The journey beyond the city's ruins was a descent into a world unseen, a world older and more primal than the Aetherlane they knew. Guided by a fragmented map Safaa had found in her mother's archives, a network of forgotten aether-lines became their road—rusted metal conduits and hollow tunnels that had once carried the city's lifeblood. The air grew heavier with each step, the scent of petrichor and decaying stone giving way to the biting, mineral smell of oil and burnt metal. It was a smell of industry, but not of life. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they came upon a chasm, a great gash in the earth hidden from the world by a veil of black-smoke-and-rust-strewn mountains. A single, rickety rope bridge, its ropes frayed and its planks splintered, stretched across the void, leading to a hidden cavern.
Beyond the threshold, the world exploded into light and thunder. They had found the hidden Forge. It was a cavern carved by ancient magma flows, its vastness now lit by rivers of molten metal that glowed like blood. Gears, some the size of towers, hung suspended from massive chains, their surfaces etched with forgotten symbols that pulsed with a faint, internal light. The air was thick with heat, the thunderous echoes of a hammering anvil providing the only sound in the cavern's vastness. The light cast long, dancing shadows, making the massive gears look like silent, waiting sentinels.
At the center of it all, a figure stood with his back to them, hammering with a strength that belied his age. He was a mountain of a man, his skin a patchwork of soot and burns, his hands blackened by a lifetime of oil and fire. This was Altharion, the last of the sworn gearwrights, a name whispered in hushed tones even among the Masters—a name Kairen had only read in dusty, forgotten books. He did not turn as they approached, the ringing of his hammer a steady rhythm against the metal.
"You seek a weapon for the Cloak," he rasped, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very ground. He hadn't looked at them, yet he knew their purpose. Sparks flew from the half-forged blade on his anvil, a shower of molten stars. "Many have come here. They seek power. They seek the final solution to their problems." He finally turned, his eyes glowing with the stubborn, almost holy fire of a craftsman's oath. His gaze, unblinking, settled on Safaa, the raw power of the Forge reflected in their depths. "But such a weapon requires not steel… it requires a sacrifice."
His words hung in the molten air, heavier than the very heat that radiated from the forge. Kairen instinctively put a hand on his blade. Was this a trick? Another trap? He looked at Altharion, and then at Safaa, whose pale face was reflected in the glowing metal. He felt her fear, but he also saw the dawning of understanding. Altharion was not speaking of a sacrifice of a life, but of a different kind. The weapon, the one that could fight the Veiled Ones, required a fundamental surrender.
Altharion returned to his work, his hammer singing against the blade. "The Cloak is not a power to be wielded," he said, his words barely audible over the din of the forge. "It is a power that consumes. To fight it, one must be willing to give a part of themselves. Not their body. But their time. Their history. Their very essence." Kairen's heart sank, a cold dread washing over him. This was not a forge of weapons, but a place of ultimate consequence. They had come here seeking a solution, but all they had found was a price. Altharion was telling them that the only way to fight a power that consumes was to let it consume you. A price that could only be paid by Safaa.