The map led them into the mountains.
Gone were the lush glowing forests and twisted canopies. In their place rose jagged cliffs and narrow trails cut through dark stone. The air thinned. The light dimmed. Even Aero stayed low, her wings drawn close, feathers shimmering silver in the weak glow from the overcast sky.
Mike felt it before he saw it—a heat that pulsed from the mountain's center. Not oppressive, but ancient. A heartbeat of stone and flame.
"The forge," he whispered.
Ren nodded. "I can smell the metal. This is old. Really old."
They reached the mouth of the cave just before dusk. The entrance yawned like a jagged wound in the mountain, framed by twisted stone shaped like wings. Carvings spiraled along the walls, worn smooth by time.
A plaque stood outside the entrance, half-buried in rock.
Mike knelt to clear it.
"Speak true, or walk blind.
Steel bends, but truth does not.
One flame for strength.
One flame for sorrow.
One flame for what lies tomorrow.
Three for the forge,
But only one opens the door."
Ren leaned over his shoulder. "That's a riddle if I've ever heard one."
Mike traced the words with his finger. "Three flames. One for strength, one for sorrow, one for what lies tomorrow."
He looked up. Inside the cave, the tunnel forked into three glowing paths—each one flickering with firelight of a different color: red, blue, and gold.
"I think we each go down one," Ren suggested.
Mike shook his head. "No. The wrong choice might be dangerous. We need to understand what each path represents."
He studied the fires.
The red flame pulsed steadily, casting long shadows that looked like grasping hands.
The blue flame flickered softly, more like a candle at a bedside than a torch.
The gold flame shimmered like starlight—subtle, beckoning, but distant.
"A flame for strength… red?" Mike guessed.
Ren nodded. "Makes sense."
"Sorrow… blue."
They both looked at the last path.
Mike stepped forward, watching the golden flame's reflections on the wall. "And tomorrow."
"But the riddle says only one opens the door," Ren said. "What does that mean?"
Mike turned back to the plaque. He read the final lines again.
"Three for the forge,
But only one opens the door."
"It's not asking which flame we prefer," he said slowly. "It's asking which one opens the way forward."
He looked at Aero, who had perched silently on the edge of the cave.
Her head tilted, and a low trill echoed from her throat.
A memory stirred—Jake, drawing in the dirt… warning him about the device… about something coming.
Mike closed his eyes.
One flame for strength.
One flame for sorrow.
One flame for what lies tomorrow.
Only one opens the door.
"The answer isn't strength," he said finally. "That's what got us here—but it won't take us further."
He turned to the blue path. "It's not sorrow either. That's what we carry. What we leave behind."
He stepped toward the golden light.
"Tomorrow. The path forward. That's the one."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
Mike nodded. "We follow the one that leads."
They stepped into the golden-lit tunnel.
The heat intensified. The walls shimmered with raw energy, veins of glowing ore pulsing beneath the surface. At the tunnel's end lay a chamber carved from black stone. In its center stood a floating anvil—hovering above a ring of flame that cast no smoke.
Suspended beside it was a circular platform made of brass and crystal, marked with the same glyphs that appeared on the teleportation device.
Mike stepped forward. As he did, the bow on his back grew hot—radiating energy.
He drew it slowly, placing it onto the anvil.
A deep hum filled the chamber.
The flames rose—three colors twining together: red, blue, and gold. They spiraled around the bow, lifting it into the air.
Mike backed away.
The bow glowed white-hot, then burst into a cascade of light and symbols. The Phoenix feather reappeared above it, fusing into the wood. When the flames dimmed, the bow settled back onto the anvil.
It was transformed.
The limbs were now etched with flowing silver script, lines that shimmered like fire under the surface. The string crackled with potential energy. The grip bore a faint symbol: a wing wrapped around an ember.
Mike reached out.
The bow pulsed in his hand.
Ren let out a breath. "You think it's done?"
Mike turned toward the brass platform.
"No," he said quietly. "This was a forge. But that—" he pointed to the crystal-marked platform "—that's something else."
He placed the gemstone Lirien had given him into the center.
It pulsed.
The platform lit up.
And the map in Mike's satchel began to glow again—its central path shifting. New sigils appeared, forming a new trail. Farther, deeper, more dangerous.
But forward.
Mike slung the bow over his shoulder.
"The real path starts now."