Beyond Worlds, Beneath the Star God

Ash rained like snow.

The deeper they went, the more surreal the world became. Great black columns rose from molten cracks in the earth, inscribed with ever-burning runes. Rivers of lava flowed beneath iron bridges strung with bone chimes that clinked in the smoke-heavy wind.

Before them stretched a city carved into the very caldera of an ancient volcano—Emberhold, the domain of the Tyrant Ignarok.

It pulsed with fire. Buildings were fused from obsidian and brass, shaped not by tools but by heat itself. Gigantic forges churned endlessly, powered by chained elementals howling in liquid flame. Red-robed figures moved through the streets like monks, chanting in a guttural, staccato tongue.

"Welcome to a city that worships destruction as creation," Elandor murmured. "The forge is their altar. The fire, their god."

---

A Dangerous Disguise

To enter, they had adopted robes taken from fallen Burnt scouts and covered their faces in soot. Kun carried a forged sigil—a disc etched with both his own starfire rune and a stylized flame, posing as a "Fireborn Pilgrim."

The ruse was dangerous.

But effective.

At the outer gates, a Burnt warden looked them over—his face a molten mask, his eyes glowing like coals. He reached for Kun's arm and touched the sigil.

The moment his finger met the metal, it flared with golden-orange light.

The warden hissed in awe. "The mark... true-born..."

He stepped aside without another word.

---

Society of Flame

Inside Emberhold, the group witnessed a society built entirely around Ignarok's ideology.

The Burnt were not merely soldiers—they were believers. Each day, hundreds gathered around a central crucible called the Heartforge, where priests channeled Ignarok's flame into blessings of endurance and strength.

The city was divided by function:

The Forgelanes housed weapon and armor production.

The Scoria Vaults stored magical cores harvested from the veins of the volcano.

The Pyrean Spire stood at the city's center—a tower of fire and stone where Ignarok himself resided, seen only during the rare Rite of Flamefall.

Kun's group moved slowly, carefully. Elandor pretended to be a mute elder scribe. Lyra posed as a fire-seer apprentice. Rein—reluctantly—took the role of a flameguard escort.

But it was Kun who drew the most attention.

Wherever they went, Burnt citizens bowed low. Some murmured prayers. Others left offerings of smoldering stone or burning herbs. Kun began to realize:

They didn't just respect him.

They worshipped him.

---

The Fire Relic

After two days of quiet observation, they learned the truth.

Deep beneath the Pyrean Spire, Ignarok's priests were crafting a weapon—not of steel, but of corefire.

"A relic older than the Nine," whispered a half-mad scribe they bribed with cooled obsidian wine. "A thing not forged by man or god, but by the will of the world."

He called it: The Emberheart.

A weapon that could reshape flame itself.

And it was days away from completion.

If Ignarok completed it, he wouldn't just rule the Ashened Expanse—he could reduce entire kingdoms to ash with a gesture.

---

Foreshadowing: A Voice from Below

That night, while the others slept, Kun followed a pull in his chest down to the edge of the Heartforge. He stared into the massive crucible's depths—so hot it distorted light.

And then he heard it.

> "Child of fire... why do you wear another's skin?"

The voice came not from around him, but within the flames.

> "You walk where my rage was born. You wear my mark. You speak my tongue. But you are not mine."

A massive, half-melted face formed in the inferno—its eyes two white-hot voids.

> "Do you think power makes you worthy?"

> "You burn bright... but I was the first to burn."

Kun's hands clenched.

He didn't answer. Not yet.

But inside, something else stirred.

Not fear.

Challenge.