The air in the Earthen Furnace was stifling, heavy with the acrid scent of molten rock and burning stone. Lava bubbled and hissed in rivers below, casting a crimson glow on the dungeon walls. Nazgul, her leather armour slick with sweat, moved cautiously across a narrow stone bridge, the heat pressing in on her like a physical force. Flames licked the stone at intervals, their crackling the only sound that broke the oppressive silence.

Khamûl drifted beside her, his ghostly form flickering in the waves of heat. His presence was faint here, his usual chill lost to the furnace’s inferno. He signed a quick message, his fingers moving with urgency. *Feels wrong. Corruption here.*

Nazgul nodded, her eyes narrowing as she spotted something ahead. Hanging from the ceiling like the twisted remains of some monstrous plant were the Harvester’s blackened Soul Vines. The twisted tendrils seemed to pulse with a life of their own, even in the unbearable heat of the furnace. They shouldn’t have survived down here, and yet they thrived, their dark energy radiating through the dungeon.

“I see it,” Nazgul growled, her hooves clinking against the stone. The heat made her restless, her aggressive nature rising with every step. But this wasn’t the time for a fight. Not yet.

As they drew closer to one of the larger, blackened vines, the air around it shimmered, disturbed by something unnatural. A faint shape began to emerge, rising from the vine’s charred surface like smoke. Slowly, it took the form of a dwarf—a spirit, its body translucent and worn, as if barely holding itself together. The figure’s eyes, dull and lifeless, seemed to search the room, flickering with the desperation of the lost.

Nazgul stepped back, her muscles tensing as she watched the spirit materialise fully. “Another one,” she muttered under her breath. The Harvester had corrupted this place deeply, even reaching souls in the depths of the furnace.

Khamûl floated closer, his hand rising to sign. *Dwarf. A spirit.*

The ghost of the dwarf turned towards them, its mouth opening as though to speak, but the words that emerged were faint, barely more than a whisper. “The Forge? The Forge?”

Nazgul’s ears flicked forward. The voice wasn’t threatening, but there was something unsettling in its tone—lost, confused, as if the spirit didn’t fully understand its own existence.

“The Forge?” she echoed, stepping closer despite herself. “What Forge?”

But the spirit didn’t seem to hear her. It continued to mutter, its words disjointed, as if it were searching for something it couldn’t find. “The Forge…? The Forge…?”

Khamûl’s fingers moved quickly beside her. *Its looking for something. Trapped.*

Nazgul’s eyes narrowed as she studied the dwarf’s ghostly form. She had no patience for riddles or lost souls, but the Harvester’s corruption had spread deep into this dungeon, and it seemed even the burning dead weren’t spared.

Before she could speak again, the spirit began to fade, its form dissolving into the steam rising from the lava below. Its last words lingered in the air, haunting and filled with a strange sorrow.

“The Forge…?”

Then it was gone, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the oppressive heat and the eerie silence behind.

Nazgul snorted, her frustration bubbling up as the ghost’s disappearance left them with more questions than answers. “What does it want? The Forge… What was it talking about?”

Khamûl’s hand twitched in the air, his reply simple. *Don’t know. It’s lost.*

Nazgul turned away from the blackened vine, her hooves scraping against the stone as she started forward again. “We’re leaving this place,” she growled, her patience wearing thin. “There’s nothing but ghosts and flames down here.”

Khamûl floated silently beside her, his presence a steady reminder of the dangers they had yet to face. The spirit’s whispered words echoed in the back of her mind as they pressed onward, the heat of the furnace ever-present, and the question of the forge lingering like a shadow over their journey.