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Chapter 9 - Closing the Ash Furnace

The knock behind the door was soft, like falling dust, carrying a faint trace of hesitation, yet it split the stillness of the night in an instant. Shadow woke abruptly from her sleep, fingers tightening around the pry bar—the cold touch of metal spread through her palm, pulling her consciousness out of the haze. Allen raised a hand and gently pressed against her wrist, signaling her to stay quiet, while he leaned closer to the door crack, even softening his breath.

The wind slipped rhythmically through the narrow gap; there were no footsteps, no trace of breathing, not even the faint warmth of something alive—it sounded more like the faint strain of metal swelling under heat, muffled yet filled with hidden danger. His palm pressed lightly against the fire pouch over his chest; the warmth inside had already begun to seep through the fabric.

They prepared swiftly. Allen crouched outside the door, grabbed a handful of dry salt, and drew a half-curved defensive line, leaving a palm-wide gap—wide enough to vent heat and also serve as a trap. Shadow pressed three compact lumps of salt into each end of the arc, their hooked shapes catching the dim light as grains trickled between the cracks in the stone. She tightened the rope around her waist again, slid a bone needle into her sleeve, and left her long blade sheathed but turned the hilt halfway—ready to draw it in an instant.

Finally, Shadow pinched the flame down to the width of a needle's tip; its faint orange glow only illuminated the salt grains across her palm. She feared that if the light grew even a fraction brighter, it might draw fire upon her. The wind leaking through the door crack shifted between hot and cold, carrying the coarse scent of ash and rusted iron, brushing across her face like the burn of an old wound reopening.

"Open a half-hand gap," Allen whispered, voice low against the ground. "Test the wind. Don't cross the salt line."

The door's hinges had long rusted shut. Allen pressed the back of his blade lightly against the frame, knocking loose a scatter of rust, then wedged the pry bar into the joint and twisted hard. On the third try, a gust of hot air burst through, filled with dust and ash, forcing the air from his throat. He held his breath, kept to the wall, and slowly eased the door open until the gap was no wider than two fingers. Shadow flicked a pinch of salt inside—hiss!—the heat cut off instantly, and pale mist curled upward through the crack. The door finally opened half a palm's width, revealing nothing but darkness beyond, from which steady waves of heat poured out, carrying the acrid scent of burnt metal.

They didn't rush inside. Allen flicked a thin string of salt chips through the gap; the chips landed and melted within two heartbeats, leaving only faint white marks behind—the ground was so damp it seemed one could squeeze water from it. Then he tossed a second chip toward the left corner; it lasted three beats before dissolving completely. That meant the left was dry, the right was wet. Shadow marked a short line on the stone floor's left side as a safe foothold. Allen placed half a foot past the mark, knees bent, body still outside the salt arc—ready to retreat at any moment.

Next, He threw the second salt chip toward the left corner of the wall; this one lasted for three beats before it fully dissolved, proving that the left side was dry while the right side remained damp. Based on this, Shadow carved a short line into the stone floor on the left side of the doorway, marking it as a safe foothold. Allen stepped only half a foot past that mark, his knees slightly bent, his body still outside the salt arc—ready to retreat at any moment.

The furnace chamber was not large, circular in shape, its stone walls covered by a thick coat of gray dust. At its center stood a broken pillar, its base forming a ring-shaped groove filled with pale salt crystals that looked like frozen waves, emanating a humid heat that clung to the skin like sweat. The walls were covered with ancient inscriptions, their grooves packed with ash and dust, only a few raised strokes faintly visible beneath the grime.

Allen began with the essentials—finding an exit. The only way out was the door they had entered through. It was a dead room, a trap by design. Then came the next task: identifying threats. The heat within the ring groove was still rising; the edges of the salt crystal had already turned pale, as if it could reignite at any moment. Shadow crouched low, pressing an ear to the floor. From the bottom of the groove came a steady, throbbing hum—like a great pipe inhaling and exhaling slowly—each pulse thickening the air with heat.

"Left side—reinforce by one finger's width," Allen ordered. Shadow obeyed immediately, pressing more salt onto the line, the falling grains merging seamlessly into the old barrier. Allen crouched and used the tip of his blade to scrape a few thin fragments from the hardened crust around the groove's edge. Three chips, no larger than a fingernail—clear, faintly blue, with sharp diamond edges, almost perfect in purity. He stored two in the pouch and tested the last by dropping it onto the floor; it glowed for a few seconds before fading, proof of its remarkable quality.

Suddenly, the fire pouch on his chest convulsed violently. A rush of heat surged up his throat, burning like molten metal. Allen yanked the strap tighter and hissed, "Behave." The agitation within the pouch subsided—barely.

Then the sound inside the groove changed, its steady hum breaking into sharp, metallic clicks, like steel fracturing under unbearable heat. Allen retreated at once to the short salt line at the doorway; Shadow followed close behind, stopping beside the threshold. They left the door slightly ajar, a deliberate vent to release pressure—closing it would have trapped the heat and turned the chamber into a blast furnace.

The temperature kept climbing. Along the groove's edge, faint blue filaments began to tremble—thin as hair, alive like awakening serpents flicking their tongues in the dark.

"It's waking," Shadow whispered.

"Halfway," Allen replied calmly, running his fingers across the salt. "Someone fed it. Otherwise, it wouldn't wake this fast."

He pulled a thin iron hook from his belt and tossed it toward the center of the groove to test its depth. The hook never touched the ground; an invisible current caught it midair, spinning it slowly as it sank. In the next heartbeat, a pale gray-white flame shot upward like an arrow loosed from a bowstring—straight toward the faint glimmer near the doorway.

Shadow reacted instantly, snuffing out the light. The chamber plunged into absolute blackness. Even her own fingers vanished from sight. The fire strand, robbed of its target, slithered across the floor, brushing against the salt barrier with a faint crack-crack sound—gnawing, probing, but never breaking through.

The thread of fire did not retreat. Instead, it paused, as if listening to the sounds around it. It drifted along the threshold in small movements, finally stopping three finger-widths away from Allen's ankle, its pale blue light flickering faintly. Allen remained utterly still, his breathing drawn out into slow, controlled cycles, one palm pressed firmly against his chest to suppress the pulse of inner heat—he understood that the thing hunted by warmth. He signaled to Shadow with a hand gesture: one breath every four counts, steady rhythm, no breaks, no panic.

The fire thread probed forward three times, each time withdrawing before touching the warmth of living flesh, and then it turned, drifting toward the dark corner behind the door. Allen seized the moment to scatter a handful of dry salt toward the outside. The grains met the cool air and hissed into a thin, white mist—a soft wall that forced the fire thread to recoil.

The short salt line still held, but time was running out. Allen brushed his fingers along the door plank and felt the wood growing hot to the touch. Any longer and the temperature would be high enough to ignite cloth. He motioned for withdrawal.

Before leaving, Allen caught sight of the inscriptions on the left wall—faint carvings barely visible on the dry stone. He sprinkled a layer of fine salt across the surface, the grains sinking into the grooves. Under the shifting contrast of light and shadow, he made out fragments of text: "...Station No. 2... salt supply... extinguish... cover the gate line..." The rest was buried under dust. He did not linger. With measured calm, he pulled back beyond the salt arc.

No sooner had they retreated than a muffled boom erupted from within the furnace. A surge of superheated air burst through the ring groove, streaked with faint bluish light, falling onto the salt arc with a sharp hiss. Crystals melted instantly into a wet smear. Shadow reached to shut the door, but Allen shook his head.

"Leave it open to vent. Seal the edges."

They split wordlessly, moving to reinforce the defenses: outside, they thickened the salt arc; inside, they extended the short line into a narrow "throat," allowing the heat to escape in controlled streams rather than shattering the barrier. They crouched in place, eyes locked on the gap beneath the door, waiting for the first wave of heat to pass.

The first surge came like a hammer, followed by a second, then a third—each stronger than the last. By the third wave, the fire pouch on Allen's chest had grown restless again. Light pulsed faintly through the seams, as if the fire within were struggling to break free.

Allen pressed the hilt of his blade against it. The chill of metal seeped through the fabric, suppressing the heat at last. From within the pouch came a faint hum, almost a sigh, trembling softly under the cloth. He leaned close and muttered, "Move again, and we burn together." The fire subsided, its warmth falling by half a degree, no longer fighting to escape.

The temperature of the furnace finally steadied. Allen decided to enter once more—only for the inscriptions and the thing beneath the groove. He stepped inside, avoiding the ring's edge, and went straight to the right wall. Shadow stayed at the door, clutching the salt pouch so tightly that her knuckles turned pale. The right-side inscriptions were clearer. Allen used the back of his blade to sweep away the dust, revealing several complete lines: "Fire is the soul, salt the bone; to extinguish, silence first." "Silence," in old craft terms, meant cutting the fire's hearing—its sense for heat and vibration. He committed the words to memory, pressing his fingertips to the stone to check for hidden triggers.

Suddenly, Shadow whispered, "Someone's there!"

Allen turned sharply. At the edge of the salt arc outside the door stood a tall, thin figure clinging to the stone wall like a withered branch. The man held a slender staff, its tip glowing with a dim cyan light—small as a needlepoint, but piercingly bright. He hadn't crossed the salt line. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse and grainy, like stone grinding on stone.

"Got a light to spare?"

Allen ignored him and turned back to the wall.

When he got no answer, the stranger continued, "That fire you carry—it smells fresh."

Shadow's fingers tightened on her hilt. Allen raised a hand slightly—no reply, no movement, no breach of line.

The man seemed in no hurry. He shifted his stance, voice dry and amused. "The furnace is waking. Stay here, and you'll die."

Allen finally looked up, voice cold as stone. "Then leave first."

The stranger gave a rasping chuckle, humorless. "I'll wait until you do." He pulled a small pouch from his chest and tossed it toward the doorway. It landed three fingers short of the salt line—never crossing. Shadow's gaze fixed on it, wary.

"Don't touch it," Allen said flatly.

The man didn't move again. He retreated into the darkness beyond the wall, the glow of his staff flickering faintly—counting the heat inside, or perhaps waiting for them to make a mistake.

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