The wind outside the mountain didn't just howl; it bit. It was a searing -35°C that turned breath into needles of ice before it left the lungs.

  ?Ronan leaned into the gale, the Lead-Silk Shroud snapping like a whip against his back. Behind him, Kaelen was a shivering shadow, her goggles frosted over with white rime.

  ?"There," Ronan pointed.

  ?A faint, orange glow pulsed from a jagged fissure in the basalt cliff. It wasn't the erratic flicker of a fire; it was the steady, rhythmic thrum of a thermal core.

  ?They scrambled into the mouth of the fissure. The transition was instant. The biting cold vanished, replaced by a dry, sulfurous heat that smelled of deep earth and hot brass.

  ?"Halt."

  ?The word vibrated through the floor before they heard it.

  ?Three figures stepped from the shadows. They were shorter than humans but twice as broad, their skin the color of cooled lava and just as hard. These were the Lithos-Born. Steam hissed from the copper valves embedded in their shoulders—biological vents for their internal heat.

  ?"You bring the smell of the surface," the lead guard growled. His eyes were amber lanterns in the dark.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  ?"We bring a warning," Ronan said, stepping forward.

  ?He lowered his hood. The guard's eyes narrowed as he looked at Ronan. He didn't see a human; he saw the way Ronan's weight sat heavy on his heels and the unnatural stillness of his frame.

  ?"A Vein-Warden," the guard muttered, his hand tightening on a heavy steam-ax. "Vesper's lapdog."

  ?"Vesper wants me dead," Ronan replied. "I'm looking for the Hearth-Master."

  ?The guard hesitated, then gestured for them to follow.

  ?They descended into the heart of the mountain. The outpost was a vertical marvel—a series of brass gantries and hanging dwellings suspended over a lake of molten slag. This was the Obsidian Hearth.

  ?[RESONANCE DETECTED: THERMAL-GEOLOGIC]

  [MINERAL RESERVES: 18% — CRITICAL]

  ?The Hunger flared. Ronan's vision pulsed. Every piece of raw ore he passed felt like a magnet pulling at his blood. He had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out and tearing a chunk of magnetite from the wall.

  ?They were led to a central platform where an elderly Lithos-Born stood over a massive, weeping steam-pipe. This was Garm.

  ?"The core is failing," Garm said, not looking up. "The Deep-Blight is rising from the lower shafts. It's eating the seals."

  ?"I can fix it," Ronan said.

  ?Garm finally turned. He looked at Ronan's hands, then at the violet veins beneath the skin of his neck. "You are an anomaly. Why help us?"

  ?"Because the Purge-Seekers are coming," Ronan said, his voice flat. "And if this outpost falls, I have nowhere left to run."

  ?Garm stayed silent for a long moment, the hiss of the steam filling the gap between them. Finally, he gestured toward the leaking pipe.

  ?"The seal is five hundred meters down, in the North Gallery," Garm said. "If you can survive the heat and the spores, the Hearth is yours. If not, the mountain will have a new statue."

  ?Ronan nodded. He felt Kaelen's hand on his arm—a brief, human touch of concern. He didn't look at her. He couldn't.

  ?He turned toward the dark shaft leading down.