New's presence filled the room even when he stood still.
It wasn't authority.
It was saturation.
Like he was in the air. In the light bending through the glass towers. In the quiet hum beneath the city's skin. I didn't see him move—I felt the shift, precise and weighted, as if the city had stepped into the room wearing a human shape.
"Don't pout," he said.
Calm. Measured. Casual in a way that felt rehearsed.
"You will not go alone."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you've chosen my companions, I presume?"
"Of course." A faint smile touched his lips. "Reyna Vale. A guide versed in… probabilities."
I didn't look at her, but I felt her.
Still. Watching. Measuring.
"A specialist in traversal between realms," he continued. "And a team. Each selected for their particular advantage."
His gaze swept over me.
Assessing.
Calculating.
"Every role accounted for. Every risk mitigated."
He paused.
"That is the plan."
I felt the weight of it settle into my chest.
Not a suggestion.
Not a request.
A plan.
"Hell," he added, like he was naming a district on a map.
I let the word sit there. Tartarus had taken me a thousand years. Hell?
With the Devil as its warden?
"You're asking for what?" I said. "A week?"
New smiled—small, controlled.
"The timeline is tight. Precision is essential." His eyes sharpened. "Failure… is not an option."
"Why me?" I asked. "Why involve mortals when gods could—"
"Because gods are predictable."
Flat. Immediate.
"Mortals," he continued, "are limited. Fragile. Chaotic."
A flicker lit his eyes.
"And yet… flexible. They bend where gods break."
Behind me, chains shifted.
Marlik.
Gagged. Silent. Listening.
"This is absurd," I muttered. "No one has ever broken into that prison. No one has ever broken out."
"Yet," New said.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
"Imagine the legend attached to your name," he murmured. "Though, of course… you already are one."
That smile again.
Sharp. Pleased.
"I am not the villain you think I am."
No, youre deluded, thought to myself. Or— maybe something even more mundane, a colder settled in my chest. You're just a child. A city barely a century old, pretending it understood eternity.
I studied him more carefully.
Too eager. Too proud. Too entertained.
"You're talking about going to Hell," I said.
"Aha!" he lit up.
"Come," he said, already turning. "You'll need to see it."
He didn't wait.
He never did.
We descended.
The deeper we went, the hotter the air became. Thicker. It clung to the back of my throat.
"You'll need a portal," I said.
"Aha," New echoed.
We entered a massive chamber.
At its center stood something enormous, hidden beneath a heavy cloth.
Too still.
"I'm guessing," I said slowly,
"Guess he said impatiently,"
"You've found a way to power it."
"Good," New said. The room flickering with excitement "Very good."
"I'm going to need it," I said. "In exchange."
He smiled
"For the suicide mission you're sending me on."
Then—
That reaction.
Satisfaction.
"I'm going to do you one better," he said.
He touched the cloth.
It fell to the floor in quiet obedience, and the magnificent contraption revealed itself.
The portal.
It rose like a cathedral of brass and copper, all arches and ribs, humming with a life of its own.
Gears the size of buildings turned in impossible synchronization. Pistons drove deep into its spine, hammering with a slow, mechanical heartbeat. Steam bled from its veins in controlled bursts.
Runes crawled across its surface—shifting, unstable.
Alive.
Behind it—
A forge. An actual working forge.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
Smaller.
Magnificent.
But wrong.
Clockwork arms dangled above it like waiting limbs. Steam-fed bellows breathed in ragged bursts. Molten channels pulsed, too slow, then too fast—like a failing heart. It was nothing like the forges of Ashenfall.
A cheap imitation.
I swallowed.
It could work.
If handled right.
"You see," New said quietly, "I am the only one who knows where the last living forge lies."
"I had this one… recreated."
"And removed everyone who knew," I muttered.
His smile widened.
"Then you'll tell me," I said.
"No."
He paused.
"If you succeed… I will give it to you."
My eyes locked onto his. It wasn't his to give—the sheer audacity of it—but I let it go.
"Swear it."
"On every soul within New Vakaera."
Silence.
"What do you say?"
The forge stood motionless, oblivious to the outside world—but I could already hear it calling, soft and insistent.
Waiting.
"I'll do it," I said.
"I knew you would."
The portal shuddered.
Gears stuttered.
A piston misfired—loud, violent. Steam burst sideways. The fracture in reality flickered, unstable.
"It's collapsing," Reyna said.
Of course it was.
I turned.
The forge was already humming—uneven, incomplete.
Waiting.
For me.
I stepped toward it slowly.
Heat wrapped around me. Familiar.
I lifted my hand… then paused.
My fingers cracked—one by one.
The sound echoed.
The forge answered.
A low tremor ran through its frame. The rhythm shifted—subtle, but real.
I stepped in.
Everything else fell away.
My hands moved without thought. A valve—slightly off. A piston—half a beat too fast. I corrected both, not the way they were built…
But the way they were meant to be.
"You were built wrong," I murmured. "Let's fix that."
Steam surged—controlled now.
The forge responded.
Not like a machine.
Like something remembering.
I moved again. Pressure redirected. Heat balanced. Flow aligned.
The rhythm built.
A pulse.
A dance.
The molten core ignited, light spilling upward. Runes flickered—then steadied under my hands.
"...There you are."
One final adjustment.
Not force.
Guidance.
My hand rested against the main control.
The forge roared—
And aligned.
Perfect.
For a moment—
Perfect.
The portal stabilized.
Reality tore open fully, edges locking into place under the forge's control. Fire spilled through, heat crashing into the chamber.
But it held.
It actually held.
I must admit even I was surprised.
I stepped back.
Breathing steady as if my forge, for that's what it was now, the forge was not mine. As if it depened on every breath I took.
Behind me— everyone was silence, as if afraid everything would crample
"Now," I said quietly. "Open the way."
"Step forward," New said.
Casual.
"You have one week, Stephen." He drew a finger slowly across his throat, deliberate. "Seven days, and your friend dies."
I stepped through.