The silence that followed Malakor’s demand was heavier than a falling portcullis.
Patriarch Vaelen’s skeletal fingers slowly ceased their plucking upon the golden loom. The soft, crystalline chimes died away, leaving only the steady roar of the star metal forge above them and the ragged cadence of Malakor’s breathing.
"You speak of gods as though they are men in iron coats, butcher," Vaelen murmured, his hollow, star-lit sockets turning toward the warlord. "The Eighth Relic was not taken by a god. It was buried by our ancestors when they realized what the Great Crown truly was: not a tool of dominion, but a key to the Unborn Dark."
"I don't give a damn what it was built for," Malakor snarled, taking another heavy step onto the first step of the pavilion. The black shadow-flame on his great sword hissed violently against the pure white quartz. "Where is it buried?"
Vaelen raised his pale, translucent hand, pointing beyond the pristine spires of Shen-Zhul, toward the jagged black mountains bordering the northern rim of the highland basin.
There, towering over the verdant valleys of the immortals, rose Mount Kar-Vash: a gargantuan, hollow volcano whose summit had collapsed millennia ago, leaving a jagged crater that vented plumes of cold, violet aether into the pale sky.
"The Sunken Crucible," Vaelen spoke, his voice carrying the chill of an open crypt. "Beneath the roots of the Hollow Mountain lies the Chamber of the Unmaking. In the First Age, when the seven shards were alloyed, the excess dross—the raw, unrefined marrow of the primordial void—was sealed within the Ring of the Vessel. It was cast into the deep vents, guarded by the Ash-Beasts of the First Dawn."
"Then we march to the mountain," Aurelia’s voice cut in, cool, sovereign, and brooking no dissent.
She stepped up beside Malakor, her silver-violet eyes meeting the ancient patriarch’s without flinching. Though the stinging heat behind her collarbone had deepened to a dull, throbbing ache, she stood straight, her chin raised, the Crown of Thorns casting sharp, defensive shadows across her brow.
"You will not march, Empress," Saphira spoke from the foot of the dais, rising to her feet with fluid grace. "The paths through the northern rift are poison to mortal lungs. The vents exhale pure aether-rot. An army would choke on their own liquefied blood before reaching the caldera."
"We don't need an army," Malakor growled, turning his lethal gaze to Saphira.
He didn't sheath his great sword; he rested the flat against his shoulder, stepping so close to Aurelia that his broad arm brushed hers. "An army just slows us down. Give us two mountain mounts, provisions for ten days, and keep your people away from the western fleet. If one hair on my sailors' heads is touched while we are in that mountain, I will come back and burn this city of glass to the bedrock."
Vaelen tilted his head, the starlight in his eye sockets flickering with strange, melancholy fascination.
"You would walk into the mouth of the Unmaking for her?" the old man whispered. "A mortal soul tethered to a living star... your shadow-magic will be an open beacon to the horrors sleeping in the volcanic vents. The void-beasts will smell your mortal blood from ten leagues away."
Malakor’s lips curled into a slow, terrifying smile that revealed the white edge of his teeth.
"Let them smell it," Malakor rasped, his left hand coming down to grip Aurelia’s waist, hauling her against his armored side with rough, unvarnished possession. "It's the last thing they'll ever smell."
Aurelia looked up into the fierce, untamed devotion burning in his amber eyes. She placed her hand over his, her fingers digging through his leather glove to find the solid warmth beneath.
"Prepare the mounts, Saphira," Aurelia commanded. "The butcher and I have a relic to unearth."