The transition from the emerald humidity of the Forest of Whispers to the arid periphery of the Rust-Dunes was like walking into the mouth of a sleeping furnace. Within a single day's trek, the towering Elder-Vines gave way to gnarled, thorn-choked scrub, which in turn dissolved into a vast, undulating sea of iron-rich sand. The "Rust-Dunes" were aptly named; the high concentration of oxidized metal in the earth turned the landscape a deep, bruised crimson, and the wind didn't just blow—it scraped, carrying fine metallic grit that tasted like blood and ground against the party's gear.
"This is a dead Echo zone," Pip croaked, his voice cracking from the sudden lack of moisture. He had traded his heavy leather apron for a series of reflective silk wraps, and his mechanical goggles were now fitted with dark, polarized lenses to combat the blinding glare of the twin suns. He held up his mana-sensor, but the needle was limp. "The iron in the sand acts as a natural Faraday cage. It's grounding the ambient mana into the crust. If we get into trouble out here, Elara, you're going to find your reserves dry up faster than a puddle in a smithy."
Kaelen felt the change more acutely than anyone. The "Wood-Imitation" that had saved the Great Green was suffering. The jade-colored, bark-like scales on his right arm were starting to curl and crack under the desiccating heat. The vibrant emerald light in his veins was receding, replaced by a dull, throbbing orange that signaled the dragon's fire was trying to reclaim dominance.
"The forest is leaving me," Kaelen muttered, his voice a low rumble. Every step was a struggle of internal temperature management. If he let himself get too hot, he'd ignite the dry brush; if he stayed too cool, the "Void-residue" in the Scepter of the Unspoken would begin to leach the warmth from his heart.
"You're not losing the forest, kid. You're just changing seasons," Korg said, offering Kaelen a waterskin wrapped in wet burlap. The half-orc was the only one who seemed relatively comfortable. The heat reminded him of the deep foundries of the Orcish Legions, and his thick green skin was better at retaining moisture than human flesh. "The desert doesn't forgive mistakes. You can't be a vine here. You have to be the stone that the wind can't move."
Sissik, the lizardfolk druid, was struggling. His scales, usually vibrant and moist, had turned a dusty, pale olive. He moved with a sluggishness that worried Ria. "The Great Green ends at the salt-line," Sissik hissed softly. "The roots here do not talk. They scream. There is an ancient hunger beneath these sands—an Echo that was buried long before the First Seed was planted."
As they crested a particularly massive dune, the true scale of the Rust-Dunes revealed itself. In the valley below sat the ruins of an ancient industrial complex—the Cinder-Wastes. Massive, rusted gears the size of houses lay half-buried in the sand, and the skeletal remains of iron-clads—the walking tanks of a forgotten era—stood like grave markers.
"The Second Temple is in there," Kaelen said, pointing his iron-scaled hand toward a shimmering distortion in the heat-haze. "I can feel the Scepter pulling. It's not a pulse anymore; it's a gravity."
"Wait," Ria commanded, her spear snapping to the ready. She pointed toward the shadows of a collapsed foundry. "We're not the only ones who tracked the 'Gravity' to this spot."
From the rusted ruins emerged a new kind of threat. They weren't Gilded Lilies, and they weren't Wardens. They were Sand-Eaters—scavengers who had grafted pieces of the ancient iron-clads directly onto their bodies. Their skin was tattooed with iron-oxide, and they moved with a jerky, hydraulic precision. They carried harpoon launchers powered by pressurized steam, and their eyes were hidden behind rusted iron masks.
"Relic hunters," Pip whispered. "Independent contractors. They don't care about the Guild, and they definitely don't care about the 'Silent King.' They just want the scrap-value of whatever is inside that temple."
The leader of the Sand-Eaters, a massive man with a steam-powered piston where his left leg should have been, stepped forward. He raised a hand, and his crew—nearly twenty strong—spread out along the ridge, their harpoons leveled.
"The temple is closed to tourists," the man roared, his voice amplified by a brass resonator in his mask. "The Cinder-Wastes belong to the Iron-Tongue Clan. You look like you're carrying a lot of high-grade Echo-tech on your backs. Hand over the bone-staff and the gnome's kit, and we might let you walk back to the trees."
"We don't have time for a toll, Korg," Kaelen said, his eyes beginning to flicker with a dangerous, sunset-orange light.
"I'm on it," Korg replied, stepping forward with his shield raised. "You lot get to the temple entrance. I'll handle the scrap-metal."
The Sand-Eaters didn't wait. They fired. The harpoons whistled through the air, trailing thick steel cables. Korg caught two on his shield, the impact sliding him back several feet into the sand. Ria moved like a desert fox, darting between the cables, her spear-point finding the gaps in the scavengers' crude armor.
But the heat was the real enemy. As Kaelen tried to lunge forward, a massive wave of dizziness hit him. The "Wood-Imitation" scales on his arm finally gave way, peeling back in dry strips to reveal the raw, glowing "Expansion" scales beneath. The dragon, Ignis, let out a triumphant roar in his mind.
"THE GREEN WAS A SHACKLE, ECHO! THE SUN IS OUR ALLY! BECOME THE FORGE!"
Kaelen screamed as his right arm ignited. This wasn't the controlled, localized heat he had used in the mines. This was a Solar Flare. The iron-rich sand around his boots began to melt instantly, turning into jagged shards of glass.
"Kaelen, control it!" Elara shouted, trying to weave a cooling mist, but the desert air was so dry her spell evaporated before it could leave her fingertips.
Kaelen didn't listen. He couldn't. The Scepter of the Unspoken on his back was reacting to his internal heat, the ruby at its tip glowing with a blinding, violet-red light. He lunged at the Sand-Eaters, not as a boy, but as a living projectile. He didn't use a fist; he used a Thermal Shockwave.
He slammed his hand into the ground, and the iron-sand didn't just explode—it liquefied. A wave of molten glass surged forward, engulfing the Sand-Eaters' front line. Their steam-powered grafts hissed and groaned as the extreme heat warped the metal.
"Back off!" the leader of the Sand-Eaters bellowed, his hydraulic leg hissing as he tried to retreat. "He's a Calamity! He's a walking sun!"
The scavengers broke, fleeing back into the rusted depths of the foundry. But Kaelen didn't stop. He was vibrating, his skin turning a translucent, fiery gold. The "One-Week Clock" was screaming, but it wasn't counting down—it was overloading.
"Kaelen! Stop!" Ria tackled him, her leather armor charring the moment she touched him.
The contact broke the trance. Kaelen gasped, the flames on his arm dying down to a smoldering glow. He looked at his hands. The jade scales were gone, replaced by a new, more terrifying texture: Obsidian-Inlay. His iron scales had fused with the molten sand, creating a black, glass-hard armor that pulsed with internal magma.
"I'm... I'm okay," Kaelen rasped, though his voice sounded like grinding coals. He looked at Ria, whose hands were blistered from the contact. "I'm sorry. The desert... it's too much."
"The desert is just getting started," Pip said, pointing toward the center of the ruins.
The Second Temple—the Temple of the Hollow Forge—was no longer hidden by the haze. The massive obsidian structure was rising out of the sand, its doors slowly grinding open. But it wasn't folding like the first temple. It was breathing. A thick, black smoke was billowing from the entrance, and the sound of a thousand hammers began to echo through the wastes.
"The King isn't just folding space here," Sissik whispered, his golden eyes filled with dread. "He is smithing. He is using the Echo of the ancients to build something. Something big."
Kaelen stood up, his new obsidian-scaled arm feeling heavier and more powerful than ever before. He looked at the Scepter of the Unspoken. The ruby was no longer pulsing; it was a solid, unwavering beam of light pointing directly into the dark entrance of the forge.
"We have to go in," Kaelen said. "If the King is building something in there, we're the only ones who can break it."
The Ember Spark moved toward the smoking maw of the temple. They were battered, thirsty, and hunted, but they were no longer just survivors. They were the only fire left in a world that was rapidly turning to ash.
The "Rust-Dunes" arc had truly begun, and the heat was only going to rise.