The heat of the crucible was unbearable, the kind of heat that made you feel your bones melting and your lungs screaming for cooler air. Yet, Alaric stood at the south crucible's mouth, sweat dripping down his back as the forge-mistress Maera Sable moved with unnerving precision. Her movements were measured, deliberate, as she directed apprentices to feed the flames, adjust the temperature, and ensure the molten metal inside the furnace did not escape its confines.
Alaric gripped the Frost-Fire Veil, the fan's cold and warmth twisting in his hands like a pulse. He did not know why Maera had handed it to him or why she expected him to perform the duties of someone far more skilled than him.
Maera's cold eyes cut through him, calculating his every move, her presence looming over him like a storm. She hadn't spoken much since the lottery, but he could feel her expectations pressing down on him.
"Don't let it crack," Maera's voice was low, controlled, but carried enough weight for him to know there was no room for failure.
"Yes, mistress," Alaric answered, his voice hoarse from the heat and the effort of holding the fan steady in his hands.
The flames danced violently inside the crucible, as if mocking his efforts to control them. Alaric, sweating and out of breath, flicked the fan's vanes carefully. The cold side pressed against the heat, tempering it. Each breath was an agonizing rhythm of focus and failure. His fingers ached from the cold burn of the fan, but he refused to let it slip from his hands.
Hours passed, though time seemed to stretch infinitely in the oppressive heat. The crucible's constant hum became a sound he could no longer discern from his own pulse. Each shift of the fan was an agonizing calculation of seconds, of weight, of pressure. He was drowning in the weight of it.
"You're still breathing," Maera remarked, her voice carrying an edge of something close to approval, but he couldn't tell. She moved past him, inspecting the other apprentices. Her shadow loomed over him again, her silence more daunting than any command.
Alaric shifted on his feet, trying to ignore the mounting pressure. His mind wandered—back to the ring, back to the strange, cold pulse it had given off, deep within the underlevel, when the tower had shifted. The hollow, deep thrum had rattled his bones as if it was calling him.
He could still feel the sensation, but the moment slipped away as the fan turned heavier in his hands. The air around him swirled with warmth, tinged with ash. His breath quickened, his focus narrowing on the ever-growing weight of the fan as he flicked the vanes once again.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the far side of the room. Alaric jumped, his heart pounding. Maera's voice rang out in the chaos, sharp and cutting through the ringing in his ears.
"Get control! Now!"
Alaric rushed toward the cause of the noise, his mind clearing for a brief moment. A younger apprentice, panic in his eyes, had knocked a stack of iron ingots to the floor, sending them clattering with a loud bang. Maera was already moving, striding toward the mess with that chilling certainty in her step.
"Apprentice! Pick them up," she commanded, her voice as cold as ice, yet tinged with something else.
The apprentice scrambled, grabbing ingots and trying to organize the chaos. The room was silent except for the sound of metal being rearranged, the air tense with the weight of Maera's attention.
Alaric stepped back, feeling the stifling heat clawing at his throat again. His breath felt shallow, his hands slick with sweat. He couldn't help but notice how effortless Maera seemed compared to him. She had been born for this—born for the heat, born for the fire. She was the flame itself. And here, Alaric was just a thing to stoke it.
The apprentice cleaned up the mess, but Maera did not leave him with a word of praise. Instead, she simply turned back to Alaric and gestured for him to keep going.
"Are you finished wasting time?" she asked, her voice low but clear.
Alaric, his throat dry, nodded and returned to his position. He held the fan tighter, the pressure in his chest unbearable as he returned to the crucible. The flames were no longer just a thing to control—they were a part of him, mocking him, waiting for him to fail.
The day stretched on. By the time the first apprentice's shift ended, and another stepped in to take their place, Alaric's arms were sore, his hands shaking. But he refused to stop. The ring still hummed against his skin, a reminder that something bigger than him was waiting.
His shift ended as the sun began to set, casting the room in a strange amber glow. Exhausted, Alaric stepped away from the furnace. He could barely move his legs, the weight of the fan almost too much for him to bear. But it wasn't over.
Maera gave him no respite. "Get some rest," she said, her tone cool but commanding. "You'll need it for the next shift. Don't waste it."
Alaric nodded, making his way toward the door, his hands still wrapped around the fan. The air outside the furnace room was a bit cooler, but the weight of the work still clung to him.
As he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was changing within the walls of Greyspire. The hum of the ring was louder now, echoing in the quiet corners of his mind. It was always there, just below the surface. He could feel it more sharply now than ever before.
Alaric had been through many trials in his life, but something told him this was only the beginning. The underlevel, the furnace, the ring—none of it felt like a coincidence anymore.