A line of molten rock split the earth. The springs' waters spilled out and mixed with mounds upon mounds of snow as a natural geyser spouted from the cracked ground.
The Frozen Elm was split down the middle. Its mesmerizing glow, the light that softened even the darkest blizzards, was still there, barely hanging on. Pulse upon pulse of light began to emanate from the tree in slow waves.
Far in front of it, in the middle of the Plaza, Gazmir dropped to one knee. He fought for breath. He felt tired. His eyes felt heavy. With his right eye, he looked at Rahzar, who was holding a magnificent sword and looked as damaged as he was.
Gazmir turned his face to the right and closed his eyes. He exhaled. His right arm had been sliced off clean by Rahzar's swing, the heat cauterizing the wound instantly. Without looking, his left hand reached for the handle of one of the greataxes he had used to parry Ain-Zahar, only to find it had melted completely.
He tried to stand, but he could not regain his balance. His breath grew more ragged by the second. The damage was too severe.
Rahzar straightened with effort, forcing his composure back into place. The grin he wore before had almost entirely vanished. That swing had taken so much out of him he could no longer feel his arms or his legs. He was running on fumes.
He had aimed to split Gazmir down the middle, but Gazmir's greataxes had parried the strike, somehow. Rahzar still did not know how it happened. But the fact remained. Gazmir was still alive, one arm shorter, but still there, still breathing.
Rahzar took a deep breath and sheathed his Infernal Armament. The weapon's flames died almost instantly. He walked forward, forcing himself to keep his back straight, until he reached Gazmir.
He grinned down at the old warrior, kneeling in the snow, left eye gone from a hunt decades ago, and now his right arm gone as well.
"Still want to continue the fight?" Rahzar tried his hardest to keep his confident grin. He could only pray Gazmir could no longer rise. "Gazmir. Acting Captain of the Elmsguard?"
Gazmir could no longer see clearly. His eye was clouded with blood and snow, and his mind was already drifting from the fight. "…Naama," he said, his voice coarse. "You can take my life. Spare her."
Rahzar glanced toward Gazmir's house. An orange hue cut through the snow, burning with the flames Nouz had ignited.
"Heh…" Rahzar's grin returned, thin and sharp. His right hand tightened around his hilt as he weighed what to do next.
His stamina was spent. Summoning the Infernal Armament had taken so much out of him it felt as if the slash had burned a piece of his own soul. He could feel the heat seething through his entire being from the inside, even in the middle of the blizzard.
He could muster one more slash. He might be able to take Gazmir's head and be done with it.
But he refrained.
"Nah. I'm good. You can live." Rahzar turned and started toward the village hall, still far away from where he stood. Its flames were small, but he could see them even through the cutting snow. Many were sealed inside, sheltering from both the battle and the blizzard.
"Oh, and about your wife…" Rahzar stopped and looked back at the dying warrior one last time. "I'm sure Nouz is taking good care of her. You don't have to worry."
He kept walking into the snowstorm until the last trace of his sword's flame vanished.
"…Naama." Gazmir fell forward into the snow. "Forgive me…"
—
"Shit." Yarda stopped in front of Gazmir's house. The flames were too strong to fight. Even the snow could not quench them. "Thankfully, I don't think Teacher Naama is inside."
He kept watching, jaw tight. "Nouz must've used volatile glowbricks to light this. Sorry, Weaz, but the house is as good as gone."
"I found tracks heading west," Weaz said, crouched low. "Male, adult, heavier than normal." He followed the trail with his eyes toward the western bridge of the village, leading to the west split of the Dalmas. "It's Nouz. I think he brought Teacher Naama with him."
"Just where is he heading? The Western Split was blocked off because of the Rimelord's descent a couple of weeks back..." Weaz rose, pulling up his hood and mask. "Yarda, we're going."
"Oh man... Not the Western Split. I hate that part of the mountain." Yarda fell in beside him. "Even worse, walking through a blizzard? Outside? Tsk... Dammit. Hope the Rimelord isn't feeling peckish."
Weaz glanced at him, then looked back toward the plaza. He stopped. What he saw made his blood run cold.
A pillar of flame punched a hole through the sky.
"Shit…" His daggers slipped from his fingers.
"What are you looking at?" Yarda moved his attention toward the Frozen Elm. "...What the fu--" He took two steps forward and froze.
The pillar moved slowly, fell, creating a burning arc, slicing the sky clean, and cleaved the Frozen Elm. A massive shockwave pushed the snow away from the plaza.
"…!" Yarda kept his eyes open through the blast. "Was that Rahzar's? Or Gazmir's?"
"…Rahzar's." Weaz shifted, already turning away. "Remember what I told you? When he killed those three basaltars in the caves, it wasn't this strong. I guess he was only testing back then."
"Shit." He pulled his hood down. "We have to go. That battle is over."
"…Gazmir?" Yarda stood there, stunned. It was like the elders' fantastical stories, how their kind once wielded the flames of Gehenna itself as weapons. How they fought against the cruelty of the angels and the ingenuity of the humans using their birthright as Geherrim, Infernal Armaments. He snapped from his memories and turned to Weaz quickly. "Oi, Weaz? What about Gazmir? He's still there, yeah? He must've survived, yeah?"
"…I'm sorry, Yarda..." Weaz started toward the western bridge, leaving him behind. "...I don't think anyone survives that."
He continued, already halfway disappeared through the snowstorm. "C'mon. We don't have much time. Teacher Naama needs us."
Still shaking, Yarda swallowed his fear and pulled his hood down, then followed.
—
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
The blade did not chip, not even under the hardest hammer strike. The legends were true. Hellglass could not be broken.
"So..." She wiped some sweat from her forehead. "How do you reforge something that cannot be broken? This thing just won't chip."
Dobsy knew from the start that she had to treat Hellglass differently. It was nothing like iron or steel. The material felt like a mix of obsidian and some unknown red crystal. So she tried to chip it first, hoping smaller chunks would be easier to melt. The blade stayed sharp, even after rounds and rounds of hammering.
So she tried her second method, to melt the whole blade with the hottest flames she could coax from the forge.
It did not melt. Of course it didn't.
"Huh. If Da's condition wasn't so bad, he might know what to do…" Dobsy scratched her head. "Wait. Da's got a journal."
She slipped out of the forge and tiptoed to her father's room, easing the door open as carefully as she could. Her father was still asleep.
Dobzim was a large man, a huge man. A rotund, bearded Geherrim with the temper of glass and a laugh like a volcano's eruption. He had been Armsmaster for the Nhevari Vanguards during the Final Conflict, one of many, and the only Armsmaster who had survived the entire ordeal.
His head was full of strange, brilliant ideas about weapons. That was what helped Elm endure its harsh founding. For years, they were assaulted by the snow, the Garms, the Nhivens, and sometimes, the Rimelord herself. If not because of his, and the Old Chief's other son whose was apparently even better than Dobzim as an Armsmaster, they might not make it through this day.
Right after the Old Chief's other son disappeared fifteen years ago, his expertise in maintaining arms and armor became second to none in the village, even if he could not wield any of his creations himself. He was never a warrior, so he got no problems with it.
Unfortunately, for years now, he had been bedridden with a sickness. Frostblood, the elders called it. A sickness that would eventually take all the Nhevari in Elm. A sickness that was born from their incompatibility with the land's mana. Inevitable. Incurable. All one could do the moment the sickness got to them was wait as the body failed, as walking became impossible, then speaking, then even breathing, until lungs and heart gave out.
Dobsy lingered in the doorway, thinking hard. "Now, if I were Da… where would I put the notes…"
She crossed to the shelf, careful not to wake him, and started rummaging.
"Quench and Temper… not this one. On Knapping and Reducing… no." She pulled books and scrolls one by one and stacked them on the table. "On Hellglass and Infernal Armaments."
She processed the title, opened it, skimmed, and her eyes lit. "Fuckin' bingo."
"What's fuckin' bingo?" A deep voice startled her. Her father was awake, powerless on the bed, watching her intently. "Why are you rummaging through my bookshelf, Dobsyna?"
"Uh…" Dobsy froze. Her father was stern, and she respected him for it. Using the forge without permission was bad enough. Rummaging through his shelves was worse. "I…"
She forced the words out carefully. "I got something that needs to be reforged…"
"Reforged... Gazmir gave you the sword, I bet." Dobzim tried to sit upright, bracing with both hands. "Finally. He surely took his time."
"…How did you… Wait, how did you know that? I didn't say anything about Grandpa Gazmir or a sword." Dobsy clutched the book and hurried to his side, helping him sit. He was heavy, but she was trained.
"Because the owner of the sword told us fifteen years ago." Dobzim sat, his massive body heaving. Frostblood had not progressed far enough to steal his voice, but forging was out of the question. "He said, 'A blizzard will come. Along with the blizzard, revenge.'"
"Revenge?"
"Yes. He told Gazmir to give the sword to me, and for me to split the blade into two smaller pieces." Dobzim struggled to his feet and reached for the thick crutch beside the bed. "I asked why we shouldn't do it then. He said we wouldn't know who to make it for."
"…Do you know who it's for?"
"…That's your question?" Dobzim limped out, then opened the forge door. He scanned the room and found everything set up properly by his daughter. He smiled. "You sure are dense for a smart girl."
"Huh?" Dobsy guided him inside. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She hesitated, then asked it anyway. "What is this weapon anyway? Why is it made from Hellglass?" She dragged a chair for him, but he ignored it and went straight to the forge to study the blade.
"We don't mine it, daughter. We call upon it." Dobzim planted his good leg and pumped the bellows, driving the heat higher. A wave of air spread fire through the forge.
"And it only answers when the ones who call are sufficient."
He pumped again. "Sufficient in our will." Another heatwave rolled through the room. Dobzim's body started to almost shine red with heat.
He pumped again. "Sufficient in our ambition." The light sharpened. Dobsy winced. She had not known the sunchips could burn like this. Dobsy was sure the light surrounding her father was not from the flames. It was from within himself.
Dobzim's face was slick with sweat, but he kept pumping. His light kept shining even if the pain started to stab him from within. "Sufficient in our refusal. Our way of saying no to the world for what it has dealt us."
"Da… you'll collapse. Slow down."
"No." Dobzim pushed harder. The flames seemed to move as he willed it.
The Hellglass began to melt.
"Da… your sickness will get worse. Slow down."
"Look at it, Dobsyna." Dobzim nodded toward the blade, now softening into a glowing red mass. "There is no heat in all realms that can melt an Infernal Armament. None. Yet you can see it melting."
"Infernal Armament? But…" Dobsy stepped closer. The heat no longer bothered her. Her eyes went wide as the Hellglass shone brighter, nearly liquid. "How…"
"Because I refused." Dobzim smiled. His beard singed. His pale, sick skin flushed with a brief, angry life as heat coursed through him. His entire body was almost burning with his own flame from within. "I refused to stop. I refused to spare myself. I refused to accept that it can't be melted."
He kept pumping. Hotter. Hotter. The forge roared. The air itself felt as if it refused to burn.
The Hellglass fully yielded, molten and ready.
Dobzim exhaled all the strength he had amassed. What Dobsy saw like flames enveloping her father's body was now gone, slowly but surely.
"Refusal..." Dobsy tried to help her, but her father opened his left palm, telling her to stay where she was standing.
"Yes. Refusal. Your own stubbornness. Your will. Your ambition." Dobzim struggled to catch his breath. The disease was progressing rapidly after he exerted himself that hard. "You inherited Seena's stubbornness. You will get it. And when you do... no material is going to refuse you."
Dobzim looked at her with kind eyes, then limped away from the forge. His crutch groaned under his weight. He paused at the doorway between house and forge.
"The forge is yours, Dobsyna."
Dobsy stared at him. The discoloration was creeping up her father's neck. "Da…"
"My era has passed." He smiled, tired and proud. "Now it's all yours, daughter."
He closed the door.
"Make us proud."
—
—
Far away, at the Longrass Meadow, the Old Chief stepped forward, ready for the last round against Sol. He knew that he needed to use everything he had for this moment, lest Sol's hunger tear him apart. And after him, it would be Nia and the pups.
A shadow streaked across the Longrass, burning everything it touched. Still lost within his own confusion, within his own hunger. Whatever was left of Sol, being enveloped within his own red and black Flameveil, was trying to sate his pain through any means necessary.
The four pups chased the burning shadow, desperate. They knew that if they were late, there would be no return. It would burn through the entirety of this mountain.
Wanwan still struggled to recover from the recoil of his own strike. He cursed his weakness as he looked toward his siblings, chasing after Sol with desperation. If only he were stronger than this. Sol might not have to be in pain. He moved through the aches of his limbs. Sol needed him.
Nia clutched her hands. She knew what she had to do. She would have to sacrifice some things to bring Sol back.
She blinked. Her emerald eyes shone in the snowstorm.
She no longer felt fear.
The battle was moving directly toward its end.