The silence of Gracier's inner sanctum was a palpable thing, broken only by the faint, resonant hum of power that emanated from the very stones. The confrontation with Kaelon had been a petty distraction, a flickering candle next to the forge-fire of her ambition. It had left her restless, her blood singing with unused energy. She needed a true challenge, a whetstone against which to sharpen her spirit, not a brittle twig to snap.
Her footsteps echoed as she descended spiraling stairs into the heart of the mountain, to a chamber known only as the Sunken Forge. It was a colossal, natural arena, a vast cavern whose ceiling was lost in darkness, lit by veins of molten gold that pulsed through the walls like a sleeping giant's arteries. In the center of the chamber stood a figure, waiting as if she had been expecting her.
