Deep beneath the desert, the subterranean kingdom of the First Peoples pulsed with the rhythm of the forges. Days had passed since Luucner and Ziif arrived. Days of heat, hammer strikes, and hands blistered raw. Now, joined by Kooel, they moved in step with the desert folk through halls where the air tasted of metal and molten stone.

  In the western gallery, where the heat pressed hardest, Genebra waited for them. Beside her stood Naramel, master of the forge and one of the greatest warriors among the First Peoples. He was tall, powerfully built, his skin the deep red-brown of ripe jambo fruit. Long black braids fell past his shoulders. His eyes were honey-colored, sharp and steady. Across his arms, scars layered over scars, each one a story written in fire and steel.

  Beside Naramel stood Gurgel, his apprentice. Younger, leaner, but his hands bore the same scars. Two curved blades hung at his waist, their hilts wrapped in blackened leather. He moved constantly, sorting tools, checking temperatures, adjusting vents with the precision of someone who had spent years learning from the master.

  The chamber was circular, supported by black stone arches that funneled the volcano’s heat through a central vent. Benches worn smooth by generations ringed the walls. Tools hung in careful rows, each marked not with decoration but with years of use.

  “Today,” Naramel said, his voice rough from decades of breathing forge smoke, “the three of you enter the Circle of the Forge. Not as warriors alone, but as heirs to resistance.”

  Ziif shifted, fingers brushing the hilts at his waist.

  “What exactly are we expected to do?” he asked.

  “Forge,” Genebra said. “Before you wield fire in battle, you will understand it here.”

  She led them down a narrowing corridor. With every step, the heat climbed. Sweat ran down Luucner’s back. His lungs burned with each breath. At the end, a suspended platform overlooked the volcano’s core. Lava churned below in slow spirals, sending wild orange light climbing over the walls.

  “This is our source,” Genebra said. “We channel its heat through veins of mineral. No ARK stones. No imported artifices. Only earth and fire.”

  Luucner knelt and pressed his palm to the scorching stone. The vibration that met him felt alive, massive and ancient.

  “You purify the Sol stones here,” he murmured.

  Naramel stepped forward, holding a black stone container. Inside, a jagged lump of dark rock pulsed with inner light.

  “Raw Sol,” he said. “Too dense for common fire. Only this volcano melts it clean, fusing it into a living alloy. Strong enough to pierce dragon hide. Too unstable for careless hands.”

  He pointed to a narrow bridge arcing toward a ledge above the lava. The heat there shimmered. The air itself seemed to burn.

  “The masters carry the stone there,” Naramel continued. “The fire does the rest. But this heat devours the unprepared. Few from above have ever stood there and walked away without scars.”

  Kooel stepped to the edge of the platform, jaw set.

  “Then let them earn their scars,” he said. “Luucner and Ziif will stand with us as equals.”

  Genebra’s golden eyes warmed. “You were always of this forge. Begin with them.”

  ?

  Hours blurred together in the roar of the volcano.

  Luucner, Ziif, and Kooel hauled blocks of raw Sol with groaning levers. The stone fought them. Each block weighed more than three men. Muscles shook. Tendons screamed. Sweat poured down their backs, soaking through tunics that clung to skin like wet cloth over open wounds.

  Naramel worked beside them, his massive frame straining with each pull. Sweat ran down his face, dripping from his braids. His breath came hard, but he didn’t stop. Beside him, Gurgel directed the chains, adjusting angles, shouting corrections over the roar of the forge.

  “Left! Pull left or it tips!” Gurgel’s voice cut through the noise. “Now! Together!”

  The block shifted. Settled. Luucner’s hands were raw, the skin torn where the rope had burned through calluses that hadn’t had time to form.

  Gurgel moved them to the anvils. “Strike here. Not there. Follow the grain or it will shatter.”

  They swung heavy hammers down on glowing metal. The impact sent shocks up their arms, rattling their teeth, jarring their shoulders. Each strike left their hands numb. Naramel corrected their grips, adjusted their stances, demonstrated the angle, the rhythm, the weight behind each blow.

  “The stone does not care about your pride,” he said. “It only cares if you are willing to suffer for it.”

  The metal glowed white-hot. Sparks flew with each strike, burning tiny holes in their sleeves, singing the hair on their forearms. The heat from the anvil was so intense that breathing near it felt like inhaling fire.

  They shaped arrowheads. Hundreds of them. Each one had to be perfect. A flaw meant it would shatter on impact. Worthless against dragon scales.

  Sol arrowheads, black and gleaming, edges so sharp they cut the air. JaS arrowheads, dark red, heavier, designed to punch through bone. Luucner lost count after the first fifty. His vision blurred with sweat. His hands moved on instinct.

  Then came the blades.

  Swords forged from pure Sol. Light, deadly, edges that never dulled. Swords forged from pure JaS. Heavier, brutal, designed to shatter shields and cleave armor. And blades forged from both, layered and folded, the two alloys fused into patterns that rippled like water frozen in steel.

  Each blade took hours. Heating, hammering, folding, quenching. The water channels hissed and screamed when hot metal touched them. Steam wrapped their faces, scalding their throats. Skin split in places, blistered in others.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Luucner wiped sweat from his brow, the cloth around his palms already blackened and thin. His lungs burned. Beside him, Ziif panted in quiet gasps, soot streaking his face, robes soaked through.

  “They are made of stone,” Ziif muttered, watching the First Peoples still working their anvils without pause. “How do they not collapse?”

  Kooel tilted his head, golden eyes softening. “We are born here. Our bodies learn to breathe fire before we ever see the sun. With time, you will endure it too.” He smirked. “And our skin is forged tougher than most.”

  Ziif actually laughed, the sound scraping up with ash.

  Naramel’s mouth curved faintly. “You learn faster than I expected. Good. Eldoria will need every blade we can forge.”

  Gurgel brought water, cool and clean. They drank greedily, the liquid a shock against throats raw from heat and smoke.

  “How many have we made?” Luucner asked.

  Naramel walked to the storage chamber. Crates lined the walls, stacked to the ceiling. He gestured.

  “Hundreds of Sol arrowheads. Hundreds of JaS arrowheads. Three hundred blades. Sol, JaS, and mixed alloy.” He paused. “And three ballistas.”

  Luucner’s eyes widened. “Ballistas?”

  Gurgel led them deeper into the mines, where the ceiling opened into a cavern twice the size of the forge. Three massive weapons stood on stone platforms, each one taller than a man. Heavy frames of black wood reinforced with iron. Mechanisms of rope and pulley designed to draw tension that no human could pull by hand.

  “Siege weapons,” Naramel said. “Built to bring down dragons.”

  Beside each ballista, crates held the ammunition. Massive bolts, thick as a man’s forearm, tipped with Sol and JaS. Ten Sol bolts per ballista. Ten JaS bolts per ballista. Each one carved with runes that spiraled down the shaft.

  “These pierce dragon hide,” Naramel continued. “The Sol bolts ignite on impact. The JaS bolts shatter bone. Both kill.”

  Luucner stepped closer, running his hand over one of the bolts. The runes were warm to the touch.

  “How do you aim them?” he asked.

  “Three men per ballista,” Gurgel said. “One to load. One to aim. One to release. The recoil will break ribs if you stand too close.”

  Ziif’s jaw tightened. “You’ve tested these?”

  “On cliffs,” Naramel said. “The bolts punched through fifty feet of solid rock.”

  Silence settled over the cavern. The weight of what they were building pressed down.

  “Enough,” Naramel said. “But not enough. There is never enough.”

  ?

  Between shifts, the First Peoples showed them the veins of their hidden world. Cooled water channels snaked through the rock to feed hanging gardens. Vent shafts bled just enough heat to keep crops alive. Hidden roads cut through stone to distant regions, a silent network under the kingdoms above.

  Everything was built with the same intent: endure, unseen.

  ?

  During a short pause, wings brushed the hot air. A brown owl with gold-tinged feathers slipped through a slit in the ceiling and landed on Genebra’s forearm. She broke the seal, scanned the message in silence, then crossed the hall to face the three warriors.

  “The war has worsened,” she said. The room quieted around her. “Eldoria is preparing for direct assaults. The Council has decided. Three hundred warriors will march south. Naramel will lead them.”

  Naramel’s expression didn’t change, but his hand tightened on the hammer he held.

  “When do we leave?” Ziif asked.

  “Soon,” Genebra said. “You still owe the forge more steel. When you depart, you will go with the three hundred.”

  She looked at Naramel. “Gurgel will march as your second.”

  Gurgel’s honey-colored eyes flicked to his master. Naramel nodded once.

  Luucner and Ziif exchanged glances. The weight of what was coming settled over them.

  ?

  Later, in the circular stables carved into the rock, Genebra found her son beside Hércules. The pegasus’s wings were folded, mane brushing against Kooel’s shoulder as he checked the saddle straps.

  Genebra approached quietly. For a moment, she simply watched him. Her son. Taller than when he’d left. Scarred in new places. Hardened by war.

  “Kooel.”

  He turned. His golden eyes met hers.

  She stepped closer, her hand reaching up to rest on his shoulder. “I need you to listen. Not as a warrior. As my son.”

  Kooel’s expression softened. “I’m listening.”

  Genebra’s grip tightened slightly. “You carry your father’s spirit. His courage. His stubbornness.” Her voice dropped. “But do not carry his mistakes.”

  Kooel’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Your father died defending a position that was already lost. He held the line when he should have retreated. He chose honor over survival.” Her eyes were steady. “I will not lose you the same way.”

  Kooel started to speak. She raised her hand.

  “Let me finish.” Her voice was firm now, the matriarch speaking. “You will fight for Eldoria. You will bleed for them if you must. But if the city falls, if the walls break and the dragons descend, you do not die there.”

  “Mother—”

  “You retreat,” she said. “You take Naramel, Gurgel, and the three hundred, and you come home. You save who you can. You bring refugees if they will follow. But you do not throw your life away for a capital that is already ash.”

  Kooel’s jaw tightened. “And if we can hold?”

  “Then you hold.” Genebra’s expression softened slightly. “But you are not Eldorian, Kooel. You are of the First Peoples. Your loyalty to them is noble. Your sacrifice for them would be tragic. There is a difference.”

  She paused, letting the words settle.

  “The three hundred are our finest warriors. Each one trained since childhood. Each one irreplaceable.” Her voice was stone now. “Do not waste them on a defense that cannot be won. Fight smart. Retreat when you must. Live to fight again.”

  Kooel looked at his mother. The firelight from distant forges painted her face in amber. She looked older than he remembered. Tired. But her eyes were sharp as ever.

  “I understand,” he said quietly.

  Genebra’s hand moved to cup his face. “Good.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Come home, Kooel. Victorious or defeated, I don’t care. Just come home.”

  Kooel pressed his forehead to hers. “I will.”

  She held him for a moment longer. Then she stepped back, composure returning.

  “Naramel,” she called.

  The master smith approached, Gurgel at his side. Both bowed their heads.

  Genebra’s voice carried absolute authority. “You lead three hundred warriors south. You carry our best weapons. You will stand with Eldoria against what is coming.” She paused. “But you will not die for them if the battle is lost. Assess the situation. Fight where you can win. Retreat when you cannot. Bring my son home alive.”

  Naramel’s honey-colored eyes met hers. “Understood, Matriarch.”

  “And if you must choose between holding Eldoria and preserving the three hundred?”

  “We preserve the three hundred,” Naramel said without hesitation.

  “Good.” Genebra looked at Gurgel. “You are Naramel’s second. If he falls, you lead. If the situation becomes untenable, you give the order to retreat. Do you understand?”

  Gurgel’s hand went to the curved blades at his waist. “I understand.”

  Genebra stepped back, her gaze sweeping over the three of them. “Then go. Fight well. Honor the forge. And remember: survival is not cowardice. It is strategy.”

  Naramel struck his fist to his chest. Gurgel did the same. Kooel followed.

  The sound echoed through the stables.

  Genebra turned and walked away. She did not look back. If she had, they would have seen the tears she refused to let fall.

  ?

  In the deepest mines, crates lined the walls. Each one bore marks etched in the old tongue: Sol. JaS. Mixed. Arrows. Blades. Bolts.

  Naramel stood among the three hundred warriors, his scarred arms crossed, his honey-colored eyes scanning the preparations. Gurgel stood beside him, the two curved blades at his waist gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

  The warriors were silent. Ready. Each one bore the red-brown skin, black hair, and honey-colored eyes of the First Peoples. Each one had trained in these halls since childhood. Each one knew what they carried.

  “We carry steel and stone,” Naramel said. His voice echoed through the mines. “But we also carry purpose. Eldoria bleeds. We will stanch the wound.”

  The warriors struck their fists to their chests in unison. The sound echoed like a war drum.

  Genebra raised her hand, the heat of the forge painting her in ember light. “Honor your names. Let the fire you carry outlast the storm.”

  The volcano roared beneath their feet.

  Luucner looked at Ziif. Then at Kooel. Then at Naramel.

  “We have done what we can here,” Luucner said. “The weapons are forged. The warriors are ready.”

  “Then it is time,” Naramel said. “We march south. To Eldoria.”