The staircase carved from ice wound downward like a frozen vein through the mountain's heart. Duncan moved carefully, each step echoing against the glacial walls as if the mountain itself were listening. Behind him, Kaelen and Alra followed, with a small detachment of hardened veterans from the Ironwild Legion — no more than a dozen, chosen not for rank, but for resolve.
Lanterns flickered with pale blue flame, enchanted to resist the cold. But even the light felt weak down here. The air had weight — not just from temperature, but from history. Something ancient slept beneath the Maw, and with every step, Duncan feared they were walking straight into its dreaming jaws.
"Feel that?" Alra whispered. "It's like the pressure before a storm. Or a scream you haven't heard yet."
Duncan didn't answer. He felt it too.
At the bottom of the staircase, the stone widened into a great circular antechamber. Runes shimmered faintly along the walls, thrumming with a heartbeat that didn't belong to any living thing. In the center lay a sealed gate — a disc of black iron etched with the same fang-flame sigil from the shard and the Frozen Tribunal's masks.
Kaelen stepped forward, examining the perimeter. "No visible traps. No doors either."
"It's not meant to be opened by hands," Duncan said. He pulled the shard from his coat, the violet flame within swirling hungrily.
As he approached the gate, the shard flared brighter. The runes lit in response, and the black iron disc began to rotate. The air became heavier — so thick it was hard to breathe — and a low keening filled the chamber.
Then came a voice.
"You are not the Forerunner."
It was not a question.
The wall opposite the gate shimmered, revealing an ethereal figure — a man of regal bearing clad in armor of obsidian and fire, his face obscured by a helm shaped like a snarling beast.
"Who are you?" Duncan asked.
The figure raised its head. "I am the last Warden of the Dominion. The Guardian of the Deep Vault. And you… are a child of war, not of blood."
Duncan's knuckles whitened around the shard. "I don't need to be of blood. Just willing to finish what you couldn't."
The Warden studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, it nodded.
"Then prove it. Step forward and face what was sealed."
The gate cracked open.
A wave of hot, foul air burst forth, followed by silence so absolute it rang in the ears.
Duncan stepped through.
Inside was a massive chamber — circular and domed, with walls of smooth obsidian. Chains as thick as trees hung from the ceiling, anchored to a great cocoon in the center. It pulsed faintly with sickly green light.
Alra gasped. "That's… that's a Heart-Spire."
Kaelen drew his sword. "What's it doing here?"
"No one builds a Heart-Spire underground," Duncan muttered. "Unless they wanted it buried for good."
The cocoon pulsed again.
Then — it spoke.
"Blood of the Betrayers. Fire of the Shard. Come to finish your father's sin?"
Duncan froze.
"You knew him?"
"I was him. Before the Maw. Before the binding. I was the rage they buried."
Alra's face drained of color. "Duncan. That thing… it's your father's essence. Twisted. Bound in a relic."
The cocoon shifted. A face emerged — half-formed, molten, snarling in agony.
"Set me free, son. Let the fire finish what it started."
Duncan stepped back, shaken.
Kaelen raised his blade. "Say the word, Duncan. We put it down."
But Duncan didn't speak. Not yet.
He approached the cocoon, shard in hand. The fire within pulsed faster. The entity inside knew it — craved it. It was the key.
"Why should I free you?" Duncan asked, voice low. "You left us. Left me. Died chasing ghosts."
"Because I am the ghost," it growled. "And so are you. You just don't see it yet."
The shard began to hum violently. Runes in the floor responded, casting Duncan's shadow in a dozen directions.
Alra screamed, "Duncan—!"
He drove the shard into the base of the cocoon.
Light exploded.
The world went white.
And the Maw began to awaken.