The heat of the Iron Forge was not merely a temperature; it was a physical weight that pressed into Lyra’s lungs, smelling of molten iron, scorched stone, and ancient, slumbering power. As the Origin dragon banked through the sulfurous clouds, the forge revealed itself—not a building, but a cathedral carved into the throat of an active volcano. Great chains of dragon-glass hung from the soot-stained rafters, holding massive cauldrons of liquid fire that pulsed like the heart of the world.
Lyra dismounted, her boots hissing against the burning stone. The silver scar on Valerius’s shoulder—the one she had given him—glowed with a faint, sympathetic violet light as he stepped beside her. He was silent, his jaw set in a hard line, his amber eyes scanning the shadows of the forge with a warines
