It was older.
Older than kings. Older than the first rune etched in stone. Older even, some whispered, than the oaths that bound mountain to clan.
It lay deep beneath Throneforge, beyond the iron doors none but the crown had opened in generations. The path to it spiraled down through bedrock scorched black, lined with pylons carved in the Old Glyph — a language not spoken, only felt. The walls pulsed with veins of molten gold, soft and steady as breath.
The Runepriests called it the Breath's Cradle.
But the Deepguard called it something else.
The Mouth of Fire.
Rei stood at its heart now.
Above him, arching runes flickered to life, painting the stone with shifting light. Around him, magma flowed in deep trenches, crisscrossing the floor like the veins of a buried god. The heat pressed against his skin like a thousand whispered warnings. His heartbeat felt borrowed, like it belonged to the mountain now.
Durik stood on the far ledge, fists clenched.
Kaia, arms crossed, leaned against a blackened pillar, fangs bared in quiet warning.
And above them, Rurik watched. Crownless. Cloaked in ash-red. His eyes did not blink.
Rei stepped forward.
The heat did not burn him.
The Runepriests chanted in the language of fire.
One raised his staff. "This is not judgment," he said. "It is understanding. If the Rift pulses within you, it will speak here."
"And if it doesn't?" Rei asked.
The priest's eyes did not waver. "Then you will walk out whole."
Kaia muttered, "And if it does?"
No one answered.
The air changed.
The runes hummed.
Rei took another step, then another, and the platform beneath him shuddered. A circle of stone lifted — hovering inches from the floor — carried by heat and something else, something unseen.
He stood alone on the platform.
Then everything fell silent.
No chants.
No breath.
Just the sound of fire… waiting.
And the first pulse.
It struck behind his ribs like a second heart — not his own, but familiar.
The Gem flared in the satchel at his side. Its glow bled through the seams of the cloth. Rei clutched it instinctively — and fell to one knee.
He tried to speak.
But the words were drowned by the roar inside him.
It was not the Wyrm.
Not yet.
This was deeper.
Something twisted.
Laughing.
Something ancient and cruel that had once worn chains.
The Rift did not whisper.
It bled.
The runes around the platform flared wildly, losing form, melting from glyph to smear.
The priests staggered back.
Rurik stepped forward, alarm dawning on his face.
From deep within the stone — far, far below — something stirred.
A sound.
Like stone groaning.
Then: a cry.
Not of pain.
Not of fury.
But awakening.
The Wyrm.
The mountain trembled.
Flames rose — not from the platform, but from the magma trenches themselves, as if pulled upward by breath long held. The runes shattered. One of the pylons exploded in sparks.
Durik shouted, "Get him out of there!"
Kaia was already moving.
But Rei did not move.
He stood now — slowly — with ash falling like snow around him.
His eyes glowed faintly.
His skin steamed.
And still, he did not burn.
Rurik stared.
Not at Rei.
At the satchel.
At the glow.
He stepped forward, ignoring the collapsing platform, the groaning stone, the Runepriests yelling behind him.
He reached.
"Don't—!" Kaia cried.
But his hand closed over the satchel.
Over the Gem.
The moment he touched it, the world broke open.
Rurik's vision tore sideways. He stood no longer in the Sanctum but in a place where flame had shape — towers of fire curled like thrones, and shadows crawled through molten rivers.
A vision.
No — a memory.
A prophecy.
He saw dwarves kneeling before a god of ash.
A mountain cracking in two, bleeding chains.
A great sword, forged not to guard, but to conquer — held aloft by a king wreathed in flame.
And on the throne?
Himself.
Not crowned.
Not clad in gold.
But bathed in something darker.
The Gem pulsed black.
Then red.
Then black again.
Rurik stumbled backward, releasing the satchel.
But his eyes glowed.
Slightly.
Faint.
The Runepriests rushed to him.
Durik grabbed Rei.
Kaia hauled them both from the failing platform as the sanctum cracked.
The Wyrm had not risen fully — but its presence coiled now through the Forge. The mountain wept fire. Pillars fell. The Breath groaned.
And yet, at the edge of ruin, Rei stood unburned.
Holding a sword.
Durik had handed it to him in the chaos — black, cracked with crimson veins.
Bread Cutter.
It gleamed, absurdly proud.
And yet… it too hummed.
Not with fire.
But with resonance.
It knew the Gem.
It knew the Rift.
As the mountain roared and the dwarves pulled them out, Rurik stood alone, staring into the magma.
His hand shook.
And he whispered:
"The Forge does not fear him."
He looked at his palm.
It still glowed faintly.
"But perhaps it should."