They reappear with a jolt that presses Jacob’s stomach into his spine, and when his vision settles he realizes they are no longer near the sea because the air is dry and thin and smells of scorched stone.

  They stand on a wide circular platform carved into the side of a mountain whose peak vanishes into cloud. Below them stretches a sheer drop that plunges into darkness, and above them a ring of hovering slabs rotates slowly, each etched with faintly glowing runes that hum with restrained pressure.

  Zibrek plants her feet immediately and lowers her center of gravity because the stone beneath them vibrates.

  Filr’etk clicks his tongue and scans the slabs overhead while Narfikara squints and rubs her palms together, and sparks jump between her fingers before she suppresses them with a laugh.

  Nimirea doesn’t move, unfazed, and she just stares.

  The Mithril Golem stands at the edge of the platform with his hands folded behind his back, and his polished surface reflects the glow of the runes in a way that makes him look pleased.

  “The Trial is simple in structure. There are three thresholds. You have to reach the final chamber and, once there, you’ll receive word on what your true mission is. However, if your adversary crosses two out of three thresholds, even before the final chamber, they win and to them go the spoils of my Master’s Inheritance.”

  “Thank you, Jacob,” Nimirea smiles. “I didn’t know you were also associated with someone like the Legendary Miner. I will treasure this reward on your behalf before I take your life.”

  Jacob looks over the edge of the mountain, to the slabs circling above, and then back at Nimirea. “Are you free for dinner?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Zibrek faceslaps in the back.

  “You can move through portals, right? Would you like to bet a dinner over this? I’m kind of tired of always eating with my Squire. I like spending time with you.”

  “Jacob,” Nimirea says, looking at him like he’s stupid. “I said, I will kill you.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I said, ‘are you free for dinner?’”

  “The lad is gone,” Boomgar coughs. “He’s gone, gone.”

  “I would never enjoy myself with my target,” the half-Elf says, looking straight at the Leader of Champions, her nemesis.

  “Why don’t we bet dinner? If I win, you come to dinner with me.”

  “He’s asking her out on a date!” Boomgar says, putting a hand in front of his mouth. “This is a scandal.”

  “What is he thinking—”

  “Shhh. Let’s see what the lass replies,” Boomgar whispers.

  “There’s not one single chance you will win. And since I know I will win, this bet would be pointless for you.”

  “Well, it might not be for you. You say I’m your enemy, right? I’ll tell you all my plans against you if you win. All of them. I outplanned you once, right? I’m doing it again. But if you win, that would put in a terrible spot. I imagine you would love to one-up me, right?”

  Nimirea narrows her eyes. She knows Jacob doesn’t pose much of a threat in a direct confrontation. But his plans have indeed fooled once—luck or no luck. If he’s actually planning something, this could be a great way to take his foolishness and cockiness and turn it against him.

  “One dinner,” Nimirea says.

  “The lass accepted!” Boomgar’s eyes go wide.

  “Yes,” Jacob nods.

  “And if you lose, you reveal me your plans.”

  “Of course,” Jacob says.

  “Whatever. Swear now.”

  Jacob and Nimirea quickly exchange an oath under the stupefied Mithril Golem.

  How are they thinking about this while one of their groups could be the recipient of my master’s legacy?

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  Yet, neither Filr’etk nor Narfikara say anything. They were both informed of Nimirea real identity.

  “In fact,” Jacob says, turning to the two new Champions. “Why are you allying with her? She’s evil.”

  You just asked her out to dinner! Zibrek thinks, feeling like tearing her own hair out.

  Filr’etk bares his teeth in a grin, and he does not look at Nimirea with fear, and he does not look at her with respect either.

  “Evil is a word that weaklings use when they want to hide their envy,” Filr’etk says. “I allied with her because of this inheritance, Jacob Cloud. And I hope you do lose your head, to her or someone else. I will never recognize an incompetent as my Leader. In fact, I plan on leading the Champions myself.”

  Nimirea cocks an eyebrow, interested in seeing how Jacob will deal with such a challenge to his authority from his own faction.

  “And you?” Jacob completely ignores the red-skinned Goblin, turning instead to the Dwarven woman.

  Narfikara giggles again, and she raises her hands in a helpless shrug.

  “I allied with her because it sounded funny. And Rafnov’s a legend.”

  “Cool,” Jacob nods and turns toward the Mithril Golem. “Then, I guess it makes sense you picked them. Now, what’s the first trial?”

  “You will be brought to two opposite sides of the mountain. You will each have one hour to figure out this puzzle and the one who does so first conquers the first threshold.”

  The Mithril Golem does not answer immediately.

  Instead, its surface ripples, and a seam of light runs straight down its torso, and then it splits cleanly into two identical figures that step apart in perfect synchronization. One turns toward Nimirea and the remaining Champions, while the other pivots toward Jacob, Zibrek, and Boomgar.

  “Separation is required,” both golems say at once, and the echo overlaps itself in a way that makes Lancelot flinch.

  Before anyone can protest, the golem facing Jacob snaps his fingers.

  The world folds sideways.

  Jacob stumbles forward and catches himself on instinct, and when his vision steadies he realizes they are no longer exposed to the open air because they stand before a massive metal door whose surface is layered with rust, scoring, and old impact marks. The door is thick enough to be defensive rather than decorative, and faint heat bleeds through it in waves that prickle Jacob’s skin.

  Boomgar exhales slowly.

  “Now this,” he says, “feels familiar.”

  The golem places a palm against the door, and the metal groans as ancient locking mechanisms disengage, and the slabs slide apart with grinding reluctance.

  Heat rushes out.

  Inside lies a vast forge chamber carved directly into the mountain, and its ceiling arches high enough to swallow smoke that never fully dissipates. At the center floats a massive, uneven sphere of molten metal that turns slowly in the air, and its surface shifts between liquid and solid states in a way that makes Jacob’s eyes ache. Runes orbit it at different distances, and translucent panels drift and rotate, each inscribed with incomplete arrays.

  This place is brimming with power, Jacob thinks.

  The door seals shut behind them.

  “This is the First Threshold,” the golem says. “The Chamber of Metal.”

  Zibrek steps forward, eyes fixed on the molten mass.

  “I’ve seen a forge that works like this before. But… it’s supposed to stabilize hyper-reactive metal. That metal…”

  “Is extremely unstable,” the Mithril Golem says.

  Boomgar cracks his knuckles. “So what’s the job, then.”

  The golem gestures toward the floating mass. “In one hour, the winning team will be the one who has produced the most stable mass of metal.”

  Jacob blinks. “That’s it?”

  “That is everything,” the golem answers. “You will build arrays of Platinum Rank. This is well within your realm of expertise.”

  Boomgar snorts.

  “For her and for him, maybe.”

  Zibrek shoots him a look. “You literally shape explosives for a living.”

  “And they blow up,” Boomgar says. “That’s the point.”

  The golem continues as though he was never interrupted. “By stabilizing the mana flow, the metal will stabilize itself. This forge was built to study living metal.”

  “Living,” Jacob repeats quietly.

  “Master Rafnov understood that life is not limited to flesh,” the golem says. “There exists a life cycle that transcends living creatures and belongs to all creations. Metal is born, metal grows, metal decays.”

  Jacob nods slowly, and confidence settles in his chest.

  With the Grimoire, this will be a cakewalk.

  “Alright,” Jacob says. “That’s easy enough.”

  Boomgar raises an eyebrow. “You sound very sure.”

  “I am,” Jacob replies, and he closes his eyes and activates the Grimoire.

  He immediately sees patterns of overflowing Mana and smirks to himself.

  Easy enough.

  “Zibrek,” he says. “Place a stabilizing rune there and there, angled slightly to the left of the sphere. The vibration we see should stop at once if we do.”

  Zibrek does as told.

  The runes flare.

  For half a second, the molten mass calms, and its rotation slows.

  Jacob exhales. “See.”

  Then the mana surges.

  The molten metal convulses violently, and its surface bulges outward as though something inside is trying to escape. The runes scream as their harmonics clash, and the floating panels rattle and scatter, and a wave of heat slams into them hard enough to force Zibrek back a step.

  Boomgar swears.

  “That’s not stabilizing.”

  The molten mass swells again, and cracks of white-hot light race across its surface.

  Jacob swallows.

  “This might be a problem,” he thinks.