The mountain rose like the ribs of a buried god.
They weren't ordinary peaks — not even natural, not really. The Giant's Spine stretched for miles across the northern wilds, a jagged chain of obsidian-colored cliffs that curved and arched like the vertebrae of something that had fallen from the stars and never decayed.
Torian flew above it, glider open, dipping and rising through the sharp updrafts. Beneath him, the land was harsh — windswept crags, scarred plateaus, deep valleys carved like claw marks. But it was more than just old. It felt shaped. Worn not by time, but by hands and hammers.
Skarn glided beside him, slower today. Watchful.
They'd flown over endless green since the Hollow — forests, rivers, even quiet hills. But this place silenced everything. No birds. No beasts. Just the wind dragging low across stone.
Torian narrowed his eyes.
Then pointed downward.
"There. Look."
Near the spine's center, one cliff-face stood open like a wound — a wide cut in the rock, leading into shadow.
A cavern.
But not natural.
Its edges were carved.
Torian angled his wings and began to descend.
Skarn followed without a sound.
⸻
They landed at the mouth of the cavern just before mid-day.
No light touched the inside.
The wind didn't go in.
Torian stepped forward, peering into the dark. The walls were etched with long, spiraling ridges — flame-carved lines, scorched and ancient, the grooves melted slightly inward as if they'd been seared into the mountain by something too hot to name.
He dragged his fingers across one of them.
Still warm.
"Someone made this."
Skarn sniffed once, then entered the cave.
Torian followed.
⸻
The interior was vast — a winding tunnel that opened into a hall of blackened pillars and half-collapsed vaults. Everything was massive. Not scaled for men. Each arch stood thirty feet high. Each stair was taller than his waist. The floors were smooth in some places, melted in others, like a forge half-destroyed by its own fire.
There were no torches.
No lanterns.
But faint red veins of glowing molten stone ran like rivers through the cracks in the floor, casting the walls in a dim underlight.
Torian walked slowly, boots clicking against the scorched tile.
Skarn moved ahead of him now, tail low, head forward, claws tapping gently — not stalking prey, but measuring distance. The beast knew this wasn't just stone.
It was memory.
⸻
They passed statues.
At first, Torian didn't realize they were statues — they looked like part of the wall. But then he saw the shapes: stone figures standing still, ten feet tall, armored, not human. Their faces were blank. Their arms massive and resting on weapons the size of trees. All of them faced inward, toward a corridor that led deeper into the forge.
Their chests were marked with Spiral sigils.
Long faded.
Some cracked.
Some glowing faintly in red-gold threads, like veins under skin.
Torian stepped closer to one.
Its hand was shaped like a gauntlet, too perfect to be chiseled.
Not carved.
Constructed.
"Skarn…" he murmured.
Skarn didn't answer. He was staring ahead at the long corridor now — the place where the statues looked.
Torian reached out.
Pressed a hand to the Spiral on one of the guardian's chests.
The Spiral beneath his own shirt flickered.
A pulse.
Soft. Like a heartbeat in the stone.
Then—
The statue's eye opened.
Just one.
A slit of red light, vertical and thin, like fire through a crack.
Torian jumped back.
Skarn's head snapped toward him, a low rumble rising in his throat.
But the construct didn't move.
Its eye dimmed again.
Only a warning.
Only… a recognition.
Torian stood frozen, heart pounding, breath caught in his chest.
"I think they can feel it," he said. "The Spiral."
Skarn took a slow step forward, shoulders tense.
Neither of them spoke again.
They moved deeper into the forge.
⸻
The hall beyond curved downward in a spiral — wide enough for a dozen men to walk abreast. The walls here were lined with carvings, long and weathered, but still visible:
Flamebearers holding hammers.
Beasts curled beside them.
An anvil large enough to be mistaken for a temple.
Torian stared.
"I think they built weapons here. Real ones. With fire."
Skarn didn't respond.
But he did growl softly — not in anger, but warning.
They were close now.
At the bottom of the spiral, the tunnel ended in a massive, circular chamber — The Heart of the Forge.
Inside: molten rivers of rock crisscrossed a floor of hammered stone. Pillars held the ceiling high above, cracked but standing. At the center was a dais — and four stone guardians, larger than any they'd passed before, resting in half-buried stance around a broken crucible.
They didn't move.
But Torian felt it the moment he stepped into the heat.
The Spiral in his chest woke again.
Not surging.
Not burning.
Just… calling.
Skarn hissed low and crouched.
Somewhere in the stone…
A sound began to rise.
Not a voice.
Not metal.
Just drums.
A low, echoing thump from within the rock, like something ancient remembering its own rhythm.
Torian turned to Skarn slowly.
"…I think we just woke it up."
The pulse was rising.
The floor beneath their feet vibrated in waves, slow and steady — not like thunder, but like a heartbeat inside the stone. From the walls, glowing veins of molten light began to brighten, casting moving shadows across the high, vaulted chamber.
Torian stood frozen at the edge of the forge's inner sanctum.
Before him, four titanic stone guardians ringed a broken crucible, statues no longer. Their joints cracked and shifted. Limbs unwound from centuries of stillness. Eyes like vertical slits of magma began to open — one by one, like lights being born.
And then—
Skarn moved.
He launched forward with terrifying speed, wings tucked, claws extended. A roar ripped from his chest — not out of fear, not even warning. Declaration.
He met the largest guardian in a headlong collision, striking it just as its eyes fully flared.
Stone exploded.
The impact sent a concussive shockwave through the chamber. Torian stumbled back as the floor shook beneath him. Shards of broken tile flew in all directions. The massive guardian reeled, its upper body dragging backward as cracks webbed across its granite chest.
But it did not fall.
It lifted both arms, each ending in fists like hammerheads, and swung.
Skarn twisted in the air, one blow grazing his flank, sending fur and sparks across the room. He rebounded against a support pillar, claws digging through it for grip, and launched again.
The fight had begun.
⸻
Torian stepped toward them—
And the floor collapsed beneath him.
A section of the stone gave way without warning, sending him tumbling down a shaft carved through molten-black basalt. The glider clipped the edge and knocked loose from his back, flung into darkness.
He landed hard, rolled once, and groaned as he hit the wall of a narrow forge hallway — too narrow for Skarn, too low for escape.
"Skarn!" he shouted.
No answer.
Above, the sound of battle continued — roars, stone crashing against stone, fists shattering walls.
Torian forced himself upright.
Something shifted in the darkness behind him.
Another guardian.
Smaller than the one Skarn had attacked, but faster, sleeker — built not to hold territory, but to chase. Its eyes blinked once in the shadows, and it stepped into the flickering forge-light.
Torian backed away, heartbeat slamming in his chest.
"Okay… think."
No glider. No Skarn.
The Spiral was warm against his ribs. Not burning. Not guiding.
Just present.
Waiting.
The guardian lunged.
⸻
Torian dove under its first swipe, barely clearing the reach of its broad arm as it tore through a stone support like paper. Dust rained down. He scrambled to his feet and ran deeper into the hallway, the construct thundering after him.
He dodged left — into what had once been a workshop. Benches built for giant hands. Tool racks. Ancient gears covered in soot and rust. The heat was rising. Molten lines ran through the floor now.
He looked up.
A ledge.
He sprinted toward the stone rack, climbed fast, fingers slipping.
The guardian followed, crushing a bench beneath one foot. Its hand reared back for a grab—
Torian jumped.
He hit the ledge and rolled, barely keeping his balance.
The ceiling above was open to the central forge — narrow enough to reach, but far too high for a normal climb.
He took a breath.
Unclipped the glider from the edge of the rack where it had landed.
And ran.
⸻
The hallway angled up slightly — just enough.
The heat curled behind him. The guardian roared again, closer this time.
Torian leapt.
The glider snapped open in midair.
He soared up — caught a thermal draft rising from the forge vents — and lifted toward the ceiling arch.
The guardian jumped after him.
Not flying.
Just desperate.
Torian twisted mid-glide, folded the wings—
And fell.
He dropped like a rock, fist extended.
The Spiral on his chest flared white-hot for a second.
Boom.
His punch collided with the guardian's face mid-leap.
A burst of flame erupted from his knuckles — not wild, not uncontrolled, but powerful enough to crack the construct's jaw. The creature reeled backward, off balance.
Torian hit the ground and rolled, gasping, arm throbbing from impact.
The guardian staggered—
Then collapsed, stone fragments raining down as its head split apart at the seams.
Silent.
Dead.
⸻
Torian stood in the settling dust, panting, holding his wrist.
He looked down at his fist.
Smoke rose from his knuckles.
The Spiral on his chest faded slowly back into silence.
"…I did that."
Above, the sound of battle was fading.
A final crash echoed down the shaft.
Then silence.
Then—
Skarn's claws slammed into the edge above, and his massive form dropped into the shaft like a thunderbolt, wings folding as he landed beside Torian.
Blood ran down one side of his shoulder, but his eyes were alert, breathing steady.
He looked down at the fallen guardian.
Then at Torian.
Then… nodded.
Once.
Torian swallowed hard.
And nodded back.
"…Let's get out of here."
The moment Torian vanished into the collapsing floor, Skarn roared.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't look down.
Didn't sniff the air.
He charged.
The colossus before him — the largest of the guardians — had fully awakened now. Its frame groaned as ancient joints realigned, muscles of layered stone flexed beneath runes older than language. It stood nearly twice Skarn's height, with fists the size of battering rams and a chest carved with a faded Spiral that burned dimly back to life.
It swung.
Skarn dodged the first blow.
The hammer-fist cracked the wall behind him, splintering black stone into dust. Skarn lunged in low, claws slashing across the guardian's ribs. Stone shrieked under the blow, sparks flying, but no give. No wound. Just the slow, steady turn of its massive body as it came again.
BOOM.
The second fist struck Skarn broadside.
The beast flew sideways, smashing through a pillar, dust and shards exploding from the impact. He skidded across the floor, caught himself mid-slide, and flared his wings.
The guardian advanced — slow, unstoppable.
Another swing.
Skarn darted to the side and bit down on the arm as it passed. His teeth cracked stone. The guardian reeled, pulling back — Skarn still clamped on — until he wrenched the limb sideways and tore the arm free from its socket.
It dropped to the floor with a thud that shook the forge.
The guardian staggered, not with pain, but with imbalance. It raised its other arm to crush Skarn again—
But this time, Skarn didn't dodge.
He jumped into it.
The blow landed — but Skarn absorbed it, twisted in the air, and slammed both feet into the guardian's chest with a wing-boosted thrust.
The force launched the construct backward into the crucible wall.
Crack.
The wall gave way.
Molten rock poured out in a glowing sheet, washing over the guardian's lower half.
It tried to rise.
Skarn moved fast — wings spread, claws glowing from heat, fur smoking — and with one final howl, he launched himself down upon the guardian's chest and drove it into the molten pool.
Stone met fire.
The Spiral on the guardian's body flared once in protest—
Then died.
The head shattered from the heat.
The body began to melt.
Skarn rose slowly, steam rising from his back, smoke curling off his shoulders. One leg trembled. Blood ran from a shallow gash along his side. But his eyes were sharp. Focused.
He turned to where Torian had fallen—
Just in time to hear a distant boom from below.
⸻
Moments later, Skarn leapt down the forge shaft and landed beside the boy.
Torian was standing there, fist burned, chest heaving, dust in his hair, and pieces of shattered guardian at his feet.
They didn't speak.
They just looked at each other.
Two survivors.
One carved by the world.
One born to survive it.
Then, slowly…
Torian grinned.
"…I hit it."
Skarn tilted his head.
Torian held up his fist.
"Right here. Little fire burst and everything."
Skarn snorted once — like an exhale of disbelief. Or pride. Or both.
He turned and started back up the tunnel.
Torian followed.
⸻
The forge behind them burned in silence — molten veins leaking into ancient floors, statues half-melted, walls crumbling. Whatever civilization had built this place had long since fallen to dust.
But something still lived here.
The Spiral still remembered.
And now, so did they.
The forge fell silent behind them.
As Torian and Skarn emerged from the broken interior corridors, the glow of molten rock still lit the shattered walls below — orange veins winding through the black like the blood of a god now dead. Steam hissed up from cracks in the floor. The guardians, both large and small, lay in scattered heaps, bodies reduced to fractured armor and ash.
But no more rose.
Whatever force had kept them waiting had passed.
Only memory remained.
They climbed slowly back to the forge's upper vault, where the ceiling had partially collapsed, revealing a portion of the sky above — slate-colored and cold. As they moved through what looked like an ancient gallery, Torian paused.
There were murals.
Old. Half-eroded. Carved directly into the walls.
He stepped closer, brushing ash and soot away with the back of his wrist.
And stared.
They weren't decorative.
They were stories.
⸻
The first depicted giants — not like the guardians, but humanoid figures with Spirals carved into their chests and arms. They wielded massive hammers and staffs made of glowing ore. Around them stood beasts — wolves, serpents, great-winged creatures — each with fire in their eyes.
Above them: a mountain, shaped like a flame. Beneath them: rivers of molten gold.
They were called the Flamewrights.
Torian could read none of the glyphs.
But he didn't need to.
The story was in the stone.
He moved down the mural. The next scene showed the Flamewrights building — massive structures, casting light across the land. Weapons. Armor. Temples. Cities that seemed to burn without destroying. Life balanced between flame and stone.
Then… the war.
The third mural was darker. Flamewrights kneeling. Spirals shattering. Beasts turned wild.
And behind it all, a shadow — no form, no face, just a rising tide of blackness above the broken land. In one corner, a Flamewright lay fallen. His chest Spiral cracked down the center, flame leaking out like blood.
The final mural was nearly gone.
But Torian could make out a single child.
Small. Alone.
Standing at the mouth of a forge.
A Spiral glowing faintly at his heart.
⸻
He stepped back.
His throat felt tight.
"…They were like me," he whispered. "Or… I'm like them."
Skarn padded forward beside him. The beast's breath was low, steady. But his golden eyes locked on the murals — and for once, he didn't move on.
He looked.
Really looked.
Torian knelt at the foot of the mural and ran a hand along the cracked Spiral.
"You knew this place, didn't you? Not here exactly, but…" He looked up at Skarn. "You're part of it."
Skarn didn't nod.
But he didn't deny it either.
There was a stillness between them now — not silence, but weight. The sense that they weren't just passing through anymore.
They were connected.
To this forge.
To what was lost.
To what might come again.
⸻
They left before nightfall.
Not because the forge was unsafe.
But because it had given them everything it had to give.
Torian climbed onto Skarn's back and they flew high above the mountain, wind curling against their faces. The Giant's Spine stretched beneath them like the bones of history — long, jagged, still.
They came to rest at the edge of a cliff near the end of the range. The stars were beginning to rise. A slow wind curled up from the valleys below.
Torian unpacked a small scrap of food from his satchel — half a dried fruit and two strips of salt meat. He handed one to Skarn, who sniffed it once and ignored it.
Torian laughed, weakly.
"More for me."
He sat beside his companion, staring at the stars.
Then held out his hand.
And focused.
The Spiral on his chest glowed softly.
A small flicker of flame bloomed in his palm — no bigger than a candle.
It didn't roar.
Didn't burn.
But it stayed.
He looked into it for a long time, letting the warmth curl around his fingers.
Then closed his hand.
The flame went out.
He leaned back against Skarn's side, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"…I'll never be like them," he whispered. "The ones in the mural."
Skarn didn't move.
Torian smiled faintly.
"But maybe that's okay."
He closed his eyes.
And fell asleep beneath the stars.
Skarn remained awake.
Watching the horizon.
Listening to the quiet hum of the Spiral still breathing in the boy's chest.