The Earthen Furnace gaped like the mouth of an ancient god, its heat suffocating, oppressive. Smoke curled from every crevice of the fractured earth, obscuring the jagged pillars and twisting tunnels in ashen grey. The air was thick with the scent of scorched stone and something darker, older. Silence, save for the low groan of the dungeon’s breath, made the place feel less like a ruin and more like a slumbering beast.

Gideon, his robes stained with the soot of failed spells, muttered a curse under his breath. The weight of his aimless search for magic tugged at him like the endless tendrils of smoke. Crispin, unbothered, stood at his side, his hooves steady against the trembling stone. The grey Courser, a monument of silent power, flicked an ear and inhaled deeply. There was a presence nearby, something out of place, and the faint sound of someone—laughing?

Crispin’s sharp eyes cut through the murk, finding a figure perched atop a crumbling ledge, dangling precariously over a chasm of molten stone. A steed, if you could call him that, was waving a single hoof enthusiastically, as if oblivious to his dire predicament.

“Hello! You there!” he called, his voice almost cheerful, the sound absurdly out of place. “Bit of a situation here!”

“That,” Gideon muttered, his brow furrowing, “is the dumbest Courser I’ve ever seen.”

Wolf beamed like an idiot lost at a festival, despite the dungeon’s mortal dangers encircling him. Sweat slicked his brow, but his carefree grin held fast.

Crispin’s eyes glinted, the old Courser considering. “Reckless or brave. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

“Both,” muttered Gideon, “but... can we help him?”

Crispin stepped forward, a flicker of amusement in his ageless gaze. “That, my friend, is up to him. He's rather difficult for us to reach.”