Chapter 77 - The Smith Under the Volcano

Lucas woke to the smell of iron and fire. It clung to the air, thick and metallic, laced with the hiss of steam and the low rumble of gears turning far below the ground. He opened his eyes slowly, vision swimming until it settled on a ceiling of blackened stone lit by veins of molten bronze.

He was lying on a slab of metal that radiated faint warmth. He pushed himself upright, groaning as his joints protested, and looked around.

The room was wide but cluttered, no signs of comfort, only bronze scraps piled in corners, gear components and half-finished creations collecting dust. The incessant hammering he had heard upon waking came from deeper within.

Lucas stood and made his way toward it, leaving the chamber and entering the forge.

It wasn't a room. It was a vast cavern carved into the heart of the volcano. Towers of scaffolding reached toward the dark ceiling, where half-finished automatons, some humanoid, others more like spiders or cranes, hung suspended by chains thick as tree trunks.

At the center, beside a pool of magma, stood an anvil of solid adamantine. And there, hammering bronze into the shape of a shield, was a man.

Massive. Broad-shouldered. A beard streaked with soot and flame. His skin shone like hammered copper, scarred with old burns. His right leg ended in a mechanical brace that creaked with every shift of his weight. No crown. No laurel. Just a soot-stained apron.

Hephaestus.

He didn't turn. Just kept hammering. Lucas waited, watching him work.

Eventually, the hammering ceased. The god set the shield aside, turned slowly, and fixed Lucas with a stare like cooling metal.

Lucas didn't look away. "Thanks for not letting me drown."

Hephaestus grunted. "Didn't save you."

Lucas blinked. "Then who did?"

Hephaestus moved toward a bench, tossing a length of molten metal onto it. Sparks scattered.

"You killed Polyphemus." Although a statement, Lucas detected the question beneath, and understood the god was avoiding answering his question..

"He was eating satyrs."

"And?" The god turned.

Lucas exhaled,

"He used hope as bait. Lied to the lost, the desperate. I wasn't going to let that continue."

"Even at the cost of making an enemy of Poseidon himself?"

Lucas didn't flinch, nodding. "Yes."

A moment passed. The forge hissed.

Then Hephaestus chuckled. A low, scraping sound. "Fair answer."

He walked to a control panel, flipped a switch. One of the walls shifted, opening like a vault. Inside, rows of unfinished automata lay in stasis, eyes dim.

"What do you know about hope, Lucas Thorne?"

"It's a light in the darkest hour."

"Good." Hephaestus limped forward, pointing at a humanoid frame. "Because Olympus will crumble long before it admits it's cracking. When it shatters, we'll need those who can build, not just destroy."

Lucas approached the constructs, studying them. "You're offering these to me?"

"When your sanctuary is built, return. Take what you can carry."

Lucas met his gaze. "Why help me?"

Hephaestus tilted his head. "I'm curious."

Lucas smirked. "That's what Mr. D said."

That made the god snort. "That brat still drinking wine and pretending not to care?"

Lucas shrugged. "He's watching. More than most."

The god turned back to his forge. "You're different. You want to build. That makes you one of mine. Doesn't matter if you use mist or metal. Anyone who sees the world's fractures and wants to mend them is a blacksmith in spirit and that's good enough for me."

They stood in silence for a moment, the forge casting long shadows.

"I won't forget this," Lucas said.

Hephaestus nodded once. "Don't follow in his footsteps."

Lucas raised a brow. "Whose?"

The god didn't answer.

But Lucas saw it in the way his gaze lingered on the flame. The memory of disappointment.

Hephaestus returned to his work. Lucas turned toward the corridor, heading towards the entrance to the forge. The heat no longer weighed him down. Something steadier burned in his chest.

Hope.

...

Trembling came from behind, the crashing of falling trees. Lucas turned to see a pair of automatons dragging a boat toward the shore, leaving a deep groove in the ground. They paid him no mind, dropping the boat into the water before turning and marching back the way they came.

A gift. One last favor from the forge.

Lucas stepped aboard, adjusted the sail and rudder, and turned the prow toward the mainland. He let the wind carry him, the sun rising behind him.

He sat cross-legged on the deck, arms resting on his knees. The forge heat still lingered in his veins, like a spark refusing to fade.

It was time to return to Vegas.

…

Las Vegas burned gold in the morning haze. The air was thick with alcohol, heat and faint music. Partying still echoed through the streets, but within the marble halls of Caesar's Palace, the mood felt heavier.

Lucas stepped through the casino lobby of Caesars Palace with the Oak-wood box cradled in his arms, the simple and dull box at odds with the surrounding luxury. He made his way through the familiar casino, ignoring the beckoning of the slot machines or the temptations of the blackjack tables and found Plutus in his old spot, watching what seemed to be a dance recital.

The god of wealth reclined in a velvet chair, watching a troupe of dancers twirl across a stage. As Lucas approached, the box under his arm, Plutus' eyes shifted, not to the demigod, but to what he carried.

"You retrieved it," Plutus said, voice low.

Lucas gave a single nod. He set the box on the table between them and lifted the lid.

The golden fleece shone like a newborn sun.

The casino trembled. Warmth bled into the room as a cleansing pulse of life rippled outward. Sprouts burst from between floor tiles, green and trembling. The air was cleansed of the thick scent of tobacco and alcohol.

Plutus waved his hand, containing the aura and stopping the effects the fleece had on the surroundings, contained again. He reached forward to touch the fleece but Lucas pulled it back, just out of reach from the god.

Plutus raised his head, eyes shifting from the fleece to Lucus, frustration and anger simmered but they were soon restrained. He stared Lucas in the eyes, golden pupils sharp, receiving an unflinching gaze in return, demanding the promised reward.

Plutus leaned back in his chair, keeping the gaze. His fingers tapped the armrest in measured rhythm.

The god's tapping paused. "You want funding."

"You provide capital to purchase materials, pay labor, and sustain operations until the sanctuary can stand on its own."

"How long will that take?" Plutus asked, narrowing his eyes. "What if I'm funding a pit for decades?"

Lucas shrugged. "I took a risk retrieving the fleece. Now you take one."

The god's tapping paused. Then he extended his hand, palm up.

"I swear on the River Styx to fund the sanctuary constructed under Lucas Thorne's name until it becomes capable of sustaining itself."

Thunder cracked somewhere beyond the marble walls. The air grew heavier. The oath was sealed.

Lucas slid the fleece across the table.

Plutus took it, brushing his fingers against the fleece's threads.

Lucas stood. He had no reason to stay.