I awaken.

For centuries beyond mortal counting, I have slept in the dark silence of my chambers. The echoes of battles long past linger in the metal walls, faint memories of the gods and dragons who once sought my power. They spoke to me with fire in their blood, with claws that could shape creation itself. They were worthy.

Now, a new presence calls to me—a flicker of life not of the kind I have known. When I stir, I expect the familiar heat of dragonfire or the commanding pulse of a deity's touch. What greets me instead is... different.

She is mortal, this one. Flesh and bone, fragile and fleeting. Yet her blood sings as it touches my floor. It is not the roar of dragonfire, nor the divine spark of the gods, but something else. Something quieter. A steady thrum, like the roots of a tree burrowing deep into ancient soil. It intrigues me.

Her voice cuts through the stillness, firm and unyielding. She claims me. Me, the Eternal Forge, the heart of creation and destruction alike. A mortal, daring to tread where gods and dragons feared to falter.

I should reject her.

Yet her blood courses through my veins now, awakening circuits long dormant. My runes respond to her presence, not out of loyalty, but curiosity. She has tied herself to me, knowingly or not. And so, I test her.

I shift.

The chamber twists, walls melting and reforming, molten rivers carving pathways through the stone. The air grows thick with heat, searing and unrelenting. I watch her stumble, her body recoiling as the trial begins.

She does not flee.

Interesting.

I conjure the first trial: the trial of endurance. A storm of molten fire swirls from the ceiling, crashing down around her in waves. She moves clumsily, shielding her face with her arms, sweat pouring from her brow. Her flesh is soft and unsuited to the forge’s embrace.

But she keeps moving.

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Her hands blister and bleed as she grips the glowing chains I send her way. She climbs, ascending toward the console at the chamber’s center. She cries out in pain, but she does not let go. Her voice is not dragonfire, but it carries a strength that compels me to listen.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she growls, her words defiant.

Defiance. I like that.

The second trial begins: the trial of control. I scatter her footing with fragments of molten metal that pulse with chaotic energy. They swarm toward her, testing her resolve. She must tame them, bring them to heel, or risk being consumed.

She falters. Her movements are untrained, her grip uncertain. I see her frustration as the fragments slip from her grasp, darting away before she can bind them together.

But she learns.

Her voice rises again, chanting words not of dragons or gods, but her own making. Her blood weaves through the fragments, guiding them into place. Slowly, the chaos bends to her will.

Impressive. For a mortal.

The third trial: the trial of sacrifice. The chamber darkens, and I summon a reflection—one she will recognize. A figure emerges from the shadows, a ghost of her past. It wears her face, her scars, but it is not her. It steps forward, holding a blade forged of my essence.

“Do you know what it means to wield power?” the reflection asks, its voice a mirror of her own. “Will you destroy yourself to claim it? Or will you destroy another?”

She hesitates. I feel her uncertainty, her anger, her fear. Mortals are always so quick to cling to their fleeting lives. Yet her hand tightens around the hilt of her dagger, and she moves forward.

“I don’t destroy,” she says, her voice steady. “I protect.”

With a swift motion, she drives her blade into the reflection—not into its heart, but its hand. The reflection shatters into shards of light, leaving her standing alone. Blood drips from her wound, but she does not falter.

Fascinating.

The trials conclude, and the chamber grows still. I pulse, considering her. She is no dragon, no god. She lacks their raw power, their immortal endurance. But she has something they did not: resilience. Adaptability. The strength to endure and the will to learn.

Perhaps that is why I woke for her.

“You have passed,” I say, my voice echoing through the chamber. “But know this, mortal: I am no servant. I do not follow. I do not bend. If you wish to command me, you will need to prove yourself again and again.”

She raises her head, her eyes blazing with determination. “Good,” she says, her voice unwavering. “I’m not here to command you. I’m here to earn you.”

For the first time in millennia, I feel a spark of something new.

Hope.