The eastern mountains smoked and smoldered under a sky the color of bruised plums. The air tasted of sulfur and ash, and a low, constant rumble vibrated through the ground, the heartbeat of the sacred volcano that had slumbered for ten thousand years. Lord Vikram led Anaya up a winding path of black glass, a road carved by ancient hands into the side of the mountain. She was naked beneath a cloak of spun silver, a fabric so light it felt like wearing moonlight, and her feet were bare on the warm stone.
The cavern entrance yawned before them, a mouth of darkness rimmed with crystals that glowed orange in the reflected light of the lava flows deep within. The priestesses had not accompanied them on this journey. The Seeding of the Flame, Lord Vikram had explained, was too dangerous, too sacred for mortal attendants. Only the two of them would enter the heart of the mountain. Only the two of them would perform the ritual that would grant the child the spirit of passion, of creation, of the unending flame that burned at the center of all life.
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