The mountain screamed. Lightning veins tore across its flanks, rivers of molten ash surging upward instead of down. The air itself convulsed, folding and unfolding like heated glass.Below, the Ashen Fields split open into fissures of light, seven halos of thunder rotated—Zeus' old sigils awakening.
Far beneath the storming summit, a Magus of the Imperial College stood within a circle of humming pylons in the Aether Conduit Platform. Runes crawled over his body like veins of blue fire. Five acolytes knelt around him, each chained to the circle by lightning filaments.
"Equation six-delta! Maintain the lift ratio!"
The Magus's voice cracked as stormlight poured from his mouth. Glyphs of lightning floated before him like a spinning codex, translating Zeus' divine language into mortal geometry. Every pulse of the Forge's heart passed through his spine, burning him alive from within.
High above, Anipather and Ithan fought on the Inner Crucible platform, their struggle feeding directly into the equations he controlled. The Magus could feel each clash of their Mysteries ripple through the Forge's veins like seismic thunder.
"Do you know what this place is called, Ashborn?"
Anipather's boot pressed into Ithan's chest, the weight grinding against broken ribs. The captain loomed over him, haloed by the pulsing stormlight of the crystal chamber. Each pulse of light caught the smear of blood across his armor, painting him in flickers of crimson and gold.
Ithan gasped, the effort to breathe scraping through his lungs. Every nerve screamed. The last impact had shattered half his body; he could feel it in the way his arms refused to answer him, in the dull, hot agony pulsing beneath his skin.
Only his Survival Mystery kept the darkness from swallowing him whole. Each heartbeat was a negotiation between life and death—one that his will barely kept winning.
He tried to lift his spear. Anipather's boot pressed harder. Bone shifted; Ithan bit down on a cry.
"According to the Arkanis Imperial records," Anipather continued, tone cool, almost conversational, "this mountain is known as Storm Forge."
He gestured lazily around them—the towering spires of crystal, the arcs of lightning crawling up the walls like veins of light. "A holy site to some. A relic to others. The story goes that before the gods vanished, a piece of Zeus's domain—the Sky Sovereign's own throne—fell from the heavens. It struck this land like a blade, splitting the earth, birthing this field of ash."
He smiled faintly, the expression sharp and humorless. "The fools in the Senate like to believe that's where Stormheart came from—that the lance was forged from the lightning of that divine fragment."
He leaned lower, the pressure on Ithan's chest crushing. "But of course, that's impossible. The Ashen Field existed long before this mountain even came into existence."
Lightning crawled up the walls behind him, illuminating the reflection in Ithan's eyes—Anipather standing like a conqueror, a man who thought himself divine.
Ithan coughed, a ragged, bloody sound breaking from his throat. His body trembled beneath the captain's boot, but his eyes burned with quiet, defiant fire.
"You talk too much," he rasped.
Anipather's smile widened, his voice low and fevered. "And you endure too long. Tell me, Ashborn—can you feel it? The Forge rising? The world shall remember what the gods built it for…" His eyes gleamed like lightning reflecting off the crystals. "…War."
He grabbed Ithan by the throat and dragged him across the floor, boots scraping sparks from the glassy surface. Ithan's body left a streak of blood in its wake, each breath a shallow rasp against the hum of awakening power.
Anipather hauled him to the center of the crucible—to the dais where Stormheart had once stood sealed, before Ithan had torn it free. The air here vibrated, dense and metallic, heavy with ozone and the scent of divine residue.
He dropped Ithan at its base and kicked him in the jaw, forcing his head toward the crystal podium. The impact cracked something inside his mouth—he tasted iron and grit.
The podium shimmered, translucent like the rest of the mountain, but alive with motion beneath. Through the storm-haze of fractured light, Ithan saw beneath the platform—into the belly of the Forge itself.
Below them, a colossal mechanism of runic rings spun faster and faster, glowing veins of white-blue Aether racing through its structure like arteries of light. The Magus's platform—a floating circle of obsidian metal carved with Imperial runes—gleamed far below. The Magus himself stood at its center, his robes whipping violently in the storm.
The Forge was moving.
Seven halos of crystallized lightning tilted westward, the entire mountain groaning as plates of translucent stone shifted and rotated. Thunder cracked through its veins. The ground beneath Ithan's palms vibrated so fiercely he could feel his own heartbeat stutter to match it.
"The magi guide the flight," Anipather said, gesturing toward the light below. "We ascend toward the Spine of Hyperion—the border that divides the Imperium from the Aurelion League."
He paced in front of the dais, his tone growing more animated, every word trembling with conviction. "Do you know what lies beneath the Spine, Ashborn? A vein of ash. A vault where the corruption of this Field—the curse that birthed us—is sealed away."
Ithan lifted his head slightly, blood dripping down his chin. His voice was hoarse, incredulous. "And you're telling me this because…?"
Anipather laughed—a sharp, broken sound. "Because I didn't know either. Not until much later." His sabers vibrated faintly at his sides, resonating with the storm's pulse. "When we reach the Spine, the Ash Vein will open. The west will drown in corruption…"
He leaned down, eyes bright with zeal. "…and I will save them from it."
Below, the Magus heard his captain's words and looked up through the churning haze. His lips trembled into a thin, fearful smile—half pride, half horror. His hands trembled over the runic controls, yet he didn't stop. The sigils brightened, the rings spinning faster, lightning leaping between them like veins of divine fire.
He believed it. He believed he was steering history itself.
And the Forge obeyed.
"I wish you could be there to see the dawn of a new age, but I'm afraid I can't let you live," Anipather said. "That lance of yours will serve me more than it would for you."
Lotus mist.
Anipather's pupils dilated into concentric lotus patterns, and a faint black-violet aura leaks from his pores. Within seconds, the air thickened into a mist of oblivion—not smoke or fog, but dreamstuff condensed from spiritual entropy.
The mist rolls outward in waves, each carrying the hum of submerged lullabies—echoes of all those who've died within its reach. The scent was sweet—like lotus soaked in rot.
Ithan felt the temperature drop; the world felt muffled, sound dampened. To him, it felt as if they were underwater, hearing through their own heartbeat. Every breath stole a fragment of memory.
~
"Where are you going?" Larson's voice reached Ithan, steady but edged with concern.
Time had passed since Ithan had found the corpses of Sophia's parents inside their bakery—their bodies, or what remained of them, displayed like a warning for all to see.
The town of Mariathos was unraveling. The deaths of such respected townsfolk had stirred panic and anger, the kind that spread like rot beneath the surface. Whispers turned to accusations, and suspicion to superstition. It didn't help that Ithan—a Curseborn—lived among them.
Whatever gratitude the townspeople once held for him and Larson, for saving Mariathos from the bandits weeks ago, had long since vanished. In its place lingered fear.
No one knew how the Bakers had died, or how it had even happened. Witnesses swore they'd been alive that morning, cheerful as always, and yet by noon—when the shop closed for lunch—the place had fallen silent. By afternoon, they were gone.
Ithan felt he had to do something—anything—so he was heading out. He turned toward Larson, who was already in his fighting gear, axe and sword hanging at his sides. Ithan wore his own, the weight of his spear across his back grounding him.
"I'm going to find Sophia," he said.
Larson frowned. "Kid… you know she's dead, right?"
"No," Ithan said firmly. "She's not. She was taken by something."
Larson's brows drew together. "How… how do you know that?"
Ithan's eyes flared for a heartbeat, a pale white sheen crossing them before fading.
"My mystery lets me see heat—life heat," Ithan said. "I can track living bodies if I focus. Sophia's wasn't among the corpses." He hesitated, jaw tightening. "And…"
"And what?" Larson pressed.
"There was something else there," Ithan said quietly. "Something wrong."
He couldn't explain what he had felt in that shop—only the nausea, the pull of something repulsive and unnatural. But he refused to believe Sophia was gone. He remembered her warmth, her laughter, her life. He knew her heat signature as if it were branded into his mind. He had seen traces of it lingering in the bakery—faint, distant—but real.
"She's still out there," he said. "I can feel it."
Larson exhaled heavily, the sound more a growl than a sigh. "You're out of your damn mind," he muttered, slinging his axe over his shoulder. "But if you're going, I'm not letting you go alone."
Ithan gave a small nod, the kind that said thank you without words.
They left through the northern gate, the streets of Mariathos eerily silent behind them. Only the wind moved, stirring ash and dust through the empty market square. Even the lamps seemed dimmer tonight. The townsfolk watched from their windows as the two figures disappeared into the mist at the forest's edge.
The woods were dark—thicker than Ithan remembered. The canopy swallowed moonlight whole, and the night hummed with an unnatural stillness. Every step they took seemed to echo louder than it should have.
"How far?" Larson asked, keeping his voice low.
"Not far," Ithan said, his eyes faintly glowing again. "Her heat trail leads this way."
They pressed deeper until the smell hit them—acrid and wet, like rot mixed with iron. Larson grimaced, pulling his collar over his nose.
"Gods, what is that?"
Ithan didn't answer. He was already moving ahead, spear drawn. Between two warped trees lay a narrow opening in the earth—half-hidden by moss and shadow. The air around it pulsed with decay, and from within came the faint sound of dripping water… or something pretending to be water.
Larson crouched beside him, axe ready. "A cave. Figures."
"Her trail ends here," Ithan said. His grip tightened on the spearshaft.
Larson studied the boy for a moment—the set jaw, the burning eyes. There was no fear there, only conviction.
"Alright then," Larson said, standing. "We go in together. You take point. I'll cover the rear."
Ithan nodded once. The two stepped into the cave's mouth, swallowed by the darkness and the stench of death that waited within.
The cave walls were slick with condensation, the air thick with the stench of old blood and smoke. As Ithan and Larson moved deeper, their footsteps crunched over something brittle.
Larson lifted his torch—and froze.
Bones. Dozens of them. Child-sized.
Skulls lined the walls like trophies, their hollow sockets staring back through the gloom. The floor was littered with broken ribs and splintered femurs, some gnawed clean, others still streaked with sinew.
"By the gods…" Larson whispered, tightening his grip on the torch.
Ithan said nothing. His jaw clenched as he followed the faint trail of warmth only he could see—small, flickering shapes further ahead.
The tunnel widened into a hollow chamber. At its center squatted a crude hut made of sticks, animal hides, and bones lashed together with sinew. A fire burned within, its smoke curling through holes in the ceiling.
Through the slits of the hut's hide walls, they saw movement—a hunched figure stirring a cauldron that bubbled with a thick, dark stew. The smell was unbearable.
"Stay low," Larson murmured.
But Ithan was already moving, creeping closer. He saw them then—children. Three of them, bound with coarse ropes near the back wall of the cavern. Two were unconscious; one stared blankly into the fire, too terrified to cry.
Then the hag turned.
Her shape was wrong—too long, too twisted. Her skin hung in folds of gray-green flesh, and her eyes gleamed like wet coins beneath a curtain of stringy hair. Her mouth stretched unnaturally wide, revealing black gums and rows of teeth like shards of obsidian.
She sniffed the air, and a smile split her face.
"Visitors…" her voice croaked, wet and hollow. "More little lambs for the pot."
Ithan stepped into the light, spear leveled. "Let them go."
The hag's laughter scraped across the cavern walls like metal on bone. "Oh, another brave one. You smell sweet, boy. Cursed blood always does."
Larson moved beside him, planting his feet. "We're not here to talk."
The hag's grin widened. "Then let's eat."
She moved faster than either expected—bones cracking, limbs bending in unnatural angles as she lunged from the hut, her shadow stretching like claws across the cavern floor.
Larson roared, swinging his axe in a wide arc. The blade bit into her shoulder—but the sound wasn't of flesh—it was like hacking into stone. The hag shrieked, her arm twisting, bones snapping into a new angle as she swatted him aside with monstrous strength. Larson slammed into the cavern wall, torch tumbling from his grasp and sputtering out.
Darkness closed in.
Ithan's breath quickened. He couldn't see—only feel the heat, the living pulses through his sight. The hag's form blazed cold, an absence of life surrounded by the faint warmth of the children and Larson's fading heat near the wall.
He gripped his spear tighter. Flames began to crawl along its shaft, unsteady and dim. The strain hit him immediately—his chest tightened, his vision wavered—but he forced it through. The spear's point ignited with white-orange fire.
The hag shrieked again, this time in rage. "Fire! Little curse-born flame!"
She rushed him. Ithan thrust the spear forward, sparks scattering as the tip met her ribs. The impact threw her back, smoke rising from the blackened wound. But she didn't stop—she only laughed, her body splitting open down the middle like a cocoon, limbs elongating into spider-like appendages.
"I'll drink your marrow for that!"
Ithan staggered, the flame on his spear guttering as his breathing grew ragged. He could feel the burn beneath his skin—the backlash from forcing his Mystery too far. His veins glowed faintly through the sweat and grime, his blood reacting to the unstable flame.
Larson pushed himself off the wall, coughing. "Ithan! Stay back!"
"No—she'll kill them!" Ithan shouted. He swung his spear again, but this time the flame faltered, leaving only the physical blow. The hag caught the weapon mid-swing, her claw closing over the shaft.
Her breath stank of decay as she leaned close. "Poor little cursed thing," she hissed. "You were born to feed monsters like me."
Before she could strike, Larson charged from behind, his sword driving through her spine. The hag screamed, twisting violently. Her blood hissed when it hit the flames still flickering on Ithan's spear.
"Now, kid!" Larson bellowed. "Save them!"
Ithan hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then bolted toward the captives. He saw her there, bound among them. Sophia. Her hair was matted, her face pale, but her chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. The sight hit him harder than any blow.
He dropped to his knees, tearing at the ropes with trembling hands. The fibers burned his palms, but he didn't care. "Sophia… hey, hey, wake up," he whispered, his voice shaking.
Behind him, Larson roared. The sound of metal meeting bone echoed through the chamber. Ithan turned just enough to see Larson holding the hag back—his axe buried deep in her ribs. The creature shrieked, her limbs thrashing, throwing sparks from the firelight as she struck him again and again.
Each hit drove him back. Blood ran down his arm.
"Go, boy!" Larson grunted, catching one of her claws with his blade. "Get them out!"
Ithan cut through the last rope and caught Sophia as she slumped forward, her eyelids fluttering. "It's okay. You're safe now," he said softly. Her lips moved—barely forming his name—but no sound came.
He turned to the others, quickly cutting them free. Two were still unconscious. He checked their pulses—faint, but alive. Relief washed through him.
A crash drew his eyes back to the fight. Larson had been flung against the cavern wall again, hard enough to crack stone. He tried to rise, blood dripping from his temple, but his legs buckled. The hag turned on him, her body grotesquely bending, mouth splitting open into a gaping maw.
"Old meat," she hissed. "Still warm enough to chew."
Ithan's breath hitched. His spear lay a few feet away, the last embers of its flame dying. He reached out, stretching his hand toward it, and the faintest spark flared to life. His mystery burned through him like molten fire—painful, wild—but he didn't stop.
The spear ignited.
He hurled it.
The weapon shot across the cavern like a streak of white fire, striking the hag through her open mouth. The flames erupted from within, bursting out her eyes and chest in a blinding flare. The scream that followed was less a sound than a tearing of air itself.
When the light faded, there was nothing left of her but ash and blackened bones.
Ithan collapsed beside Sophia, lungs burning. Larson slumped nearby, alive but barely conscious. The cavern reeked of smoke and death.
He gathered Sophia in his arms, shaking her gently. "Come on, Soph. Wake up," he said. "It's over."
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then she coughed weakly, her eyes fluttering open. Confusion and fear flashed across her face before soft recognition replaced it.
"Ithan?" she whispered.
He smiled through the exhaustion. "Yeah. I'm here."
"You came for me," Sophia said.
"Yes, I did," Ithan said, hugging her. For a fleeting moment, the world felt still — the kind of stillness that follows a storm, fragile and full of hope.
But then… something shifted.
The air thickened. Cold crept down his spine. The warmth of Sophia's body began to fade in his arms.
"Ithan…" she whispered, her breath trembling. Then she convulsed. A wet, choking sound filled the air as blood spilled from her lips, staining his shoulder.
"Sophia?"
Her body arched, bones cracking beneath her skin. Lines—black, vein-like marks—spread across her arms and neck, pulsing with unnatural light. Ithan drew back in horror as her frightened eyes locked onto his.
"Ithan… it hurts…"
A voice echoed behind him. A voice he thought he had silenced.
"You should be aware of who you face in battle, boy."
Ithan turned.
The hag stood there, twisted and whole again—her burned flesh knitting together like molten wax re-forming into flesh. The blackened bones on the cavern floor were gone. In their place, a trail of blood led straight to Sophia, whose body trembled violently.
"No… no, that's not possible," Ithan muttered. "I killed you."
The hag smiled, her teeth glistening like shards of glass. "Killed? Foolish child. A hag dies only when her heart's offering expires. Did you think I let the girl live out of mercy?"
She raised a gnarled hand. Sophia screamed—her body lifting off the ground, light spilling from the cracks in her skin as the dark sigils blazed brighter.
Larson stirred weakly from the corner, his voice hoarse. "Ithan… run…"
But Ithan couldn't move. He watched as Sophia's form twisted midair, her small frame wracked with spasms of agony.
"Stop!" he cried, crawling toward her. "Stop it!"
The hag's laughter filled the cavern, echoing like a choir of crows. "Her soul feeds me now. You gave me the fire I needed—the curse in your blood burns hotter than any flame. I only had to ignite it."
Sophia's eyes met his one last time. For a moment, she was herself again—terrified, but aware.
"Ithan… please…"
Then her body went still. The last of her light poured into the hag's chest, and with a shuddering gasp, the creature stood taller, rejuvenated, her gray skin now glistening black like oil.
The cave trembled. The fire flared brighter, and the stench of rot filled the air once more.
Ithan knelt frozen, staring at Sophia's lifeless body. His mind could not accept what his eyes saw. He had come here to save her, fought until his body burned—and still, he had lost.
The hag turned her gaze to him, her new form towering. "Despair, little Curseborn. Let it rot your soul. It will make your flesh ripe for my sisters."
Ithan's breath hitched. His hands shook violently, his vision blurring. He reached out to Sophia, but the warmth was gone.
A sound escaped him—half scream, half sob—as his spear clattered to the ground beside him. The firelight reflected in his eyes like fading stars.
The hag's laughter followed him into the dark, long after his strength gave out and the cave began to crumble.
When Larson reached him, dragging himself through the smoke and ash, Ithan didn't move. He sat there, holding Sophia's body close, whispering her name like a prayer to a god that no longer answered.
And in that silence, despair swallowed Ithan whole.
He knelt beside Sophia's body, unmoving, his eyes hollow. The firelight flickered across his face, painting it in broken shades of red and ash. Every sound around him seemed distant—the crackle of flame, the slow drip of water, the faint rasp of his own breath. He had nothing left to give.
The hag loomed above him, her twisted frame reborn and slick with fresh blood. The veins that ran across her skin pulsed with the dark vitality she had stolen. Her mouth twisted into a smile as she turned toward the other children, still lying unconscious on the cavern floor.
"Poor little morsels," she hissed, her tongue slipping across her teeth. "The girl was only the first course."
She reached toward them, claws stretching—until a blade burst through her chest.
The sound was like thunder cracking through flesh.
The hag froze. Her head jerked down to see the steel protruding from her sternum, dripping with her own black blood. Behind her, Larson stood—barely upright, his armor torn, one eye swollen shut. Blood leaked from a wound on his side, but his grip on the hilt was unshakable.
"You talk too damn much," he rasped.
The hag twisted her neck, bones creaking as her face contorted toward him. "Didn't you hear me, mortal?" she hissed. "I die only when my offerings are—"
"Dead," Larson finished, his voice low, grim. "Yeah. I heard you."
He pushed the sword deeper, the veins in his arms flaring as a faint glow coursed through the blade—an aura, raw and unfamiliar, born of sheer will. The spark of his mystery flared to life for the first time, wrapping his weapon in a dim, iron-gray light.
The hag shrieked, thrashing wildly, clawing at him. "No! Not yet!"
Larson leaned in close, blood streaming from his lip. "I'll make sure you never touch another child again."
He twisted the sword.
Across the room, one of the unconscious children gasped, their body shuddering violently—then fell still. The offering bond snapped, the magic unraveling. The hag convulsed as dark ichor spilled from her mouth, her form collapsing inward as if being devoured by her own curse.
Her voice broke into a howl. "You—damn—me—"
"For the third and last time," Larson said through gritted teeth, raising the sword high, "stay dead."
He drove the blade through her heart again.
The cavern erupted in a burst of shadow and light, the hag's body writhing as her own black fire consumed her. The stench was unbearable—burnt rot and sulfur mingling as her form disintegrated to ash.
When the echo faded, only silence remained.
Larson staggered, his legs trembling. He looked toward Ithan—still clutching Sophia, still lost in grief—and let out a weary exhale. "She's gone, kid," he murmured. "For good this time."
He turned his gaze to the dead child whose life had sealed the hag's end, his face tightening with pain. "You saved the others… and paid the price."
Larson sank to one knee, the exhaustion finally claiming him. The blade clattered beside him, its glow fading into the dim light of the dying fire.