Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 57: Under the Molten Sky (1)

Chapter 57: Under the Molten Sky (1)

I took it in my hand, almost without thinking. The chain slid gently around my wrist, and the Chronogem fell into the hollow of my palm, still swaying, light, alive.

I stared at it for a moment. The dial glowed faintly, the violet filaments undulating beneath the surface like veins of slumbering light. The hands, two fine talons, pointed exactly to the bottom of the circle.

6 Hours of Dawn.

A faint smile stretched my lips. I estimated it was noon... I looked at the light, the heat on the walls, and began to understand.

So 6 to 18... those are the Hours of Dawn. And from 18 to 6... it’s the Twilight Period.

The system was logical. Brutal. Celestial.

And if the Lord had summoned me at the first hour of Twilight...

— Then it will be at exactly 6 p.m. Not a minute before.

I now had a guide. A watch that didn’t just tell the time. But the time to die, or the time to change one’s destiny. A watch that knew when history had to shift.

I slowly closed my fingers over the watch. It let itself be taken without resistance. As if it knew it was my rhythm that had to change now. Not its own.

It didn’t merely indicate the time. It pulsed. A discreet breath in the hollow of my palm. As if every beaten second was a promise. Or a threat.

I gently released it, letting it return to its place, hanging, against my wrist, ready to beat time in its own way.

— In any case... I must adapt.

You don’t argue with time. You align.

We had spent the afternoon wandering the boiling streets of Zagnaroth, tasting everything the city had to offer.

Skewers of meat grilled on burning stones, crystallized sweets with ember-like reflections, fruity drinks with strange flavors, between fire and honey.

Lysara, at first distant, let herself be carried away. She laughed, discreetly. Asked questions. Chose flavors herself, reached out to the stalls.

Her emotions were no longer rare outbursts. They were becoming a steady breeze. She was opening up. Like the anthesis of a flower born in a desert of ash.

And as the sky began to turn blood-orange, we arrived.

Before us stood the burning heart of Zagnaroth.

A building so vast, so dense, it resembled nothing human. The Citadel of Scoria. The Throne of Xagros. A Living Forge, a castle of metal and stone, set atop a rift spewing glowing steam.

The building rose across several irregular levels, made of black stone veined with magma, of reddened copper towers, and of suspended bridges between molten chimneys.

Each level seemed to beat to the rhythm of the forge: mechanical hammers echoed in its depths, chains rose and fell, and a constant red glow filtered through engraved obsidian stained glass.

The walls were decorated not with banners, but with metallic crests, melted into the rock, depicting inverted phoenixes, fractal anvils, hearts of fire sealed in chains.

Demonic guards patrolled the balconies, all armed with white-hot halberds, their armor creaked like living furnaces.

And at the very top, barely visible in the heat and mist... a dome of enchanted lava. Beating slowly. Like a heart. Like an eye. Like the throne of a god of metal.

I paused for a moment. The sky was slowly turning to blood, the watch in my palm indicated:

— A quarter hour before entry into Twilight...

I looked at Lysara. She too had raised her eyes. Silent. But upright.

— It’s time.

And we walked toward the breath of the furnace.

At the entrance, two guards stopped us. Their armor was red, streaked with white-hot veins. Even their breath seemed smoky.

They didn’t speak. They watched. Like statues ready to burn.

I said nothing. I slowly took out the letter, the seal still intact.

One of them held out a hand wordlessly. He read the parchment through the filter of a runic mask, then nodded imperceptibly.

— Follow me.

The other turned, drew a heated halberd and struck two rhythmic blows on the stone door.

It opened with a deep rumble, revealing a narrow corridor carved into black rock, lit by lava fissures slowly flowing through the walls.

We were led through the burning throat of the building.

Spiral staircases, suspended metal walkways, mobile platforms operated by enchanted chains.

Each floor resonated with a dull hammering, a steady breath of sulfur, and whispers of metal. Figures worked below, right in the forge — demons, dwarves, beings bound to fire, to sound, to time. No one stopped.

Everything was rhythm, like the heartbeat of molten metal.

We ascended the levels. One, two, three...

At each landing, the heat grew heavier. Not burning. But intense. Deep. Alive.

And finally, the guard stepped aside before a gigantic door. Ten meters high. Made of matte black metal, sculpted with shifting symbols.

At the center, the inverted phoenix beat slowly with a red light, as if it were breathing.

Before this unmoving mass, the world seemed suspended. No sound. No breath.

The guard turned to me.

— The Lord is expecting you.

My hand clenched for a moment on the Chronogem. Its weight against my skin seemed denser. As if it knew. As if it were burning softly, warning that it was time.

Then the door opened. Slowly. Without a sound. As if the steel itself were holding its breath.

I entered, Lysara at my side. The air changed immediately.

The heat became something else. Not oppressive, but heavy, like a presence.

The ground beneath my feet vibrated, faintly, to the rhythm of a contained, ancient fire.

We were inside the Dome of Lava, the throne room of the Lord of the Furnace.

The room was gigantic, almost spherical, carved from polished black rock, marbled with flows of solidified lava. Glowing veins ran along the walls, pulsing like the arteries of a mineral heart.

The light came from the ceiling: a massive cap of volcanic glass filtered the light of an eternal fire, trapped just above, bathing