PART 2: The Blacksmith Knew the Fire Was Not a Curse
The seer’s blade hovered above the crying girl as snow hissed into steam around her chained knees.
“The gods demand sacrifice,” he warned the crowd.
Fear rippled through the village.
But the blacksmith didn’t step back.
He stepped closer.
Close enough to feel the heat rising from the ground itself.
His eyes narrowed.
Then suddenly, he grabbed a long iron hammer from his belt and slammed its head into the steaming mud beside the girl.
CRACK.
The earth split open.
A burst of glowing red light flashed beneath the snow.
Villagers stumbled backward in shock.
Not magic.
Not curses.
Molten fire surged beneath the village floor.
The blacksmith looked up slowly, fury hardening across his soot-stained face.
“This child isn’t cursed,” he growled.
“She’s standing above a burning mountain.”
The seer’s expression faltered for the first time.
Then the ground trembled beneath all of them.
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