Chapter 9
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The scent of ash and metal filled the air, thick and clinging. Tony sat cross-legged on a smooth slab of dark rock, elbows resting on his knees, chin in one palm as he watched Vulkan quietly return to his work. Molten metal hissed as it cooled beneath the Primarch's will, shaped by hands older than empires.
"Okay… that's definitely not vibranium," Tony muttered, squinting at the glowing blade forming in Vulkan's forge. "Jarvis, you getting readings on that alloy?"
"Limited, sir. The heat distorts my sensors, and I suspect the material is… quite beyond anything on Earth."
Tony clicked his tongue. "Of course it is. Figures the space blacksmith has mystery space metal."
He turned his gaze again to the walls—the rows of statues he and Vulkan had discussed earlier. They stood like silent sentinels, crafted with such detail they almost breathed. There was reverence in the way each was sculpted. Memory cast in stone. Pride. Loss.
Finally, after a long moment of silence, Tony exhaled.
"…Hey," he began, voice careful, "I've been meaning to ask. You've told me what they were. What they meant to you. But you never said who *you* are."
Vulkan didn't stop immediately. He brought his hammer down one last time, then gently set it aside. Steam rose from the forge as he turned toward Tony, the glow of the lava casting deep shadows across his face.
"I am Vulkan," he said simply. His voice carried no arrogance—only weight, like a mountain acknowledging its name. "Primarch of Nocturne. Son of the Emperor of Mankind. The Black Dragon. The Anvil of Fire. I was forged to lead, to protect, to endure… and to burn."
Tony blinked. The names hung in the air like embers. "Right. Okay. Cool. Casual god-tier resume. Got it."
Vulkan's expression didn't change.
But then… his gaze shifted.
He looked past Tony. Beyond the rock and flame. Toward the horizon.
"What is it?" Tony asked, his posture straightening slightly.
"They come," Vulkan murmured.
Tony's brows furrowed. "Who comes?"
"The others. Mortals," he replied, his deep tone laced with faint irritation. "They climb this mountain. They approach the fire. They are not welcome."
"Oh. That's probably Fury's guys," Tony muttered under his breath.
"I should have known," Jarvis added. "Colonel Hill did dispatch a retrieval team shortly after your unauthorized access of S.H.I.E.L.D. files."
Tony didn't even try to deny it.
Vulkan took a step forward, toward the open corridor that led back into the magma-lit forge. "You must leave, Anthony Stark. My presence in this world must remain unknown. I do not belong here."
Tony rose, brushing soot off his pants. "What, no goodbye hug?"
Vulkan turned back to him, his expression unreadable. Then, his eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in something older. Something heavy.
"You carry the heart of a craftsman," he said.
Tony raised an eyebrow. "I've been called worse."
"But this fire inside you," Vulkan continued, "can be a curse. It will push you to create, to perfect, to shape the world in your image. If you do not master it, it will consume you. Twist your gifts into chains. Pull you away from those you love until you are surrounded only by your creations… and your ghosts."
Tony didn't respond right away. His smirk faltered just slightly.
Vulkan placed a hand over his chest. "Forge with purpose. Love with honesty. Or one day, you will find your furnace cold and your heart hollow."
Silence fell between them.
Finally, Tony cleared his throat. "...Damn. That's... poetic."
"I have had time to think," Vulkan said simply, then turned away.
Jarvis, always the soft voice of logic, offered a quiet comment: "I must say, sir… for a supposed living weapon of war, he is remarkably philosophical."
Tony gave a small chuckle. "Yeah. Makes my therapist look like a discount paperback."
He took one final look at the statues, the heat, the forge, and the lone figure of Vulkan standing before his creation like a god of old. There was beauty here—raw, dangerous beauty. And wisdom buried under centuries of fire.
Tony turned toward the exit.
"Let's go home, J."
"Yes, sir."
As they ascended toward the surface, the echoes of the forge remained behind, lingering in Tony's chest like an ember refusing to die.
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The sunlight hit harder at the summit than Tony expected.
Maybe it was just the contrast—lava-lit halls to sky-cracked daylight—but either way, he had to squint against it as he stepped onto the rocky outcropping where the S.H.I.E.L.D. team waited.
There were four of them. Standard-issue black gear, sidearms, tension in their stances. No weapons drawn, but they weren't exactly rolling out a welcome mat either.
"Mr. Stark," the lead agent greeted, visor lifted, eyes sharp. "We were told to retrieve you immediately. Director Fury—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Tony cut in, raising a hand as he walked toward them. "Big angry pirate with an eyepatch wants his favorite pain-in-the-ass back. Shocking."
He stopped just short of them, brushing soot from his sleeves.
"You're not going in there," he said, more firmly now. "That's not a request."
The agents exchanged glances.
"With all due respect—"
"Nope," Tony said, holding up a finger. "Save it. You wanna follow orders, great. Here's your new one: turn around, walk back down, and pretend you saw me just meditating at the edge of a very hot cliff like some billionaire Buddha."
The same agent tried again, tone just slightly less rigid. "Then what *did* you find inside, sir?"
Tony paused.
The wind picked up slightly, the mountain grumbling low beneath their boots like a sleeping thing that didn't appreciate company.
He tilted his head, half in thought, half in dramatic flair.
"Jarvis," he said aloud, "give me something cryptic and poetic, would you? Spook 'em just enough so they don't poke around, but not enough to get me on a psych eval."
A second passed.
Then the A.I. replied, smooth as silk.
> "Tell them: *'Within the mountain sleeps a god of fire, and even gods dream of silence.'*"
Tony raised both brows, impressed. "Not bad."
He turned to the agents, eyes twinkling with faux-seriousness. "You heard the man. Or… voice. Or… digital butler. Point is, don't go poking the sleeping god. I already made the mistake of waking him up."
The agents stared at him.
"…Understood, sir," the lead one finally said, eyes narrowing like they'd remember every word for their report.
Tony clapped him on the shoulder. "Good talk."
Without waiting for more questions, he started walking—down the mountain, toward the waiting transport at the base.
"Sir," Jarvis said privately in his ear, "you realize they're now absolutely going to submit a report filled with theories, speculation, and at least three internal emails flagged 'urgent.'"
Tony smirked to himself.
"Yeah. But at least none of them will be right."
And with the volcano behind him, the weight of Vulcan's warning still lingering in his chest, he walked on.
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