In the belly of the Earthen Furnace, where the stones singe and the air reeks of scorched ash, Crispin leads the way. His hooves, hardened by decades of tread in this unforgiving place, make no sound upon the scorched ground. Gideon, limping along in his shadow, is less graceful. The thick haze of smoke clings to his mane, and his breath comes in uneven gasps. Yet, even in his failure, he presses on, seeking the spark of magic he’s always been denied.

“Safety’s an illusion,” Crispin says over his shoulder, his voice a steady rumble in the oppressive stillness. “But it’s an illusion you must cling to. Without it, you’ll lose your nerve. And your nerve, Gideon, is worth more than any spell.”

Gideon nods dejectedly, but says nothing. Instead, he fumbles with the talisman hanging around his neck: a simple, weathered stone, warm from years of being pressed to his chest. It does not offer true protection, but it’s all he has—a memento from his first dungeon dive, gifted by his father long ago.

The air shudders, the walls of the furnace creaking in unseen movements, but Crispin does not pause. He carries no token for protection. His confidence is his shield, a myth he has spun around himself for so long that even the dungeons seem to believe in it.

But Gideon relies on small things – the warmth of his talisman, the weight of Crispin’s presence. It is in these quiet comforts that he finds his illusion of safety. And as long as he holds that fragile sense close, he can keep going, even when the heat presses in and the smoke thickens, threatening to swallow him whole.