They began their descent before the first ember of Durik's campfire died.
The stairway was carved directly into the bones of the mountain, spiraling downward in tight coils. Each step was worn, edges rounded from centuries of use — or retreat. Rei touched the wall as they walked, feeling the pulse of the stone. It was faint, but there. A slow rhythm, like breath in the deep.
Durik led the way, torch raised, the flame dancing across blackened stone.
"No light down here but what we bring," he muttered. "The Anvilward hasn't seen a flame since the last Binding."
Kaia walked behind him, silent. Her beastkin senses twitched at the scent of iron, ash, and something older — something metallic and bitter, like rusted memory.
Rei brought up the rear, his senses sharp. Every step echoed. Every breath felt like it might wake something that had forgotten sleep.
The stair finally ended at a vast archway — cracked, but standing. Above it was an inscription, half-buried in soot and age:
"Through Flame, We Shape."
Durik exhaled slowly. "Forge-script. First era. Still holds."
He stepped through, and they followed into a chamber unlike anything Rei had seen.
The Anvilward opened before them like the hollow heart of the mountain. Columns lined the walls — not to hold the ceiling, but to house mechanisms. Gears of immense size lay dormant in their sockets, some fused with age, others etched with runes that glowed faintly — like someone had whispered their names in sleep.
At the far end stood a great forge. Cold. Its chimney stretched up into shadow, lost to height and dark. Beside it sat a massive anvil, cracked but intact — the centerpiece of the chamber. A dais of six steps rose toward it, ringed in unlit braziers and broken chain-anchors.
Kaia whispered, "It's beautiful."
Durik's voice came low and reverent. "This is where the Worldsteel was first tempered. Where flame met will and made legacy."
He stepped forward, boots thudding softly against the stone floor. As he passed the nearest column, something stirred — a faint whirr, like the breath of a forgotten machine.
A small light flickered in one of the gears. Then another.
Rei narrowed his eyes. "Are they reacting to you?"
"Not me," Durik said. "To the torch. The flame carries etched heat-runes from the Hall of Coals. Still recognized."
He knelt near a panel embedded in the floor — a console of some kind. Circular, with four rune-grooves darkened by time. He brushed dust away.
"We'll need to rebind the ring if we want to wake anything."
Kaia tilted her head. "Rebind?"
"Four sigils. Earth, Flame, Form, and Breath." Durik pointed to the four grooves. "Each one echoes into the main forge. The Binding Circle. If even one's broken… nothing stirs."
"And if all four light?" Rei asked.
Durik smiled faintly.
"Then the Forge remembers its name."
He rose and began walking the perimeter. Kaia followed, her eyes scanning every broken relief and silent machine. Rei stayed near the dais, drawn to the anvil.
It was massive — etched with old lines, but gouged in places. Something had struck it, long ago. Not in forging, but in rage.
He reached out, touching the side.
Cold.
Then, just beneath his hand — warmth.
Rei drew back. The warmth lingered.
"Durik," he called.
The dwarf turned, then saw the anvil glow — just faintly. A thin blue line pulsed from its base toward the dais, then snuffed out like breath into snow.
Durik's brow furrowed. "That shouldn't happen."
Kaia's ears twitched. "Something's waking."
Rei stepped back, his mark under the ribs flickering with warning.
Then — the air shifted.
A deep metallic clang echoed through the chamber, not from the forge, but from the far side — beyond a rusted gate.
They turned as one.
Another clang. Closer.
Durik lowered the torch.
"Get ready," he said.
Kaia drew her weapon in silence. Rei clenched his fists. The torchlight flickered.
Then…
Silence again.
Only the sound of their breaths, and the long, low hum of something ancient… remembering fire.