The forge court gapes open, its door burst inward and its threshold rimed with frost and teal glare. Draconis stands with Marr behind him, while Council boots hammer closer in the lane beyond.
Draconis
They have the names now. If you stay, they take you. If you run, you still have a road.
Marr
Too many steel footsteps. Too late to pretend this is only a smith's business.
A coil of cold spills through the broken doorway. Outside, masked figures gather at the end of the lane, their shadows long on the forge stones.
Sivanus
You wanted the makers of the prison. Now you have them. Move, Arion.
Arion Touvengard
Any road. Tell me where the smiths hide, or I tear through the Council first.
Draconis lifts one clawed hand and points into the smoke-dark upper lanes. The forge fire gutters blue as the Council line tightens, and the choice hangs in the heat.
“I hold the doorway and buy them time”
SUCCESS (Legendary Melee Combat, rolled -2)
Arion drives into the doorway and meets the first polearm on the blade, turning the thrust aside. Teal light bursts through the frost rim as he plants himself in the gap.
He follows with a brutal shoulder check, and one enforcer slams back into the lane stones. The line outside staggers, but the impact tears a fresh seam across Arion's host arm.
Draconis
Now. Go by the upper lane, before they regroup.
Marr
I am not staying here to be taken with the forge.
Marr snatches up a heavy hammer and bolts toward the rear passage, while Draconis sweeps scattered filings into the hearth to blind the threshold with blue sparks.
Sivanus
Hold them. I will cover the retreat.
The Council line stops short, forced to crowd the shattered opening instead of charging through. Frost creeps farther over the stone, and the nearest mask tilts toward Arion's glowing blade.
Draconis
Go, Arion. The upper lanes. I will buy you a breath.
Arion Touvengard
No. First, the smiths. Then the Council burns or bows.
Sivanus
Bold words at a frosted door, but fitting.
Blue sparks skittered over the threshold as the wounded Enforcer staggered back. Marr was already gone, swallowed by the rear passage.
Arion held the forge court long enough to name his path and make it his own. The Council's hand had been checked, if not shattered, and the smiths remained a wound of memory that would not be forgotten. In the hush after steel and frost, Arion Touvengard stood unmade by erasure, and the chapter closed on hard-won breath.