MACE

The first step toward the inferno felt like walking into a hurricane made of broken glass.

The psychic pressure of this realm was a physical weight, gravity amplified tenfold by concentrated, ancient hatred. My boots slid on the slick, oily obsidian ground, finding little purchase. The air was thin, burning my lungs with the scent of sulfur, tastes that coated the back of my throat like copper pennies. Overhead, the bruised sky churned, silent lightning illuminating the desolate landscape in strobing flashes of sickly blue and violent purple.

But the only light that mattered was the roaring orange and red glow ahead. The furnace at the heart of the...