The heat of the Earthen Furnace wrapped around Einarr like a relentless vise, pressing against his dark coat, seeping through the steel and leather of his semi-heavy barding, and suffocating every breath he took. Each inhale was a battle, the thick air coating his lungs in the bitter stench of sulfur, burning his throat like embers scraping along his windpipe. His muscles strained beneath the weight of the heat, a constant oppressive force that seemed to pull at his limbs as if trying to drag him into the molten depths of the dungeon itself.

I can barely breathe.

Every step felt heavier, his hooves throbbing from the sharp, jagged stone beneath them. The tremors that pulsed through the ground added to his unease, as if the dungeon was alive, breathing beneath his feet. Each quake was a shuddering reminder that this place—this hellish labyrinth of heat and stone—had a mind of its own. His thoughts raced, spurred on by the incessant vibrations. Is it the dungeon itself, or is something moving beneath us?

Ahead of him, Moritz moved with infuriating calm, his figure almost a shadow that melded with the stone walls and flickering lava light. There was something otherworldly about the older Courser’s silence, the way he glided across the treacherous terrain without so much as a sound from his hooves. No flinch, no hesitation, as if the furnace and its blistering heat were nothing more than an inconvenience. It made Einarr feel small, inexperienced—an intruder in a place that seemed to welcome Moritz like an old friend.

How does he stay so calm? The thought clawed at Einarr’s already fraying nerves. Like he belongs here, like the dungeon is part of him.

Sweat trickled down Einarr’s neck, dampening the leather of his champron, and he fought to steady his breath. His mind flashed back to the molten serpent from earlier—the way its magma-drenched body had twisted and writhed, so at home in the lava that Einarr wondered if it had been born of the dungeon itself.

It wasn’t just a monster, he thought, a knot of unease tightening in his chest. It was something more—something this place created. The dungeon wasn’t just alive—it was sentient, and Einarr felt the weight of that knowledge pressing down on him with every quaking tremor beneath his hooves. What does it want from me?

The question gnawed at him, but he couldn’t afford to let it slow him down. The heat grew fiercer as they descended deeper, the dungeon squeezing them tighter, forcing the air from their lungs like a vice. It wasn’t just the physical pressure—it was mental. Einarr could feel the furnace’s oppressive weight burrowing into his thoughts, wearing him down with every step. I can’t even remember what fresh air feels like.

He quickened his pace to match Moritz, the clink of his sword against his barding unnervingly loud in the furnace's stillness. His arming sword was there if he needed it, but for what? No amount of steel could fend off the dungeon itself. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding against each other as he forced himself to keep going. Moritz moved like a shadow, always one step ahead, always knowing something Einarr didn’t. How far can I push myself? How many levels does this place have?

And then, without warning, Moritz stopped. Einarr’s hooves slipped on the stone as he pulled up short, barely stopping himself from crashing into the older Courser. His heart pounded in his chest, already strained from the oppressive heat. What now?

His gaze shifted past Moritz, squinting through the thick haze of the furnace halls—and there it was.

A massive face carved into the stone wall, monstrous in its proportions. Its features were grotesque, twisted into an eternal mask of rage, its eyes blazing red, glowing like embers freshly stoked. The mouth gaped open, wide and jagged, frozen in a scream of fury that sent a chill through Einarr despite the heat.

The air around it shimmered, warped by the intense heat radiating from the molten eyes. The sheer anger carved into its face felt alive, almost sentient. It’s watching me. Einarr’s pulse quickened, his breath catching as he felt the weight of its gaze. The heat felt different here—more focused, almost as if the dungeon itself was staring into him, scrutinizing him, waiting to see if he would break.

“What is this?” Einarr rasped, his throat raw from the sulfurous air. Even speaking was a challenge in this place, every word coated in the heat.

Moritz remained silent, his gaze fixed on the stone face, unreadable as always. Einarr hated that about him—the silence, the calmness. It was unnerving. Moritz always knew something, something he never shared, and it gnawed at Einarr’s already fragile control. Tell me something, for once.

“It’s a door,” Moritz finally said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the stone.

Einarr blinked, his heart racing. A door? He stared at the jagged mouth again, eyes tracing the barely visible seam where the stone met itself. The realization hit him, and dread settled into the pit of his stomach. That thing’s a door?

It wasn’t just a door—it was a test. The face felt alive with fury, and Einarr couldn’t shake the feeling that stepping through its maw would be like walking straight into the dungeon’s gullet.

“Is it... safe?” Einarr’s voice wavered slightly, betraying the tension he tried to hide. He knew the answer before he asked, but the words slipped out anyway.

Moritz didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The silence answered for him.

The searing eyes of the stone face smoldered brighter, casting deep, flickering shadows across the ground. Einarr’s heart thudded in his chest, each beat a loud reminder of how fragile he was here. What choice do we have? Forward, always forward. There was no other way. The dungeon wouldn’t allow them to turn back.

Swallowing his fear, Einarr moved closer to the face, the heat intensifying with each step, until it felt like the very air was burning his skin. His hooves scraped against the jagged stone, and he could feel the ground tremble beneath him, a low hum of warning. He stared at the sharp, uneven teeth that lined the mouth, stone yet somehow organic, like they were waiting to snap shut on him the moment he stepped through.

“It’s just a door,” he muttered, trying to convince himself. “Just a damn door.”

But as the mouth slowly began to open, the grinding of stone against stone filled the air, and the heat that poured out from the opening hit Einarr like a wall of fire. The stench of burning rock and sulfur clawed at his senses, making his head spin.

Moritz was already moving forward, slipping into the scalding-lit darkness without hesitation, as if the dungeon’s searing heat didn’t faze him at all. Einarr stood there for a moment, his hooves rooted to the spot as a wave of dread washed over him. I have to follow him. I can’t stay out here alone.

The face’s burning gaze watched him, a silent challenge. It’s a trap. It’s all a trap.

Einarr forced himself to move, stepping into the gaping mouth, the door sliding shut behind him with a deafening thud that echoed in the narrow passage.

And the heat only got worse.

It wrapped around him, clinging to his skin like sweltering chains. Every breath was like inhaling fire. His lungs burned, the air so thick with heat that it felt like he was breathing through a furnace. The narrow path ahead was barely lit by the faint glow of magma far below, casting shadows that writhed along the walls, twisting into grotesque shapes.

The dungeon felt alive here, more than ever. It felt like it was watching him, testing him, waiting for him to falter. Every step echoed too loudly, too sharply, in the suffocating silence. He couldn’t see Moritz anymore, but the older Courser was somewhere ahead, always ahead, always out of reach.

And Einarr couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being led into something far worse than molten serpents and burning stone.

Something the dungeon had been saving for him.