The mountain sang a song of doom.
It was not the melody of birdsong or the soft whisper of snow over stone. It was a deep, grinding resonance, like the groan of the earth in pain. The dwarves of Kar-Halgrun, masters of the mountain's bones, had never known such fear. For centuries, they had carved their lives into the obsidian cliffs and silver-veined halls, confident in the stability of their stone world. But now, the stone betrayed them.
Thrain Ironward, High Warden of Kar-Halgrun, stood at the edge of the great shaft known as the Worldvein. It was the deepest point in the mountain — a sacred site from which the dwarves drew both ore and omen. Today, it seethed with a molten glow, and a foul heat rose like breath from a great beast.
Behind Thrain, his council muttered in anxious tones.
"This is no tremor," said Maelin, the old runesmith. "The runes have gone dark. Even the Ancestor Flames flicker."
"Blasphemy," barked Hrogar, Captain of the Guard. "The mountain is eternal."
"No longer," Maelin whispered.
Then, the Worldvein screamed.
A sound like shearing metal and cracking worlds tore through the shaft. Stone split, and a wave of molten rock surged upward, forced not by pressure, but by will. From within the fire rose a shape — immense, armored in jagged plates of obsidian and glowing with veins of magma. Two eyes opened, yellow as sulfur and twice as cruel.
Vorlath had awakened.
He was not born, but forged — an ancient creature created in the time before the Lumina Stone, sealed in the deeps by the gods for crimes forgotten by all but the stones themselves. His form was like a golem, but alive. Magma oozed from his joints. When he moved, the very air turned to ash.
"Run!" Thrain commanded, his voice choked with awe and terror.
But there was nowhere to run.
Vorlath burst from the shaft like a volcanic god, his roar causing the entire chamber to collapse. Ancient halls crumbled. Statues of long-dead kings fell. The dwarves fought back with rune-hammers, war-picks, and flamecasters, but their weapons shattered against his hide or melted from the heat of his presence.
In mere hours, half of Kar-Halgrun was gone.
Thrain rallied the survivors in the Hall of Echoes, beneath the sacred anvil where kings were crowned. Bloodied and battered, he placed a hand on the Heartforge — a relic linked to the Lumina Stone — and prayed.
But the Heartforge was cold.
The Lumina's light had faded, its power corrupted by Vorlath's rise.
"We must seal the mountain," Thrain said. "We cannot stop it. But we can contain it."
Maelin looked at him with hollow eyes. "Seal the mountain... and ourselves?"
"Yes," Thrain whispered.
They enacted the Rite of Shattering — an ancient, forbidden ritual to collapse the inner mountain. A dozen runesmiths sacrificed their own blood, pouring it into the stone. Their chants echoed one final time through the ancient halls.
As Vorlath smashed through the final gate, molten fists obliterating centuries of heritage, the runes ignited. Stone folded upon itself. The mountain collapsed.
The screams of dwarves, the roar of the beast, and the howl of wind through broken peaks became a single terrible sound — then silence.
Kar-Halgrun was no more.
Far to the east, in the crystalline spires of Aeris, the seers wept. Clouds darkened. The wind ceased its songs.
In the capital of Terra, Queen Alira of the Verdant Throne clutched the Dimmed Gem — a fragment of the Lumina Stone gifted to each realm. Once brilliant, it now glowed a dull red.
"It has begun," she murmured.
A council was called. Messengers flew on wyvernback to Aqua and Ignis. Each realm had heard the echoes in their own way — rivers that wept black water, flames that refused to burn, storms that refused to move. The balance was breaking.
Alira stood before her people, tall in silver and green, her voice strong despite the fear that gripped her.
"The First Calamity has risen. Kar-Halgrun has fallen. We must not."
She sent her knights, druids, and sages to the mountains — to learn what remained, to guard against the spread of the fire. But what they found was worse than ash.
Beneath the rubble, Vorlath stirred still. Not dead. Not even weakened.
The Rite had failed.
The beast slumbered, its hunger momentarily satisfied, but its essence seeped into the world. New veins of corrupted ore spread through Terra. Forests grew twisted. Creatures once docile became violent. The land itself groaned in protest.
And in the skies, a comet burned red — a sign not seen in an age.
One calamity had come.
Nine more would follow.
Beneath the fallen stones of Kar-Halgrun, the fire still pulsed.
Vorlath had not been defeated. The collapse of the mountain had merely cloaked him in a temporary tomb — a shell of rock not meant to contain something born of elemental rage. But he was patient. The creature had waited aeons to rise; he could wait longer still to walk free again.
But even in slumber, his essence bled into the roots of the world.