They climbed back through the broken halls. The air was heavy with soot, but no longer cursed.
The Forge slept again.
Elira's steps echoed beside Vael's. She kept watching him, as if waiting for cracks to show.
"Are you sure it's over?" she asked.
"No," Vael said. "But this part is."
Reylen dragged his blade behind him, silent. Nyra walked light as shadow, her smile gone.
When they reached the mountain's mouth, the wind struck first. Cold. Real. Free.
For the first time in days, they saw the sky.
Ash clouds swirled above, streaked with faint light. The sun was struggling to break through.
Vael stopped, staring at it. His hand tightened around the ring. The warmth inside it beat slow. Calm.
Elira followed his gaze. "It feels different now."
"It is," he said. "The mountain's done with us."
Nyra tilted her head. "Or it's only just begun."
Reylen snorted but said nothing.
They started down the slope, their boots crunching through old cinders. The world stretched wide below—forests blackened, rivers dry, ruins scattered like bones.
But the horizon glowed faintly gold.
A reminder. Or a warning.
Vael didn't know which.
He only knew one thing.
The path wasn't finished. It had only shifted.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, something was waiting.