Tharxim, the Heart of Ember

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When the moon rises over the sea of ​​lava and the rumbling from the depths penetrates the cracks of the world like an ancient curse, one arises whom many know only from legend: Gornak of Glimmerfels, Keeper of the Ember Sword.
He was no taller than an oak sapling, but his gaze could silence stones. His ears were sharp as dagger points, his beard as white as the ash of the oldest fires, and his boots bore the dust of a thousand explored caves.
Once, Gornak was a simple clocksmith beneath the shell roof of Gnitternheim. But when the heart of Tharxim, an ancient magma vault beneath the Crest of Fire, began to tremble, the call was heard—not in words, but in burning foreboding.
For within Tharxim lay something that should not have awakened: The Sparklord, a being of blazing rage and smoldering time. Sealed by the ancestors, but now, with the fading of the ancient sealing magic, about to wriggle from his lava grave.
Gornak forged a sword in the embers of the last twilight anvil—not of iron, but of frozen flame, bound by his vow: "I will stand when the mountains give way."
He descended into the ash-veins of the world, where the stone seethed as if alive. Above him, fire vultures screeched, beneath him the ground tore open like a dragon's maw. But Gornak's step remained steady, his gaze fixed east, where the gate to Tharxim gleamed like an open eye of embers.
As he cleared the last ledge, he saw him: the Sparklord. He was not of flesh, but of memory—of every fire ever unleashed, every pain that burned, every rage that never faded.
Gornak raised the ember sword. It didn't sing—it screamed. A bright, purring sound, like slicing light.
"Back to the sleep of the elements," he spoke, "until time itself passes."
The battle lasted seven heartbeats—and yet it felt like centuries. Lava lashed. Rocks splintered. The sky itself cast shadows of flame.
And then—silence. The Ember Sword had sunk deep into the Spark Lord's heart. No scream. Only a slow, smoldering extinction.
Tharxim closed again. The world's rift healed. And Gornak stood alone on the rock, beneath the shining moon, the sword still hot in his fist.
He did not return to Gnitternheim. Some say he moved on—to where fire is forgotten. Others think he climbed into the Heart's Maw to keep watch.
But at night, when the mountains glow red and the wind tastes of sulfur, the elders tell stories of a small gnome with the gaze of a storm fire.
And they whisper: "Gornak lives. And the Ember Sword never sleeps."