The mountain loomed above them like the bones of a sleeping god.
Its name was whispered in reverence and fear: Dol Varnok, the Anvil of the World — the last great forge-temple of the dwarves, lost to time and buried beneath centuries of silence. Once a place of creation, it had since become a tomb. Only legends remained.
Kael Valari had come to awaken the truth.
Because the fourth relic waited within.
And not all things buried are dead.
Echoes Beneath the World
"Dol Varnok was sealed before I was born," said Thrain Stonefist, his tone lower than usual as they stood before the broken gate of the mountain pass. "The old ones say it still breathes… but only to remember what it lost."
Kael examined the entrance — massive iron doors half-collapsed, tangled in roots and carved with runes so old even Elyria could not read them.
"Do you think the relic's still in there?" Kael asked.
"I don't think anything ever truly leaves this place," Thrain replied.
They stepped into darkness.
Behind them, the orc host waited beyond the ridge, not daring to enter. Even Gruum Kaath had refused, saying, "I march into war. I do not walk into stone's memory."
Only Kael, Thrain, and Elyria passed through the threshold.
Descent Into Silence
No sound followed them.
No wind, no dripping water, no creaking wood. Just dust and stone, carved in impossible geometries — halls too vast for mortals, stairways spiraling without end, statues that loomed with eyes too human.
Torchlight flickered on carved murals — of dwarves building not weapons, but worlds. One panel showed a blade forged in dragonfire. Another showed it shattering — broken by a man with a crown of thorns.
"I know this," Kael whispered, tracing the broken sword.
Elyria stood beside him. "This was before the fall. Before Varethul."
"No," Kael said, "this was Varethul."
The Forgeheart
They reached the heart of the mountain — a vast circular chamber beneath the earth. A single chasm ran through the center, glowing faintly red from molten fire deep below.
Above it, suspended by chains of stone, was a great forge anvil — cracked, but still pulsing with magic.
The Forgeheart.
"It's still alive," Thrain breathed.
The relic called to Kael from within.
He stepped forward.
And the mountain shuddered.
The Trial Begins
A voice thundered through the chamber.
"WHO CLAIMS THE STONE?"
Kael turned, blade drawn. "I do."
"YOU WHO BEAR FIRE. YOU WHO CARRY BLOOD THAT DOES NOT BELONG. YOU WHO CLAIM TO CHOOSE."
A massive figure stepped from the stone itself — not a ghost, not a man, but a construct of the Forgeheart. Its body was metal, its eyes molten, its voice echoing with the weight of ancient oaths.
"YOU WILL BE TESTED. NOT FOR STRENGTH. NOT FOR WORTH. FOR TRUTH."
Kael looked to Elyria. She nodded once.
He stepped onto the platform.
The trial began.
Memory Made Flesh
The chamber faded.
Kael found himself in Draganholt, as it had once been — golden, bright, his mother alive. He was only a child.
Serenya knelt before him.
"You will change the world, my son. But will you be loved, or feared?"
He tried to speak, but his voice failed.
Then she vanished.
Now he stood before the High King's throne. Varric sat upon it, younger, crueler.
"Power is not taken. It is given."
Behind the throne stood Varethul, still human, eyes full of guilt and promise.
Kael raised Emberfall to strike him.
But saw his own reflection in Varethul's face.
He hesitated.
The blade burned in his hand.
The Anvil's Judgment
Kael fell to his knees before the Forgeheart.
Sweat drenched him. His vision blurred.
The construct's voice boomed.
"WILL YOU BE HIM? WILL YOU CHOOSE HIS PATH?"
Kael screamed, "NO!"
"THEN CHOOSE YOUR OWN."
The fourth relic surged from the molten pit — a slab of living stone, shaped like a heart, veined with fire.
It struck Emberfall.
The sword cracked—
Then reformed.
Stronger.
Heavier.
Alive.
The fourth relic had awakened the soul of the blade.
And Kael with it.
The Collapse
The chamber began to fall apart. The Forgeheart, having spent its last spark, shuddered and cracked.
Kael, Elyria, and Thrain fled as pillars collapsed and magma surged upward. The echoes of the past screamed in protest.
As they reached the surface, the sun rose — not gold, but white, as if the world itself was catching fire.
Kael looked at his blade.
And whispered, "One more."
In the Frozen North
Varethul stood before a gate of black ice, guarded by wraiths and sealed by screams.
His voice was soft.
"He has passed the trials. He has nearly become what I need."
He touched the gate.
It melted beneath his hand.
"Let the final relic awaken."
"And bring the gods to their knees."