Boiling crimson magma burst through the basalt ceiling in a blinding curtain of liquid stone.
The cavern floor convulsed like the deck of a storm-tossed cutter, spitting sulfur smoke and shattered obsidian into the air.
Ancestor Pyre’s fiery projection hovered above the collapsing vault, roaring with maniacal laughter as the mountain began to cave in.
“Burn with my ancestral hall, continental dogs!” the phantom voice thundered. “Let the magma sea swallow your bones!”
Rivers of white-hot slag cascaded down the canyon walls, blocking the only path back to the harbor.
Deacon Vane threw his arms over his head, screaming in terror as a shower of glowing gravel bounced off his ironwood wagons.
“The canyon is gone!” Vane wailed, his round spectacles fogging with gray ash. “The caldera is collapsing! We are going to be baked like clay teapots in an oven!”
The scouts scrambled with heavy iron hooks, securing the chains around the twenty crates of Tier 8 spirit herbs. Even under the rain of sparks, Vane refused to let go of the primary bullion sledge.
