"Now I'm not arguing that the guild should throw out the ranking system entirely," Logue was on about this again. Picking his way carefully down the rocky path ahead of the mercenary, Fulke had no choice but to let the tirade roll off his back. "I'm just saying I think the levels are worth re-evaluating, and every time I suggest it, they come at me like I'm trying to burn down their mansions."

"I know it," Fulke obliged him, unsure if Logue even heard his voice over the roar of geysers. He was no stranger to the Furnace but goddamn, it was hot; it hurt his eyes just to have them open. Fulke squinted over the ledge to the field of porous rock below, watching heat burst from the ground in plumes. Silhouettes formed and unformed eerily in drifting curtains of steam; he thought for a moment he saw something at the bottom, camouflaged against the black earth.

"And then they come to me and ask me like, where would YOU be without your level, like I oughta be grateful I almost broke my back to get it." There it was again. Fulke only caught a glimpse, but he was certain: a form, tall and still like a leafless tree, climbing up out of a landscape where nothing grew.

"Uh huh." He didn't take his eyes off the spot, waiting for the air to clear. "Bad faith engagement's what it is."

"Bad faith engagement," Logue echoed. Sensing the vacancy in Fulke's voice, he too quieted to survey the area.

"You see that?" Fulke halted to gesture with a jerk of his head.

Logue squinted through his sweaty forelock, pale gaze searching.

A scratch in the mist showed it plain. "There." Just as Fulke spoke of it, it turned its fiery face up at them. They barely had time to comprehend the sight before a blast of heat exploded on the path in front of them, licking the Coursers' faces like flames. Baring his teeth, Fulke reared away, eyes pinched shut as he leaped back out of the fire.

When he opened them again, there was no blaze, no geyser. The shape was rooted on the ledge before them now, towering in their path. It cracked like a campfire as it moved to open blistered hands, embers glittering up its black bones. Fulke blinked up at its burning visage, struck dumb. He glanced down to the place where it had been; between rips in the steam, he saw only rock.

"Afternoon," he managed. "You need something?"

Its mouth fell open and the smell of bonfire leaked out. Right. Unable to get past the thing and with Logue's wide ass blocking his retreat, he faltered, lashing his tail. The sound of breaking timber accompanied the figure's movements as it stooped further, stretched out its palms as if to receive an offering.

Fulke glanced back. "Logue, you know this guy?"

"No sir I do not." Fulke scoffed and wondered, not for the first time, why he was the one paying for this outing.

Fulke looked at the hands. They were cracked and parched, smoldering. It looked painful. "I'm sorry," he began quietly, turning his head around to fuss with the bags on his shoulders. "This is all I got."

He upended his canteen on the creature's blistered appendages. Steam hissed off of the surface, and the orange glowing through the cracks in its fingers died. It sighed, a summery sound of relief like a breeze through branches. Fulke blinked up to see what expression would mark its fiery face, but by the time he did it was gone. No sound, no figure. Just an empty canteen.

The Coursers stood in silent contemplation for a long minute. Logue was the first to clear his throat.

"Let's go back," Fulke said finally. "I'm out of water."