NOVEL NEXT Chapter 108: Peaks of Peril and Pastry Perseverance
Thorne took point on the trail, his staff tapping out a rhythm that echoed off the rocks like Morse code for "don't fall." His robes caught the wind, billowing around him like he was auditioning for a wizard fashion spread, but that scar on his face kept him grounded—jagged proof he'd paid dues long before we stumbled into the picture. "The third shard's perched high, in the Crag of Cindered Dreams," he called back, voice cutting through the gusts. "Guarded by the Ember Warden—a forge-spirit born from Valthorne's first failures. It'll test your resolve, make you face what you fear most about power." He paused to catch his breath, glancing at me with those steel-gray eyes. "You ready for that, Loafbearer? Or does the weight still feel like a joke?"
I wiped sweat from my brow, the quill in my pocket giving a cheeky twitch like it was eavesdropping. "Ready? Nah. But I've got a scepter that talks back and a crew that'd follow me into a volcano for the snacks. Close enough." Thorne had slotted into the group like he'd always been there—part guide, part grizzled uncle, dropping lore bombs that made the whole Valthorne saga feel less like myth and more like a family feud. He'd opened up a bit on the fen trek, admitting the scar came from a botched binding ritual when he was barely out of robes-and-sandals phase. Made him feel less like a plot device and more like one of us.
Lilith scrambled up beside me, her boots crunching gravel with purpose, scythe slung across her back like it weighed nothing. She shot Thorne a sidelong look, horns slicing the wind. "Forge-spirit, huh? Sounds like my kind of party—hot, cranky, and probably explodes if you poke it wrong." Her laugh was short and sharp, but she fell into step easy, matching my pace without breaking a sweat. The fens had softened her edges a touch; she'd admitted over a shared canteen that the wraith's whispers hit on old family stuff she'd buried deeper than a dragon's hoard. Now, she was all fire, the kind that warmed instead of burned. "Just say when, Cecil. I've got your flank, like always."
Vorren powered up the incline like gravity was optional, his broad shoulders carving a path through the loose scree. He paused to offer a hand to Jex, who was slipping on the shale like it was greased. "Power's a tool, Thorne. Fear it, and you're done. Fear nothing, and you break everything." His words came out gruff, but there was a nod in them, an acknowledgment. Vorren didn't do heart-to-hearts, but the peaks seemed to loosen him up—he'd grumbled something about the wraith dredging up a lost brother during that bog slog, then clammed up like a mussel. Still, he moved with that quiet certainty, knife at his belt, ready to turn any Warden into warden-filler.
Jex took Vorren's hand with a grateful whoop, hauling himself up and immediately tripping over his own feet into a crouch. "Cheers, big fella. These peaks are steeper than a tax collector's smile. Ember Warden? Bet it's got a soft spot for shiny things—I'll charm it with this." He dangled a pilfered quartz from the fens, winking like it was Excalibur. Jex bounced back quick from the mud memories, turning his street-kid ghosts into jokes over fen-fires, but I caught him staring at the horizon sometimes, like he was chasing something he couldn't name. He fit here, though—our spark plug, keeping the laughs coming even when the air got thin.
Yvra navigated the trail with that effortless poise, skirts tucked practical, dagger glinting in the fading light. She caught up to Thorne, falling into easy conversation about old binding rites, her voice a mix of curiosity and command. "The Crag's lore mentions a counter-ritual—something about offering a 'dream unburned.' Care to elaborate, or is that a surprise for the climb?" She glanced back at me, a small smile playing on her lips. The noble frost had thawed a lot since the divorce debacle; the wraith had forced her to face some ugly court whispers, but she'd come out swinging, turning it into fuel for sharper plans. Now, she was our strategist, the one who saw three moves ahead while the rest of us dodged rocks.
Fog brought up the middle, drifting along without a footprint to his name, tea steaming against the chill like a personal rebellion. "Resolve is the key, Cecil. The Warden forges or fractures—choose your metal wisely." He sipped, eyes distant, like he was consulting the leaves for tomorrow's weather report. Fog's calm had held steady through the whispers, but he'd murmured later about echoes of old apprentices, lost to bad bindings. Made his cryptic bits feel more like care than conundrums.
Thrain and Gorrim turned the ascent into their personal obstacle course, naturally. Thrain charged a boulder like it was a dragon, lance high—"For the crown's craggy conquest!"—only to slip on loose pebbles and slide back down in a rattle of armor. Gorrim dove after him—"By valor's vertical grace!"—and they ended up in a tangled heap at the bottom, helmets clanging like discordant bells. "Dishonorable declivity!" Thrain groaned as they disentangled, but they were laughing by the time they caught up, mud from the fens still flaking off their greaves. The knights were chaos incarnate, but their stumbles kept us grounded—reminders that even heroes ate dirt.
The trail steepened as dusk deepened, switching back on itself like a drunkard's path home. We crested a ridge to a view that stole the breath—the peaks stretching out in a sea of stone and shadow, the Crag looming ahead like a broken tooth, its flanks scarred black from ancient fires. Smoke curled from vents, carrying the acrid tang of embers and something sweeter, like charred sugar. The wind picked up, howling through the gaps, and that's when the heat hit—a dry, oppressive wave rolling down from the Crag, making the air shimmer.
Thorne halted at a narrow ledge, staff planted firm. "This is it. The Warden's forge is inside. Remember—face your fear, offer the unburned dream, and the shard yields." He met my eyes, steady. "You've got this. Valthorne chose well."
I nodded, gripping the scepter. The relics warmed, ready. "Chose a lunatic, maybe. But yeah. Let's crack this egg." The crew fanned out behind me—Lilith's nod fierce, Vorren's grunt solid, Jex's thumbs-up cheeky, Yvra's gaze calculating, Fog's tea-raised toast subtle, knights' salutes synced for once. We pressed on, the Crag's maw yawning wide, heat baking our faces. Inside, the air turned furnace-hot, walls glowing with veins of molten rock that pulsed like living veins. The forge-heart waited at the center—a vast anvil of obsidian, flames dancing eternal around a figure of fire and fury: the Ember Warden, tall as three men, body wreathed in coiling heat, eyes like forge-belts glowing white.
It turned as we entered, voice booming like thunder in a tin can. "Mortals. Seekers. What dream do you bring to my fire? Or do you come to burn?" The air rippled, heat pressing in, and the fears crashed down—visions of failure, of losing the crew to my screw-ups, of the circle shattering under my fumbling hands. The Warden loomed, hammer raised, flames licking closer.
I stepped forward, scepter high. "Not to burn. To forge." The words came unbidden, pulled from the relics' hum. I faced the fire, offering the dream unburned—the hope that this power could mend, not just mend my messes, but build something lasting. The visions faltered, the Warden pausing, hammer lowering. Flames parted, revealing the shard—a fiery gem pulsing on the anvil. It flew to the scepter with a hiss of steam, locking in place, the circle complete.
The Warden bowed, dissolving into sparks. "Worthy. The binding strengthens." The Crag cooled, the heat ebbing to a warm glow. We exhaled, the weight lifting—not gone, but shared.
Thorne grinned, rare and real. "Three down. The final convergence is at the Heartspire. The False King knows now—he'll be waiting."
Lilith slung her scythe, smirking. "Let him. We've got the full bake. Time to serve."
We emerged into starlit night, peaks silent around us. The shards sang together, power humming true. Fears faced, alliances forged tighter. The endgame called, but for the first time, it felt like we were ready. Or at least, ready enough.