Altair’s hooves echoed in the narrow corridor, a rhythmic clatter against the stone floor that bounced off the walls. The air here was thick, stagnant, filled with the musty scent of ancient dust and the faint sulfuric tang that always made the hairs on his neck prickle. He had navigated his way through these ruins long enough to recognize that scent—it was a sure sign of danger.

But Altair wasn’t one to let the scent of danger slow him down. His stride remained steady, his eyes scanning the walls and floor with a practiced sharpness. The dungeon demanded respect but also demanded decisiveness, and Altair had learned the balance well. Each step was calculated, deliberate.

That was, until the loose cobblestone beneath his hoof gave way.

Click.

The sound was subtle, but in a place like this, subtle sounds were often the loudest warnings. Altair’s ears flicked back instinctively as the stone sank under his weight, the soft mechanical groan of gears grinding to life filling the corridor. His eyes narrowed. He had triggered something, and in the dungeon, something always meant a trap.

Then came the flames.

They burst forth from vents along the floor in front of him, narrow jets of fire shooting up in erratic intervals, casting sharp, dancing shadows along the stone walls. The corridor, once silent and still, was now alive with the roar of flames, their heat pulsing toward him in waves.

Altair reared back just in time, narrowly avoiding the first blast of fire as it shot up from a vent directly in front of him. His body was tense, his muscles coiled as his mind raced to assess the situation. The corridor was long—too long to wait for the flames to stop. He knew from experience that dungeon traps like this didn’t give second chances. The flames wouldn’t die down on their own, and turning back wasn’t an option.

He had to move forward, through the fire.

But Altair wasn’t just any Courser. He was fast, strong, and possessed a level of focus that bordered on obsession. A trap like this was nothing more than a test—a challenge. And Altair thrived on challenges.

The flames pulsed again, the heat momentarily unbearable as they licked up from the vents. Altair’s sharp eyes tracked the pattern, the rhythm of the flames. They were erratic, but not without reason. He could see the split-second gaps between each burst of fire, the brief moment when a path opened through the inferno. If he timed it right, he could make it.

His heart beat in time with the pulses of flame, his breath slow and controlled. He had to be perfect. One wrong step, and the flames would catch him. The dungeon was unforgiving like that.

He snorted, lowering his head slightly as he prepared to move. His legs tensed, ready to spring, and then—he launched forward.

The first set of flames shot up just as his hooves left the ground, but Altair was already in motion, his body sailing over the blast with a grace that belied his size. His hooves landed hard on the stone, barely a second to steady himself before the next vent erupted. He twisted, pivoting sharply to avoid the second jet of fire, his muscles straining as he forced himself into a sharp turn.

The heat was intense, the flames hot enough that he could feel his skin prickle beneath his coat, but Altair didn’t falter. His mind was sharp, his focus absolute. He had mapped the pattern in his head, a split-second mental image of where each flame would erupt, and his body moved in perfect sync with that map.

He darted left, dodging another blast, then leaped again, his legs stretching out as he sailed over a double burst of fire. His breath came in controlled bursts, his heart racing but his movements fluid, deliberate.

Behind him, the corridor was alight with fire, the flames chasing him like some malevolent beast, but Altair was always a step ahead. He wasn’t running from the fire—he was moving with it, through it, his body a blur of motion as he navigated the corridor.

For a brief second, he faltered. A jet of flame shot up faster than expected, its heat singeing the tip of his mane as it roared past him. Altair grimaced, the sting of the burn sharp against his skin, but he didn’t slow down. Pain was a distraction, and distractions got you killed. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, his hooves striking the stone in quick succession as he dodged the next vent.

The corridor was long, too long for comfort, but Altair’s endurance was unmatched. His muscles burned from the exertion, but he reveled in it, thrived on the challenge of pushing himself to the limit. This was what he lived for—the rush of danger, the test of his skills.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he saw it—the end of the corridor. A stone archway loomed ahead, its edges untouched by the flames, a sanctuary from the inferno behind him. Altair’s eyes locked on it, his focus narrowing to that single point. He was close now, just a few more leaps, a few more dodges.

The final stretch of flames burst forth, a wall of fire that seemed to block his path completely. Altair didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head, his body crouching low to the ground as he prepared for one final leap.

With a powerful push of his legs, he launched himself forward, his body twisting mid-air as he sailed over the last set of flames. The heat was overwhelming, the flames licking at his legs as he passed, but Altair didn’t slow down. His eyes were locked on the archway, his hooves reaching for solid ground.

And then—he was through.

His hooves landed hard on the stone floor beyond the flames, his body skidding to a stop as he passed under the archway. The roar of the flames was behind him now, the heat fading as he stepped into the cool, dark corridor beyond. His breath came in heavy bursts, his chest rising and falling as he steadied himself.

For a moment, he just stood there, his body tense, his ears flicking back to listen to the distant roar of the flames still burning behind him. He had made it. The trap had been triggered, and he had survived.

But Altair didn’t smile, didn’t allow himself a moment of victory. There was no time for that in the dungeon. He had learned long ago that one challenge was always followed by another, one trap by a more dangerous one. The dungeon didn’t care about victories. It only cared about survival.

And Altair was a survivor.

He glanced back at the corridor he had just escaped from, the flames still burning bright, a reminder of the danger that lurked in every corner of the dungeon. Then, without a word, he turned and continued down the path ahead, his steps steady, his focus unbroken.

There would be more traps, more challenges. But Altair was ready for them. He always was.