The oppressive heat of the furnace pressed down on Altair as he advanced through the molten halls, the air so thick it felt like it could be cut with a blade. Sweat dampened his coat beneath his enchanted cloak, though the fabric shielded him from the worst of the swelter. Even the ground beneath his hooves radiated heat, the stone floor near cracking under the constant pressure from the magma below. Altair was accustomed to the challenges of this place, each obstacle part of the labyrinthine dungeon’s dark heart, but something about this part of the furnace was different.

Then he heard it.

Clang. Clang.

The sound was faint, barely audible over the roar of distant magma pools and the simmering heatwaves, but it was unmistakable. Altair’s ears flicked toward the noise, the muffled clanging seeming to echo from behind the stone walls themselves. His heart beat a little faster. This wasn’t the natural sound of the dungeon breathing or shifting—this was deliberate. It was rhythmic, calculated, like hammer striking metal over and over again.

Altair’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his senses on high alert. He knew this sound. He recognized it.

The sound of a forge.

For a moment, he was taken back to his younger days, before he had fully committed to life in the dungeon. The surface world had been his home once, though he hardly remembered it that way now. It had been a different life, a different time, and he had long since turned his back on it. Yet the clang of a hammer on anvil brought memories flooding back. The blacksmiths’ shops, their blazing forges lighting up the night sky, had been a common sight in the town where he grew up. There had been a fascination in watching weapons take shape from raw metal, the transformation from something unrefined into a blade that could cut through anything.

He had spent more time than he cared to admit lurking around those forges as a youth. His interest wasn’t so much in the craft itself—he had no patience for standing at a forge all day—but in the end result. Weapons. Tools of survival, power, and control. Altair had learned early that in this world, having the right weapon could mean the difference between life and death.

His mind returned to the present as the clanging grew louder, more distinct. He wasn’t alone down here. Whoever was working that forge was skilled, and that raised a question: why? Why a forge down in the furnace? Was this an ancient one, left behind by long-dead craftsmen, or something more recent, more dangerous?

He moved forward cautiously, muscles tense beneath his skin. The path ahead sloped downward, and the walls, slick with heat, glowed faintly from the magma flowing below. The clanging reverberated through the ground now, as though the sound itself was guiding him deeper into the dungeon’s bowels. He passed through a narrow crevice, the rocks closing in tightly on both sides, before the corridor opened up into a wide chamber.

Before him stood a massive anvil, blackened by centuries of use, and beyond it, a great forge that roared with life. The sight was unexpected, ancient yet still very much operational, as if time itself had no meaning here. The air in the chamber shimmered with heat, but the forge was strangely silent now, the hammer no longer ringing against metal. The sudden stillness unsettled him. Whoever had been working here had either left or was waiting in the shadows.

Altair approached the anvil, his hooves carefully avoiding the slag and shards of broken metal scattered across the floor. He glanced down at the tools left behind: tongs, hammers, and various other smithing implements. Most were rusted, but a few gleamed, pristine and ready for use. His gaze shifted to the walls of the chamber, where weapons of all kinds were mounted—blades, axes, spears, each one forged with a craftsmanship that rivaled the finest surface weapons he’d ever seen. Some appeared newly made, others worn with age, but they all had a dangerous edge to them.

He reached out, running a hoof over the handle of a long sword mounted nearby. It was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the inferno surrounding him. The weapon felt right in his grasp, balanced and deadly, the kind of blade that could cut through the thickest armor with ease. Altair didn’t need to test it to know its quality—he had spent too many years relying on weapons like this, their weight, their precision. He had fought for his life in countless battles within the dungeon, and weapons had become more than tools—they were extensions of himself.

But there was more to his connection with weapons than just use. Over the years, Altair had developed an understanding of them, a kind of respect for the craft even if he wasn’t a smith himself. He knew how to wield a sword, how to strike with the right force and angle to split bone from flesh, how to use the weight of a hammer to break stone and metal alike. He had handled enough weapons to know their quirks—the slight differences in balance, the weight distribution, the edge sharpness. He knew how to care for them, how to sharpen them just right, and how to feel their weaknesses before they snapped under pressure.

This room, with its ancient forge and forgotten weapons, reminded him of that knowledge. It was a connection to a world that wasn’t entirely lost to him, even if he had chosen the dungeon as his home. He knew how important it was to respect a well-forged blade. And now, standing in this forgotten forge, surrounded by tools of destruction, he felt a flicker of something—a memory of the surface, of a life he had long since abandoned.

Altair let go of the sword, stepping away from the anvil. There was something deeper going on here. This wasn’t just any forge—it felt alive, as though the dungeon itself was tied to it. The clang of the hammer, the weapons, the air of the room—it all seemed to be waiting for something, or someone.

But Altair wasn’t a blacksmith. He was a warrior, a survivor. He didn’t forge his own tools; he found them, mastered them, and moved on. Yet, as he stood there, the muffled clang echoing once more in the distance, he couldn’t help but wonder: Was this forge calling to him? Or had the dungeon simply led him here to test him, to see if he could resist the lure of power?

The clanging returned, louder now, as if inviting him to take up the hammer and anvil.

Altair shook his head, the moment of nostalgia passing as quickly as it had come. He had a mission, a purpose. Weapons were tools, nothing more. He would take what he needed from this place and leave the rest behind.

Without another glance at the forge, he turned and continued deeper into the furnace, the clanging fading behind him as he left the ancient chamber.