answer for that, because he knew it was true.

"Agnith, I need to know if I am on the right path with my studies in metalworking. With our goals."

Agnith's brow furrowed, and he regarded Osric for a long moment. "You seek to master the ancient art of forging, then."

Osric nodded, his throat tight. "I have been researching the Ignan runes like you asked. The ones that are said to have been used in the forging of the primordial artifacts."

Agnith's expression softened, and he let out a low, rumbling laugh. "They call to you, do they not? The beckoning crackle of flame. I remember when my own mentor first told me of them, when I was but a youngling such as yourself."

Osric's pulse quickened, and he dared to look up at Agnith. "Do you know anything of their true power? The legends say that they are capable of reshaping the very fabric of the world."

Agnith's eye glittered with an unreadable emotion. "The legends are true. The power of the primordial artifacts is both wondrous and terrible, a force that can sunder mountains and level empires. It is not a power to be trifled with."

A shiver of excitement raced up Osric's spine. "But you know how to harness that power, when the time comes."

"Indeed. The embers sparked in the First Forging are a sacred gift, a power that we are entrusted to wield in the service of the greater good. But the temptation to misuse that power—to let it consume us—is a constant danger. There are plenty who have long sought to harness the primordial artifacts for their own ends, and it has only brought them suffering."

"But if one were to master the art of forging, truly master it," Osric said, his voice a hushed, fervent whisper, "then they would be able to control the power the primordials wielded. They could bend it to their will."

Agnith regarded him for a long moment, and then he nodded, a slow, solemn gesture. "Yes.They would be able to command them. But it is a dangerous path, Osric. One that can too easily lead to ruin. That is why we cannot allow any one person to wield them. We must do it as one."

Osric straightened his spine. "I am not afraid. I am willing to do whatever it takes to be worthy of the First Forging. To claim the power of the primordial artifacts for our own."

Agnith's lips quirked up in a wry smile. "Then you have much to learn, young one. But I believe that you have the potential to become a master of the forge, if you are willing to pay the price."

"I am," Osric said. "I swear it on the flames of my ancestors. I will stop at nothing to seize the power that is rightfully ours."

Agnith's expression hardened, and he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, rumbling growl. "The art of forging is a sacred gift, Osric. One we must safeguard at all costs. The knowledge of the Ignan runes, the primordial artifacts—it is not meant for mortal hands to grasp. To seek such power is to court disaster, for the world itself could be torn asunder." Agnith's hand closed around his shoulder, the heat of his palm searing through the thin layer of sweat that coated Osric's skin. "Then go, my young friend. Walk the path that has been set before you, and may the flames of the forge light your way."

Osric nodded, his jaw set in a hard line. He turned to go, his blood molten with anticipation. He was on the cusp of something great, something wondrous and terrible. They all were.

"Oh, and Osric?" Agnith called out, and Osric paused in the doorway, his hand on the stone. "This must remain our secret. The world is not yet ready for what is to come."

Osric's jaw tightened, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Of course, Agnith. I swear it."

Agnith released him, and Osric turned to go. He could feel Agnith's gaze on his back, a heavy, searching weight. Osric forced himself to move forward, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor. The further he got from Agnith's chamber, the more the heat closed in around him, a suffocating, oppressive presence. The flames whispered to him, taunting him, testing him. But he was not afraid. He was ready to claim the power that was rightfully his.

He wound his way through the twisting corridors of the Forge, his mind racing. The key closer than ever now, he was sure of it. A key that would unlock the secrets of the Ignan runes, that would allow him to command the artifacts for his own. He should take it to Agnith, he knew. He should show it to the master blacksmith, and seek his guidance on how best to proceed.

But something held him back. A voice in the back of his mind, a whisper of doubt. This was his path to walk, his destiny to claim. He could not risk anyone else getting in his way. He needed to keep this secret, to guard it with his life.

He emerged from the depths of the Forge, the cool night air washing over him, a welcome relief from the suffocating heat. The sky was streaked with the first pale light of dawn, and the world was hushed, waiting. Osric ascended toward the surface, his steps slow and measured. He had a plan now, a path to follow. He only hoped that he was strong enough to see it through.

As he set off into the darkness, the flames of his determination burning bright, he couldn't help but wonder what lay on the other side. Victory, he hoped. Power beyond his wildest dreams. Retribution. Forgiveness. A world that they could shape and bend to his will. He had come too far to turn back now.

He had to be careful. The woman at the bookshop—she was no fool, and she had a sharp mind. But that was a concern for another time. For now, he needed to focus on his mission, on finding the artifacts and claiming their power for his own. He strolled through the city streets, the cool morning air sharp in his lungs. The city was beginning to stir, the first faint light of dawn painting the sky a pale, bruised purple. He had been up all night, lost in his thoughts, his plans, his dreams of power and glory.

He had almost reached the bookshop when he saw her—a flash of coppery curls, an expression of intense concentration hardening her features. Hali, the dwarf who ran the shop, the one who had been asking questions about the artifacts. She was standing in the doorway of the bookshop, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed.

"Osric," she said, and there was a hint of a smile on her lips. "What a pleasant surprise."

Osric stopped in front of her, his heart pounding in his chest. She was even more beautiful up close, he realized, with her coppery curls and her hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle with intelligence, with curiosity. She was a puzzle, a mystery, and he found himself drawn to her in a way that he could not explain.

"I was just in the neighborhood," he said, forcing a smile. "I thought I would stop by and see if you had any new acquisitions."

Her smile widened, and she stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. "Always happy to indulge a fellow book lover. Please, come in."