THE DRAGONFORGE HEIR: A BLOODLINE OF FIRE AND RUIN

Chapter 5: The Road to Sol’Kareth

The storm clouds over Mount Vorthas churned like a living thing, lightning splitting the sky in jagged veins. The air smelled of ozone and ash, thick with the weight of what had been lost.

Dain stood at the edge of the chasm where Black Hollow had once stood, his fingers clenched around the hammer’s handle.

The gauntlet’s runes pulsed against his skin, a steady, insistent rhythm, like a second heartbeat. His arm ached, the mark spreading further with each passing moment, creeping toward his shoulder like living ink.

Serra crouched a few paces away, pressing a strip of torn cloth to the gash on her cheek. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the bruise was already darkening, a stark contrast against her pale skin. She didn’t look at him. Not yet.

"We can’t stay here," she said, her voice rough. "The Order will track us. And if the Wyrm’s truly awake…" She trailed off, her gaze flicking toward the mountain. The glowing eyes were gone now, but the memory of them burned in Dain’s mind.

"They’ll come for us," Dain said, his throat tight. "Won’t they?"

Serra exhaled sharply. "They’ll come for you. I’m just the traitor who let you escape."

Dain turned to her, the weight of the hammer dragging at his arm. "Why did you?"

She finally met his eyes. Hers were hard, but something flickered in their depths, something like regret, or maybe fear. "Because I saw the way you fought. The way the fire answered you. The Order’s been lying to us, Dain. The Wyrm isn’t just a beast. It’s bound. And you’re the key to its chains."

Dain’s chest tightened. "I don’t want to be."

"None of us get to choose what we are." She stood, wincing as she tested her weight on her injured leg. "But we do get to choose what we do with it."

A gust of wind howled across the ravine, carrying the scent of burning wood and something older, something hungry. Dain’s skin prickled. The gauntlet’s pulse quickened.

"It’s watching us," he said softly.

Serra didn’t ask who, or what, he meant. She just nodded. "Then we’d better move."

They traveled through the night, sticking to the shadows of the foothills, where the land was rocky and uneven. The storm followed them, lightning illuminating the jagged peaks of the Iron Peaks in stark relief.

Dain’s arm burned, the runes flaring every time the wind carried the scent of sulfur and magic from Mount Vorthas. He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but the voice was always there, whispering at the edges of his mind.

"Heir…"

"You’re imagining it," Serra said when he mentioned it, her voice tight. "The gauntlet’s messin’ with your head."

Dain wanted to believe her. But the way the land itself seemed to recoil from him, the way the trees twisted away from his touch, the way the animals fled at his approach, told him otherwise.

They stopped at dawn, sheltering in the hollow of a dead tree, its bark blackened as if by dragonfire. Serra kept watch while Dain tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lira’s face, her body crumpling to the ground, the arrow in her chest. He saw Borin, standing defiant against the Order’s arrows. He saw Veyla’s smile, the way her sickle had flashed in the dark.

"You’re trembling," Serra said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

Dain opened his eyes. "I can’t do this."

"You don’t have a choice."

"That’s not what I meant." He sat up, rubbing his face. The gauntlet’s glow cast eerie shadows on the hollow’s walls. "I don’t know how to be what they say I am. I don’t know how to forge a weapon that can kill a god."

Serra was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Neither do I."

Dain looked at her. "You’re the one who’s supposed to know what to do."

"I knew how to follow orders," she said, her voice bitter. "I knew how to swing a sword and burn heretics. I didn’t know how to doubt until I saw you."

Dain exhaled, the weight of her words settling over him. "So what do we do?"

Serra’s grip tightened on her sword. "We find the Embercore. And we pray it’s enough."

The land changed as they traveled, the rocky foothills giving way to rolling dunes of red sand. The air grew hotter, the scent of sulfur replaced by the dry, spiced wind of the desert. In the distance, the spires of Sol’Kareth gleamed like golden teeth, their tops wreathed in smoke and flame.

"The Phoenix’s Nest," Serra said, her voice tight. "If the Embercore is anywhere, it’s there."

Dain wiped sweat from his brow. The gauntlet’s pulse had grown steadier, its glow dimming as if conserving its strength. He didn’t trust the silence. "And if it’s not?"

"Then we’re dead before the Wyrm even gets to us."

A shadow passed overhead.

Dain looked up.

A shape circled above them, a bird, but too large, its wings wreathed in flame. It let out a cry, high and keening, like metal being forged.

"Phoenix," Serra breathed.

The bird dived.

Dain barely had time to raise the hammer before it swooped past, its wings sending a gust of scorching wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. It landed a few paces away, its form shifting, melting, not into a bird, but into a man, his skin glowing like embers, his eyes two pits of flame.

"You bear the mark of the Heir," the man said, his voice like crackling fire. "And you bring the stink of the Order with you."

Serra’s sword was in her hand in an instant. "We’re not here to fight."

The man, no, the Phoenix, Dain realized, smiled, his teeth sharp as shards of glass. "Aren’t you?"

Dain stepped forward, the hammer held loosely at his side. "We need the Embercore."

The Phoenix’s smile faded. "And why should I give it to you?"

"Because if you don’t," Serra said, "the Wyrm burns us all."

The Phoenix’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Dain. "The last Heir who came to me begged on his knees. He wept. He promised me his soul if I would help him."

Dain’s stomach twisted. "And did you?"

"I took his soul," the Phoenix said. "And he still failed."

"I’m not him."

"No," the Phoenix agreed. "You’re worse. You don’t even know what you are."

Dain’s arm burned. The gauntlet’s runes flared, and the Phoenix’s eyes widened.

"Ah," it said, its voice a purr. "There it is. The fire in your veins. The Wyrm’s blood."

Dain didn’t lower the hammer. "Give us the Embercore."

The Phoenix laughed, the sound like a forest fire. "Or what, Heir? You’ll forge me into submission?"

The gauntlet’s pulse spiked. Pain lanced up Dain’s arm, but he didn’t flinch. "I’ll do what I have to."

The Phoenix studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, it nodded. "The Nest is that way. But be warned, the core is not a gift. It is a test."

"We’ll pass it," Serra said.

The Phoenix’s smile returned. "I hope you do."

It shifted again, its form dissolving into flame. The bird took to the sky, its cry echoing over the dunes.

Serra exhaled. "That could’ve gone worse."

Dain didn’t answer. His arm was throbbing, the runes spreading further, creeping toward his collarbone. The Phoenix’s words echoed in his mind: "The fire in your veins."

He didn’t know what that meant.

But he was starting to think he didn’t want to find out.

The Phoenix’s Nest was a temple of gold and glass, perched on a floating island of obsidian. Bridges of chain and flame connected it to the dunes below, swaying in the scorching wind. The air shimmered with heat, the scent of burning incense thick in Dain’s throat.

"Stay close," Serra muttered as they crossed the first bridge. "The Phoenix’s priests don’t take kindly to trespassers."

Dain’s grip tightened on the hammer. The gauntlet’s pulse was erratic now, its glow flickering like a dying ember. "You’ve been here before?"

"Once." Her voice was tight. "It didn’t end well."

The temple’s doors were carved with images of a bird wreathed in flame, its wings spread wide. They opened before Dain could touch them, revealing a vast chamber beyond. The walls were lined with braziers, their flames burning blue and gold. At the chamber’s center stood an altar, and upon it rested a gem, the Embercore, pulsing like a heartbeat.

A figure stood before it, cloaked in robes of gold and crimson. Their back was to Dain and Serra, but the tension in their shoulders spoke of awareness.

"The Heir and the Oathbreaker," the figure said, their voice smooth as silk. "How… unexpected."

Serra’s sword was in her hand in an instant. "Show yourself."

The figure turned.

Dain’s breath caught.

It was a woman, her face half-obscured by a veil of golden chains. Her eyes were two pits of flame, her skin marked with runes that glowed like the Embercore. She smiled, and Dain saw the teeth of a predator.

"Welcome to the Nest, little Heir," she said. "I am High Priestess Sylria. And you are not welcome here."

The braziers flared. The temple doors slammed shut.

Dain raised the hammer.

Sylria’s smile widened.

"Let’s see what you’re made of."