The city roared with chaos. The air crackled with elemental energies as the Trashborn, emboldened by Gristle’s audacious plan and armed with makeshift explosives gleaned from New Firenze's underbelly, assaulted the Sky Citadel in a symphony of clanging metal, shattered glass, and furious shouts. Bogran navigated this maelstrom with practiced agility, pulling his worn hood low over his face to obscure his features amidst the swirling dust and debris.
He kept to the alleys, a ghost slipping between the fray. The scent of burning metal and ozone hung heavy in the air, mingling with the ever-present stench of the slums. Each explosion sent tremors through the ground, rattling his teeth and threatening to dislodge the precarious collection of mucus building within his sinuses. He could feel the pressure mounting, a constant reminder of his dwindling time.
He reached The Drunken Goblin, its familiar crooked sign swaying precariously despite the structural integrity upgrades. The tavern's interior, usually boisterous even at its quietest moments, was eerily subdued tonight. Patrons huddled in corners, faces pale and tense, occasionally glancing nervously towards the sky where streaks of violet fire painted fleeting, chaotic brushstrokes against the perpetually overcast canvas.
Bogran slid into Grimstrong’s usual corner table, ignoring the concerned glances from other patrons. The hulking figure was already there, nursing a tankard of his luminescent concoction that now glowed with an unsettlingly frantic intensity. He looked up as Bogran sat, one good eye glinting in the dim light.
"So, the little rabble-rousers decided to make their move," Grimstrong rumbled, taking a long swig from his drink. "Heard tell they breached one of the outer wards already. Fancy fireworks display, eh?"
Bogran leaned forward in the opposite chair, the wood groaning under his weight. "Still enjoying the show?" he asked, his voice muffled by his cowl.
Grimstrong grunted, taking a long swig of his drink. "Chaos is good for business, wizard. Keeps the coin flowing." He eyed Bogran with a knowing glance. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe just a particularly large collection of snot."
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Bogran ignored the jab. "I need information. Something beyond the obvious."
"Oh?" Grimstrong raised a scarred eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
"The Heart of New Firenze," Bogran said, his voice low. "I’ve heard whispers. Something ancient, something powerful. What is it?"
Grimstrong leaned back, swirling his drink. "The Heart... now that’s a tale worth telling. It’s not just a legend, wizard. It’s a relic, a source of power that predates even the Skyborn. Legend says New Firenze was built upon the petrified remains of a colossal earth elemental, a being of immense power. Its heart, a massive crystal pulsating with geothermal energy, remained intact. The Skyborn, when they first arrived, recognized its potential and claimed it as their own."
"What did they do with it?" Bogran asked, his gaze fixed on Grimstrong.
"They tried to harness its power, of course. To amplify their magic, to control the city’s energy flow. But the Heart is... temperamental. It doesn’t respond well to control. It caused earthquakes, energy surges, even rifts in reality. Eventually, they deemed it too dangerous to keep. They sealed it away, deep beneath the city, and abandoned it."
"Abandoned it?" Bogran echoed, surprised.
"Not entirely. They couldn’t just leave such a powerful artifact unguarded. They entrusted it to the Groundborn, the oldest and most secretive of the city’s factions. The Groundborn are the descendants of the original miners who first unearthed the Heart. They’re masters of earth magic, skilled in tunneling and stonework. They’ve guarded the Heart for centuries, keeping it hidden from the Skyborn and the other factions."
"Where is it now?" Bogran pressed, his voice urgent.
"Deep beneath the Old Quarter, within a labyrinthine network of tunnels known as the Stone Veins. The Groundborn have built a fortress around it, a place called the Obsidian Core. It’s said to be impenetrable, guarded by ancient earth elementals and traps beyond imagining." Grimstrong paused, taking another swig of his drink. "But the Groundborn aren’t entirely benevolent. They believe the Heart belongs to them, that they’re the rightful guardians of its power. They’ve been hoarding it, using its energy to strengthen their own influence, to control the city’s underworld."
"So, it’s a source of power, a relic, and a political tool," Bogran summarized, his mind racing. "And the Groundborn have it."
"Precisely," Grimstrong said with a grim smile. "A dangerous combination, wouldn’t you say?"
A shadow fell over their table, interrupting Grimstrong’s tale. Bogran looked up to see a figure cloaked in darkness, hood pulled low, standing before them. His heart beat fiercely in his chest. The familiar scent of lavender and ozone wafted from beneath the cowl–Anya. Anya lived. Anya had escaped.
