“Let me get this straight,” Watson said, arms folded, brow already furrowed in disbelief, “you lost a hammer?”

  The dwarf master puffed up like a kettle at boil. “That hammer forged the crown of the First Flame King! It's called Thundergnash, and it's worth more than your bones and boots combined, lad!”

  Watson looked down at his boots. “They're Doc Martens.”

  “Doc who?”

  “Never mind.”

  Sherlock, meanwhile, had begun circling the forge like a bloodhound with a fresh scent. “Rune of Echo… curious,” he murmured. “And the soot pattern—disturbed from below, not above. She didn’t fall. She left.”

  The dwarf’s eye twitched. “She?”

  Sherlock tapped the empty rack above the anvil. “You named the hammer. Emotional attachment. You talk about it like an old flame. People often do this with tools they love or television series that betray them in the final season.”

  Watson sighed. “He’s never gotten over Torchwood.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Torchwood betrayed itself, Watson. I merely observed.”

  The dwarf looked entirely lost. “What... is a torch-wood?”

  “A tragedy,” Sherlock replied solemnly.

  ---

  Later, in the mines:

  “Why is it always underground?” Watson grumbled. “We never go anywhere with sunshine and sandwiches.”

  “Sunshine washes away secrets,” Sherlock muttered. “And sandwiches are often deceiving. You never truly know what’s between the slices.”

  “That’s… disturbingly philosophical for lunch.”

  Sherlock crouched, examining a groove in the stone. “You see this? Indentations repeated over time. This wasn’t a one-time departure. Thundergnash returns here.”

  “You’re saying the hammer has a… favorite hideout?”

  “I’m saying the hammer has a home. And someone disturbed it.”

  The humming in the air grew stronger as they walked, a low metallic note thrumming like a cello being tuned by a drunk.

  Watson muttered, “Is this what tinnitus feels like?”

  “No,” Sherlock said. “Tinnitus doesn’t vibrate your ribs. This is resonance magic. Rare. Like good Wi-Fi in a castle.”

  Watson rubbed his temples. “Do you enjoy being incomprehensible?”

  “Immensely.”

  ---

  Eventually, they found it: Thundergnash, embedded in a polished obsidian pillar. Runes surrounded it—worn, old, some faintly glowing.

  Sherlock exhaled sharply. “This isn’t a shrine. It’s a lock.”

  “You said that earlier.”

  “Yes, but now I’m certain. Before, it was just theatrical.”

  The dwarf trailed behind, breath catching as he saw it. “That’s her…”

  “She’s humming,” Watson muttered. “She’s humming, Sherlock. Why is the hammer humming?”

  “Because we’re in a prison,” Sherlock said. “And Thundergnash was never the prisoner.”

  Watson glanced behind them, hand tightening around the sword he still didn’t know how to use. “Then what was?”

  At that moment, the hum shifted. A deep, groaning noise filled the air as the wall behind the hammer opened—just a crack.

  Something watched them through it.

  Not with eyes.

  Just… presence.

  Sherlock blinked once. “Watson?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I start glowing or speaking in runes, kill me.”

  Watson rolled his eyes. “We’re not on Earth anymore, Sherlock. There are rules. And one of them is apparently: Don’t prod magical relics with personalities.”

  Sherlock turned. “No. One of them is: Always bring a

  backup tie. These lava drafts are murder on silk.”

  Watson groaned. “I miss London.”