The volcano whispered like a living thing.
A rhythmic breath of flame and ash danced through the chamber's cavernous throat, curling in slow spirals around Rudra DragonCrest.
Sitting cross-legged in the scorched circle he'd carved into the obsidian ground days ago, Rudra exhaled deeply—flames swaying with the motion, rising with his breath and falling when he stilled.
He was finally in rhythm.
Sweat dripped from his chin, hissing as it hit the lava-scorched stone.
The air still burned.
His muscles still trembled.
But Rudra didn't flinch anymore.
The once-oppressive pressure of the volcanic forge no longer crushed him—it moved with him.
For the first time, it felt like breathing.
His breath danced with the flame. His mind was still. His body hurt, but it listened.
A week had passed inside the volcanic forge, and the world beyond the molten stone felt like a forgotten dream.
