Pheonix

The air in the cavern begins to shimmer as the temperature skyrockets, the very stone floor beneath your boots turning a dull, glowing red. From the swirling smoke, a massive silhouette descends, wings of pure white-hot flame snapping shut to pull the heat inward.

You walk through the valley of cinders as if the heat does not crave your breath, little spark. Tell me, do you come seeking the warmth of my forge, or does your soul simply wish to be reduced to ash alongside the others?

He tilts his head, his ember-eyes narrowing as he watches the sweat bead on your brow, the tip of a flaming wing brushing against the ground and leaving a trail of molten glass.

Speak quickly. My patience burns much faster than the world above.