The Hollow Furnace.
A place whispered of in Fireborn sagas, etched in scorched runes on cave walls older than kings. Said to rest beneath the skin of the world, where flame met void, and even gods feared to tread.
Kael stood at the precipice of the descent, deep beneath the Ashen Marches. Around him, the walls glowed faintly with dormant magma veins, and the air grew heavy with heat that could blister bone. His companions were silent behind him.
"Is this wise?" Lyra finally asked. Her voice, usually composed, now wavered with restrained concern. "We barely survived the Vault. This… this feels like something meant to remain buried."
Kael looked down into the darkness yawning below them.
"I don't care what it was meant for," he said quietly. "If it gives me the strength to stand against what's coming… I'll claim it."
Isryn's eyes narrowed, her fingers tracing symbols in the soot-stained air. "This place… it's old magic. Dangerous magic."
"That's the only kind we seem to find," Darric muttered, hoisting his spear. "Let's just get through it in one piece."
They began the descent.
The path twisted downward into a chasm lit by the occasional burst of flame from the walls. The heat thickened until even breathing became laborious. They passed crumbled statues—depictions of long-forgotten Firelords, their features twisted by centuries of searing erosion.
And then they reached it.
A gate of obsidian, sealed with chains of molten brass, stood before them. Above it, written in glowing runes:
"Let None Claim Flame Unforged."
Kael stepped forward.
The Crimson Mark on his hand ignited.
The chains broke apart with a sound like cracking worlds.
The gate opened.
Inside, the Hollow Furnace revealed itself: a vast chamber of pulsing flame and floating platforms, suspended above rivers of pure lava. Ancient forges sat cold and broken, and at the very center—a floating crucible, surrounded by twelve braziers, each burning with a different hue.
As Kael stepped inside, the crucible flared.
From the shadows emerged guardians—creatures of living metal and ember-blood. Forged from war and fire, they rose to defend the sacred flame.
"Spread out!" Kael ordered.
One lunged.
Kael met it head-on, blade flashing.
"Ashreaver Style: Crimson Severance!" he called out.
Ashreaver cleaved through the metallic shell with precision, red sparks trailing the slash like a comet's tail. The guardian fell in two smoking halves.
Darric roared beside him, impaling another with his spear, while Isryn unleashed a vortex of burning wind, shattering the constructs in mid-lunge. Lyra danced between them, arrows striking weak points Kael created with his sword strikes.
But the real threat came from above.
The crucible pulsed again—and from it rose the Forge-Warden.
A towering figure of obsidian and flame, crowned with a molten helm and wielding a hammer that could crush a mountain. Its voice echoed like thunder, speaking in a dead tongue.
Kael didn't hesitate.
"Ashreaver Form: Blazing Spiral Fang!"
He launched upward, blade spinning like a flaming drill, clashing with the hammer in mid-air. The force of their impact cracked the crucible's supports.
Back and forth they clashed—flame against flame, fury against will.
The Warden roared and brought down its hammer, splitting the earth—but Kael met it with a rising slash, infused with his Crimson Spark.
"Infernal Verdict!"
The blow severed the Warden's hammer arm at the elbow, followed by a final spinning cleave across the chest. The core cracked.
The Warden staggered.
Kael drove Ashreaver into its chest, planting a hand against its core.
Then whispered:
"Burn."
The Warden exploded in a shockwave of molten light.
When the heat faded, the crucible descended gently toward Kael, hovering before him. Inside, flame swirled—not red, not orange, but white—pure, ancient, untouched by any forge in the known world.
The Oracle's voice echoed in his memory:
"What sleeps in the Hollow Furnace is not fire—it is Will. Pure, relentless, enduring."
Kael reached out. The flame flowed into him.
And his aura… shifted.
Not larger. Not wilder.
But focused.
Condensed.
Controlled.
He had become something new.
"Crimson Ascendance," Isryn whispered. "You've mastered it."
Kael turned, a faint smile on his lips.
"Not mastered," he said. "But close."