A low glow pulsed beneath the charred ridges of Emberthorn Highlands as the guardians crept into the forge valley. Heat shimmered off cracked basalt walls, and the air tasted of brimstone and iron. Ancient anvil-stations—once silent—now rang with hammer against corrupted steel, each strike sparking with twisted ember-magic.
Lior led the approach, dagger in hand. "These forges breathe darkness," he murmured. His flame shard flared, sending a ribbon of fire to melt away a molten gate. Beyond it, cult-smiths in ash-black aprons coaxed wicked blades from lava-steel, chants of shadow echoing in the furnace glow.
Sylas drew a deep breath and summoned a cooling gale that spiraled through the forge doors, snuffing errant embers before they could ignite the corrupted runes. Sparks danced up into a swirling tempest of ash and were carried harmlessly into the night sky.
Corwin planted his conch at the edge of a lava channel. He exhaled a silver arc of Wellspring water that hissed against the molten flow, creating pockets of steam that doused the infernal fires. One by one, the hidden vents sputtered and died, starved of both ore and malice.
Bram pressed his earthroot staff into the valley floor. Living roots cracked through the basalt, sealing fissures that had fed the forge's dark heart. The ground hummed, and veins of fresh mineral sprang to life in place of the poisoned rock.
At the forge's center, a colossal Fireforged Automaton of black glass and molten metal rose to defend its masters. Its gears groaned as it swung a hammer of obsidian flame.
Lior ignited a shield of ember around the guardians; Sylas whirled a gust to deflect its molten blows; Corwin flooded the ground beneath it with a cushion of steam; and Bram drove living roots through its legs, anchoring it.
Together they invoked their vow:
"By flame that cleanses, wind that guides,
Tide that cools, and stone that binds—
We stand as one against the dying blaze,
And forge anew our kingdom's days."
Light burst from the Heartstone at Lior's chest, flooding the automaton with pure white radiance. Its glass shell shattered in a cascade of harmless shards, and the forge's final embers winked out.
Silence fell. In the cooled hearth, Sylas's wind carried the faintest scent of fresh pine; Corwin's water hissed gently into crystal pools; Bram's roots glowed with nascent green; and Lior's flame burned bright and warm.
The Emberthorn Forge lay cleansed. Beyond its walls, the Highlands exhaled, ready once more to serve as guardians of balance—and the four hearts, bound as one, pressed onward toward whatever trials still awaited.