Night draped the Iron District in a molten twilight—glowing forges pulsed like dying suns behind soot-streaked walls of iron and brick. Syrith Kaen Drexil stood at the arching gateway of the Foundry of Echoing Hammers, the clang of giant bellows and hammer-strikes echoing through the cavernous halls beyond. His cloak—blacked by soot from Averith's talisman—masked his storm-touched aura from the Covenant's scrying.
He stepped into the heat, each breath tasting of brimstone and sweat. The forges blazed to life at his approach, as if sensing the echo-shard he carried close to his heart. Ancient runes glowed in the molten iron floor, guiding him toward the Crucible of Oaths, where the third Echo lay: an ingot of living fire, inscribed with blood-forged vows that bound Velkyrion's disciples in unbreakable loyalty.
A pair of Fire Wardens emerged from the flames—hulking figures clad in scale-mail forged from cooled magma, their hammers ignited by eternal embers. Their masks were carved like roaring drakes, eyes aflame with fanatic devotion.
Syrith's hand slipped to his dagger, lightning flickering along its edge. He stepped forward, voice ringing clear above the hammering chorus:
"I come for the Echo of Oaths!"
The wardens advanced without hesitation, swinging molten hammers that left trails of fire in the air. Syrith danced between blows, each strike of his dagger ringing like thunder on steel. He summoned a flicker of storm-essence to douse one hammer's flame, sending cooled slag flying into the warden's faceplate. The other swung low, but Syrith sidestepped, planting a foot on the warden's greave and flipping over its shoulder.
He rolled across the hot floor, rising beneath the arches of glowing iron. One warden recovered first, hurling a gout of flame that scorched the rune-laid floor and cracked the iron beneath. Syrith parried with his dagger, drawing a line of lightning that carved a sigil of splintered light on the Warden's pauldron. Sparks erupted, and the Warden staggered, its molten core flickering.
But before Syrith could press the advantage, slithering shadows seeped from the walls—Covenant Forgers, hooded cultists brandishing bellows that sprayed flaming coal-dust in choking clouds. Their chants wove threads of binding fire, seeking to trap Syrith in a cage of living embers.
He blinked through the haze and leapt high, storm-fire trailing from his palms, extinguishing the coal-dust before it could coalesce. The Forgers recoiled as rain-cold bolts crackled through the smoke, splitting the floor with jagged fractures.
Syrith landed before the Crucible of Oaths—a massive basin of liquid iron crowned by a solitary ingot, its surface etched with runes that pulsed like heartbeats. He grasped the ingot, and instantly the room trembled. A roaring voice filled his mind:
"By blood and fire, we are bound. Break this oath, and all flames shall turn to ash."
Pain lanced through Syrith's soul, the Echo's oath-voice dredging up memories of his final feast as king—friends at his side, laughter turned to treachery as poison sizzled in goblets. He staggered, the weight of broken vows threatening to crush him.
But he remembered Averith's steadfast hand, Roukhal's unbroken riddles, and Threvana's calm resolve. He focused on their faces, on their trust. With a roar, he poured his storm-essence into the ingot, lightning dancing along molten grooves, forging a new harmony between fire and storm.
The Crucible's basin pulsed with blinding light as the ingot shattered into motes of ember and thunder. The Fire Wardens fell back, their scales cooling and cracking. The Covenant Forgers fled into the darkness, their bellows silenced.
Syrith lifted the last Echo—a glowing ember-thunder shard—into the air. Its heat warmed his bones, its lightning electrified his veins. In that moment, he stood unbowed, three Echos united, and one step closer to forging the Crown of Storms.
As he turned to leave, the forges dimmed, their fires bowing before his power. The Iron District trembled behind him; the Covenant's grip weakened.
Beyond the Foundry's gates, Averith and Roukhal awaited in the gathered gloom. Roukhal's golden eye burned with pride; Averith's violet flame glowed softly. Together, they watched Syrith emerge, the ember-thunder shard held high—a beacon of vengeance against the dark.
"Three echoes claimed," Syrith announced. "Four remain."
A distant hammer-strike in the night answered—a reminder that the war was far from over. But tonight, the king reborn had won the fires of his foes—and the storm within him roared in triumph.