A soft poke on her nose stirred Solena from sleep.

“Oooo, you slept in the same sheets last night!” Lumi teased, fluttering beside her.

Blushing, Solena quickly pulled the covers up to her mouth, her eyes darting nervously around. “Shhh, Lumi! It’s not what you think!”

The tiny pixie hovered in the air, laughing and pointing at her. “He is kinda handsome, isn’t he?! Bwahaha! I might tell someone if we don’t get some breakfast! I’m starving!”

Turning away from Lumi for a moment, Solena glanced at the figure beside her. Erazon’s color had returned somewhat, but he remained in a deep slumber. “Let’s let him rest a little longer.” Turning back to her floating companion she added. “I didn’t know pixies ate food?”

“Of course I eat food!” Lumi stuck out her tongue. “Just… not much. But I’m starving! Come on, I need someone to turn that slippery door handle!”

“Shhh!” Solena whispered, standing and regaining her balance. Soreness spread through her body, but the resting chamber's aura had revitalized her more than she expected. She felt surprisingly well-rested, and Lumi’s presence was a welcome relief. The idea of being alone had been unnerving last night, so she wasn’t about to feel guilty for staying.

Lumi led the way out, pausing at the crystal door handle before gesturing for Solena to follow. Stepping into the room beyond, Solena was greeted by the mouth-watering smell of food. A large table filled the familiar room where they had spent the previous night talking, now covered with an array of delicious dishes. Godric and Orlithar sat together, their plates empty as they finished their drinks.

“Ahh, good morning, lass!” Orlithar greeted her cheerfully. “Help yerself. We’ve got tasks to complete before ye set off.”

Godric glanced up, offering her a warm smile. “Where’s Erazon? Still asleep?”

Heat rose to Solena’s cheeks, and she quickly diverted her gaze. Lumi, noticing the flustered expression, chuckled softly, covering her tiny mouth with both hands.

“I—I think he’s still resting. He looked really exhausted,” Solena said, her voice a little awkward as she sat down and reached for a Danish and some smoked mutton.

A shared laugh erupted between Godric and Orlithar. “Aye, let the lad rest,” Orlithar continued, eyes twinkling. “Before ye head out—assuming the young mage wakes today—ye’ll both need new clothes. Just look at ye!”

Godric glanced down at his tattered blacksmith’s apron and worn boots. “Aye, I’m barely holding together. Looks like I’m wearin’ a rag with holes.”

Glancing at herself, Solena’s face fell. Her once-elegant robes were scorched, singed, and stained beyond saving. She hadn’t bathed or even attempted to fix her hair, and the smell of ash clung to her like a bad memory. “We really need to clean up,” she admitted with a chuckle. “This smith looks like he’s been rolling around in the forge! Though, if we’re being honest, I don’t look much better.” She paused thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I can make it home without…”

Orlithar’s knowing wink cut her off. “Without a little help from my magic, aye? Handy having an old dwarf around! But ye might be stuck with carriages this time! Ahaha!” He grinned, then added with a teasing glance, “Looks like ye’ve spent the night in the forge, too!”

Solena couldn’t help but join in the laughter. She knew the deeper meaning behind Orlithar’s jest—he hadn’t forgotten the time she kept him captive, feeding off his magic. She had only been able to travel by portal with his power, and what little magic she had left now had to be used sparingly. Still, her laughter was genuine.

“Anyway, I’ve got something ta show ye before Erazon wakes up. Take yer time eatin’, lass. When ye’re done, come up to the Guildmaster’s chamber. We’ll get Godric feelin’ like a new man, and don’t worry—I’ve got somethin’ for ye, too.” Orlithar gave Godric a playful nudge. “Come on, smith! Ye smell like spilled oil!” He dropped his voice low, glancing between them with a mischievous grin. “I’m afraid to think of what ye left my sleeping chamber smellin’ like. Ahaha!”

Godric frowned slightly but nodded, standing with a stretch. He had slept on top of the covers the night before, not wanting to dirty the fine bedding with his soot-stained clothes. He felt refreshed, and the hearty breakfast had left him feeling more optimistic about their mission. “Alright, let’s get going,” he said, turning to Solena as they made their way to the stairs. “If he wakes up, see if you can get him to eat something—he listens to you.”

Solena, caught mid-bite, widened her eyes and hurriedly covered her mouth. “Mmhmm!” she mumbled, nodding as she awkwardly gave Godric a thumbs-up, avoiding his gaze. Is everyone on a different page here? she wondered.

Lumi, now pretending to sit beside her, was clutching her stomach, trying to hold back her laughter. “Looks like they’ve got you all figured out, missy!” she teased.

A mischievous grin spread across Solena’s face. Locking eyes with Lumi, she conjured a tiny flame at the tip of her finger. The pixie, undeterred, stuck out her tongue in defiance, and the two broke into giggles just as Godric and Orlithar disappeared up the spiral staircase.

The sound of their laughter echoed faintly as Godric followed Orlithar through a large corridor that ended at a circular chamber. The room was illuminated by sunlight streaming in through tall windows, and weapon racks lined the walls. Four great suits of armor stood proudly, spaced between large wooden chests.

Godric marveled at how the light touched every corner of the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to one particular suit of armor—though damaged by a deep, vicious gash, the craftsmanship remained remarkable.

Even from a distance, the blend of Elven grace and Dwarven strength was unmistakable. The armor’s sleek, intricate design was clearly Elven, with faint swirling patterns still visible on its surface, despite the long-faded magic. The flowing lines of the breastplate were elegant, designed for both beauty and protection.

Yet beneath that elegance, Dwarven forging held the piece together. The dark, lustrous metal was thicker around the chest and shoulders, where protection was paramount. Even the deep gash hadn’t fully compromised its structure. The pauldrons were sharp and angular, true to Dwarven style, while the gauntlets bore inscriptions in an unreadable language.

Godric’s gaze lingered on the claw marks. It was brutal, as though the armor had faced a creature of immense power. He marveled at the strength of the craftsmanship—it was still a masterpiece, even damaged, far beyond anything ordinary soldiers could wear.

“Aye, that’s a fine piece of craftsmanship, Master Dwarf,” Godric said, his voice filled with awe. He could already sense the challenge ahead; restoring the armor would be no simple task.

“That set belonged to an Archon, lad. A real Archon.” Orlithar began, a chuckle rumbling from deep within his chest. “Venlithar, a mage who did things his own way. Didn’t care much for runes or scrolls like most mages. Nah, Ven poured raw power into his armor and weapons. His staff could blow a demon to pieces, and his sword? Cut through stone with ease. But it was that armor he was most proud of.”

Godric listened intently, hooked on the story, while Orlithar’s expression grew distant, his mind drifting back in time.

“Ol’ Ven was a demon-slayer. Faced beasts that most men couldn’t even dream of. There was the Scourge of the Ironfoot Ruins—Ven turned that monster to ash in a day. And the den of fire elementals—he didn’t even need his sword for that one. Used his bare hands, with that armor protectin’ him from the flames.”

Godric raised an eyebrow, intrigued but sensing there was more to the story.

“But there was one battle Ven couldn’t win.” Orlithar’s voice dropped, heavy with the weight of old memories. “He faced a demon by the name of Gaz’Baron—Lord of Hell. Big as a temple, claws sharp enough to slice through iron. Ven thought it’d be just another notch on his staff.”

Orlithar paused, running a hand over his beard, visibly struggling with the memory.

“He fought like hell, I’ll give him that. But that demon... it was different. Stronger. Smarter. And with one swipe—just one—Gaz’Baron tore through Ven’s armor like it was nothin’.” Orlithar gestured toward the gash, the tear in the armor a brutal reminder. “That’s where The Butcher struck him. Cut clean through.”

Godric stared at the gash, picturing the battle in his mind, the clash of magic, steel, and monstrous claws.

“Ven didn’t fall right away. He kept fightin’, bleedin’, armor shredded. But in the end... that foul demon took him down. We’ve left the armor as it is ever since. Never could figure out how to repair it.” Orlithar sighed deeply, his gaze lingering on the gash as though he were reliving his old friend’s final moments.

Orlithar scratched his beard thoughtfully, his eyes on Godric. “Anyway, lad, as I was sayin’... He traveled deep under the earth, to where yer mother’s people hail from. Those red eyes of yours? Their secret goes deeper than most know.”

Godric blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in the conversation, but Orlithar pressed on, his tone growing more serious.

“The elves in yer homeland split from the Mistwood centuries ago, abandoning their worship of Aurelia. In their pursuit of power, they struck a terrible pact with the Earth-born member of the Nine. In exchange for their loyalty, he gifted them red eyes—eyes that could see far and wide, and even beyond the visible world, into things unseen by others.”

Orlithar paused, his gaze momentarily distant. “The price they paid to gain that gift is unspoken, written only in dark tomes I’d not dare mutter of in this chamber.”

Godric stood frozen, hanging on every word, the secrets of his heritage settling heavily on him. Orlithar noticed his silence and nodded, continuing the tale.

“From there, the Greybacks—the elves, mind ye—realized that their vision had given them dominion over the lands above, but there was more below. They made a pact with a great dwarven king, aiding in the art of mining and smithing. Secretly, they honed their vision further, perfecting the ability to see into the darkest places—through solid rock, into the very heart of the earth.”

He glanced at Godric, his voice softening but holding a sense of urgency. “They had a knack, lad—a gift for seein’ right into the ore, findin’ its essence, forging metal as hard as diamonds. That skill, lad, was learned from the dwarves. But they didn’t just help—they surpassed the kingdom, which sparked the first of many wars. No time for that now, but what I’m tryin’ to tell ye is…”

Orlithar leaned forward, his tone turning serious. “If ye focus on those eyes o’ yours, there’s great secrets hiding in ‘em. Ye’ve a natural gift for seein’ into the metal—its very essence. That’s what makes ye a fine smith, lad. Ye’ve got talent born of hard work, but also somethin’ deeper, tied to your blood.”

Godric swallowed hard, absorbing the revelation, his doubts about his own abilities suddenly confronting him in a new light.

“So, ye say ye’re a smith,” Orlithar continued, his voice brightening, though still tinged with a bittersweet note. “If ye can repair that armor, lad, it’s yours. Not all the magic remains, mind ye, but the metal’s sound. Dwarven steel, mixed with Elven craft, forged in the heart of yer homeland. There’s no finer piece for a smith like you to take up.”

The offer lingered in the air, heavy with challenge and opportunity. Orlithar’s expectant gaze bore into Godric as if waiting for the final note of a battle song.

Godric swallowed, his gaze drifting back to the gash in the armor. Doubts raced through his mind, and his feet shifted uneasily under the weight of the task. This wasn’t some farmer’s broken plow or a guard’s dented breastplate. This was Venlithar’s armor—a masterpiece, forged by both Elven and Dwarven hands, worn by an Archon who had stood against demons.

He remembered the stories his father used to tell him—stories of an Archon, a mage who had nearly mastered all nine forms of magic in the world. That kind of power… it was mythical, unheard of. Yet, here he was, standing before the armor of such a legend, the weight of its history pressing down on him.

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“I… I don’t know, Orlithar,” Godric admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m no master smith. I’ve worked with iron and steel all my life—fixin’ tools, patching armor—but this... this is different.”

His eyes lingered on the jagged gash, the thought of ruining such a legendary piece of armor twisting his stomach into knots. What if I make it worse? The question gnawed at him. What if it’s beyond repair?

Orlithar’s low chuckle broke the silence. “Lad, ye’re a smith, aren’t ye? Ye’ve been hammerin’ metal all yer life. This might be finer work than yer used to, but don’t let it scare ye. No blade worth wieldin’ was ever forged by doubtin’ oneself. The hammer in yer hand—yer father’s hammer—it knows what to do. Ye just have to trust it.”

Godric glanced down at the hammer in his hand, the worn grip familiar as ever. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, steady and reassuring, just as it always had been. Looking up, he found Orlithar watching him with an expectant but patient gaze.

He sighed deeply, the weight of the decision still pressing on him, but the offer was too much to pass up.

“Aye, Master Dwarf,” he finally said, nodding, though uncertainty still trembled in his voice. “I’ll give it a try. It might be beyond me, but I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the spirit!” Orlithar clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Now go on, lad. Ye can’t wear it with that gash in it.”

Taking a deep breath, Godric approached the armor. It loomed large in front of him, heavier in his hands than he expected. As he struggled to bring it over to the anvil, the enormity of the task settled in. This wasn’t just any armor—this was a legacy.

Unbuckling the damaged plate, he laid it flat on the anvil, his chest heaving from the effort. Hefting the hammer, Godric hesitated, doubt creeping in again. What am I doin’? he thought. This isn’t some farmer’s hoe—it’s Venlithar’s armor, a piece of history.

Holding his breath, he swung the hammer down.

Clank.

Sparks flew, but the gash remained.

His heart sank, but he tried again, adding more force this time.

Clank. Sparks.

Still nothing.

Godric frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. His mind was wandering, disconnected from the metal. You have to see the end before you begin, his father had always said, but all he could see now was failure.

He paused, tightening his grip on the hammer. Thoughts of his sister, Elizza, flashed through his mind. She was still trapped in the clutches of that cursed mage, waiting for him. He had to be stronger—for her, for their friends, for everything they had yet to face in the dark Ghostlands.

With renewed focus, he raised the hammer again, his muscles burning. He had to make the armor whole again, not just for himself but for all those who depended on him. The image of his sister, her blue eyes filled with hope, spurred him on.

He swung harder.

Clang.

For a split second, the metal shifted. The gash, though still visible, seemed to stir, almost as if responding to his intent. Taking a deep breath, Godric focused harder, envisioning the armor whole—strong and gleaming. He saw the missing piece in his mind, darkened and cursed, but cracked under his strikes.

The hammer began to glow.

At first, he didn’t notice, lost in the rhythm of his strikes. But as the hammer connected with the metal, blue energy crackled around it, sparking like captured lightning. Godric hesitated, surprised as the bright blue energy filled the air, the sharp scent of ozone surrounding him.

His heart raced. This wasn’t just the force of the swing—this was magic.

The realization hit him. He hadn’t called for it, but the magic was there, responding to his need, wrapping around the hammer like a living force. It pulsed through the armor, targeting the cursed mark in the metal, forging a connection between his strikes and the armor’s core.

This was for Elizza.

Smack. Clang.

The gash in the armor shifted, edges pulling together, glowing faintly as the metal healed itself. The blue energy surged, guiding the repair with each strike, the jagged edges knitting together.

Godric could feel it—the armor’s essence, the magic within. This wasn’t just hammering; he was connecting with the armor, understanding its purpose and power. Each strike was deliberate, full of intent. He could see the finished piece in his mind—smooth, unbroken, strong.

Sweat dripped down his face, his arm trembling with fatigue, but he didn’t stop. The magic in the hammer pulsed with each beat of his heart, the sparks flying brighter with every blow. The armor’s history, its purpose, called to him, urging him on.

Just before the final strike, he paused.

The gash was gone.

Venlithar’s armor, once shattered and broken, now lay whole before him.

Godric stepped back, breathless, his chest rising and falling. The hammer still glowed faintly in his hand, transformed by the magic that had flowed through him. He wiped sweat from his brow, staring in awe at the gleaming armor.

A heavy hand clapped him on the back. “Well done, lad! Ha!” Orlithar’s voice boomed. “Knew ye had it in ye. Ye were born for this.”

Still catching his breath, Godric managed a weak smile.

“Now,” Orlithar continued, striding over to a nearby chest, “let’s get ye suited up proper.” He flung the chest open, revealing a set of fine clothes. “Put these on. Ye’ll feel like a new man.”

Godric obeyed, slipping into the new clothes, then donning the armor with Orlithar’s help. The weight was substantial, but it felt right—like it belonged to him now.

For the first time in his life, Godric felt ready—not just as a smith, but as a warrior. He felt the power of the armor coursing through him, not just in its protection, but in the connection he’d forged through the hammer and his will.

Godric was still adjusting to the weight of the armor when the door creaked open. Solena stepped inside, her eyes immediately catching sight of him in his fully suited form. A wry smile tugged at her lips as she strolled in, Lumi fluttering close behind.

“Well, look at you!” she teased. “Cleaned up nicely, didn’t you? Though…” she wrinkled her nose, “I’d say you could still use a bath.”

Orlithar’s booming laughter filled the room as he clapped Godric on the back. “Aye, lass, ye aren’t far from the truth. Go on, lad, there’s a bath down the corridor where ye slept. Ye’ll find it past the sleepin’ mage—make sure to check on him while ye’re at it.”

Embarrassed but grinning, Godric nodded. “Aye, aye, I’m goin’. Wouldn’t want my scent to stain this armor—or singe the lady’s nose further.” He heard Lumi giggle as she fluttered near Solena.

“Take yer time, lad,” Orlithar called as Godric left the chamber. “We’ll be down there when ye’re ready to join us at the table.”

As Godric exited, Orlithar turned his attention to Solena, his expression growing thoughtful. “Now then, lass, your turn,” he said, crossing his arms. “Ye can’t be walkin’ about in those tattered robes.”

Solena blinked, slightly taken aback. “Oh? You’ve got a spare set I can have?”

“Aye, more than that,” Orlithar nodded, gesturing toward a chest near the corner. “Let’s get ye into somethin’ befitting the fiery sorceress ye are.”

As he walked over to the mannequin, Orlithar paused, his brow furrowing as though recalling a distant memory. “This chamber, lass… it was sealed off after ye… well…” He shook his head, clearly thinking better of finishing the thought. “Best not to dwell on that. But do ye know who this blackened and red dress belonged to?”

Solena tilted her head curiously. “Actually… I don’t.”

“It was the dress of a powerful Guild Master—death and fire, much like yerself,” Orlithar explained, his voice growing more solemn. “She was a scourge in her time, fought in the War of Kings, and kept Carlin free when it seemed the Archmages—and the kings, mind ye—of earth and water would overwhelm us. She decimated their ranks.”

His voice grew quieter as he continued, “She hated eating, ye see. So much so that she stopped altogether. Upon the brink of death, she refused food. Only at the final moment did she take a drink of water, and that was when she discovered her body could sap life from it. That small drink of creek water gave her the strength to venture outside, where she began drainin’ life from a great tree.”

Solena listened intently as Orlithar’s tale unfolded.

“That was when she realized mages don’t need food, but magic—life energy. Cows, hens, fish—they all contain it. She delved deeper into this magic and discovered necromancy, drawing life force from others. She laid the foundation of death magic we practice today.”

“She sounds… impressive,” Solena remarked, raising an eyebrow.

“Aye, she was,” Orlithar agreed, nodding gravely. “But like all mages, she had her secrets, always seeking knowledge. Ye know how it is—never seems all the mages of the world can get along.” He chuckled dryly. “One day, she disappeared, leaving behind a legacy—and this gown. It’s got natural enchantments woven into it, subtle ones. To this day, I can’t figure them all out, but she was delicate in her craft. Much like you.”

Orlithar carefully removed the dress from the mannequin and presented it to Solena—a beautifully folded black and gold gown with an intricate red cloak. The fabric shimmered faintly, as though alive with its own magical energy.

“It’s only right that it passes on to someone like ye. Try it on—see how it fits.”

Solena looked at the gown, momentarily speechless. “It’s… incredible,” she whispered, almost afraid to touch it.

With a warm smile, Orlithar handed her the gown. “Aye, lass. But that’s not all.” He reached into the chest and retrieved a small, ornate box. “Inside here is somethin’ else that belonged to her. Take a look.”

Solena opened the box with curiosity and found a slim, elegant wand nestled inside. Her fingers traced the smooth, polished wood, and she felt the subtle hum of magic within. It called to her almost instinctively.

She hesitated for only a moment before gripping the wand firmly.

In an instant, a bolt of fire shot from its tip, crackling through the air. Solena shrieked in surprise and, with a frantic wave of her hand, whispered the flame into nothingness before it hit the wall.

Orlithar roared with laughter, clutching his sides. “Ahaha! Ye’ve got quite the affinity for that one, don’t ye? It’s strong, lass—strong enough to make yer spells more powerful without wearin’ ye out. Ye’ll be able to cast with less effort, and it’ll help ye avoid overexerting yer magic.”

Solena stood there, breathless, still processing the wand’s power. “It… it startled me,” she admitted, though her eyes sparkled with excitement. The connection she felt to the wand was undeniable. Its power was already becoming part of her, much like Godric’s connection to his armor.

Nearby, Lumi admired the gown. “Woooh, that’s pretty!” she chirped.

“Well, go on then,” Orlithar said, grinning mischievously at the pair. “Try on the dress!”

Lumi placed her hands on her hips and chirped up, “Give a lady her privacy, you old prune!”

Orlithar’s eyes widened in realization, his face flushing beneath his beard. “Ah, right! Of course, ladies! Me apologies, me apologies!” With a sheepish chuckle, he quickly exited the room, leaving Solena and Lumi alone.

Solena held the crimson gown against herself, admiring the craftsmanship. “What do you think, little one? Shall we get you one too?”

Lumi beamed. “Could you, could you, please?! It’s beautiful, Miss! You’ll swoon that handsome boy for sure! Ha!” She collapsed in mid-air, her tiny fists beating an imaginary floor.

Solena laughed. “It just might happen!” The pixie’s excitement was contagious, and secretly, she hoped to see Lumi in a matching dress soon.

After slipping into the gown, Solena gazed at herself in the mirror. The dress hugged her athletic figure perfectly, the fabric flowing seamlessly over her curves as if it had been tailored just for her. She could feel the enchantments within—subtle, weathered by time, yet undeniably powerful—heightening her magic with every brush against her skin. The cloak draped over her shoulders like a second layer of protection, adding a graceful but commanding presence to her reflection.

She raised the wand again, allowing her fire magic to flow through it. This time, the fire obeyed perfectly, controlled and refined, a simple extension of her will. She smiled, feeling a renewed sense of strength and confidence.

“Looks like I’m ready,” she murmured.

Lumi fluttered around, helping Solena adjust her cloak, just as the door creaked open again. Orlithar stepped inside, his footsteps halting as his eyes fell on her.

For a dwarf who had seen countless battles and powerful sorcerers, there was a look of genuine awe on his face as he took in the sight of Solena. The firelight flickered off the gown’s deep red fabric, casting a glow that made her seem to radiate power.

“By the gods, lass...” Orlithar muttered, shaking his head slowly. “Ye look every bit the powerful sorceress ye were born to be.”

Blushing, Solena tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Oh, I—I don’t know about that,” she stammered. “I don’t deserve such a compliment.”

“Nah, lass,” Orlithar said, his voice softening. “It’s not just the dress. It suits ye because ye’ve earned it—just like Ven’s armor on Godric. Ye’ve got a fire in ye, and anyone can see it. Ye’ll do great things, that I have faith in.”

Her blush deepened, but a small, bashful smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you. That means a lot from you.”

Clearing his throat, Orlithar shifted, clearly uncomfortable with his own sentimentality. “Ah, well, enough of that,” he said, though his smile remained. “One more thing for ye. Seems ye lost yer hat in the kerfuffle, aye?”

Solena laughed softly, recalling how her old wizard’s hat had been burned to ash during the chaotic battle. “It’s gone. It was with me for so long...”

“Feast yer eyes,” Orlithar said with a wink. He reached into the chest and pulled out a beautifully crafted wizardess hat, deep crimson to match her gown, with golden inlays that shimmered in the light. At its peak, a delicate, ever-blossoming flower unfurled its petals as though it were alive.

Solena’s eyes widened. “Is that...?”

“Aye,” Orlithar replied, handing it to her. “She left it behind as well. Suits ye perfectly.”

Solena took the hat with reverence, her fingers brushing over the intricate details. A wide grin spread across her face, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“It’s... perfect!” she exclaimed, placing it on her head. The pointy tip tilted just right, and the flower bloomed gently, shifting between shades of crimson and gold.

Orlithar chuckled. “Ye look like a proper wizardess now, lass. That hat was made for ye.”

Solena twirled, her gown flowing as she admired her reflection. “I love it!” she declared, her earlier bashfulness melting away. She touched the brim lightly, feeling the magic hum through the hat. “It feels... alive, like it’s part of me.”

“That’s the magic workin’ in harmony with ye,” Orlithar said, satisfied. “Ye’re a natural with it.”

“Thank you, Orlithar. Truly,” Solena said, still beaming. “This means so much.”

“Aye, lass. Now, don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me,” Orlithar teased, though his voice was filled with warmth. “There’s still a journey ahead of us. Why don’t ye follow Godric’s lead? Check on the sleepin’ mage and take a bath. We’ll meet ye at the table when ye’re ready.”

Solena tipped her new hat playfully. “I’ll do that. You two had better be ready when I’m back—no napping.”

Orlithar laughed heartily. “Ahaha! No promises, lass. We’ll be waitin’ for ye. Once ye’re both back, we’ll talk about what’s next—headin’ into the Ghostlands.”

As Solena descended the stairs, the soft rustle of her gown echoed through the quiet halls. Each step felt lighter than the last, her newfound confidence settling comfortably around her like the cloak draped over her shoulders. For the first time in a long while, she felt truly ready—for the Ghostlands, for the battles ahead, for whatever destiny had in store.

But then, a scream pierced the silence.

It was Godric’s voice, raw and frantic, the sound of his terror reverberating up the staircase. A hammer struck the wall with a deafening clang. The noise made her freeze, her heart leaping into her throat.

This wasn’t a normal yell. This was fear—pure, unbridled fear.

What could be happening? Panic gripped her. Erazon—Is he safe?

Without a second thought, she bolted down the stairs, her gown billowing out behind her as her feet pounded against the stone steps. "Orlithar! Something’s wrong!" she yelled, her voice desperate as it echoed off the walls. "Come quick!"

The clang of the hammer and the echoes of Godric’s scream rang in her ears as she ran, her pulse racing. Whatever was happening below, she had to get there. Now