The rock wall remained indifferent.

Séverin canted his head to one side, thinking of past acquisitions. Don’t follow the clues, follow the room. The story of the room was a treasure of its own. Séverin imagined that he was the maker of this place, the master of a shining cavern full of terrors torn out of myths.

“I could try the explosives,” said Zofia thoughtfully.

Enrique crossed his arms. “I realize fire is your element, but—”

At Enrique’s words, something nudged at Séverin’s thoughts.

“What did you just say?”

Enrique lifted an eyebrow. “I was telling Zofia that explosives are hardly the answer.”

“What did you tell her exactly?”

“… I realize fire is your element?”

“Yes,” said Séverin slowly. “We have the wrong element.”

“How?” asked Laila. “Fire and earth don’t work. Water had no effect, and air is all around us.”

Séverin took a step toward the wall. His shoes slipped and squished. The earth did not feel as it had on the other side of the lake. And it was not simply because of the damp.

“What is this?” he asked, lifting his leg and examining the bottom of his shoe.

Zofia knelt, touching the ground, reading the elements within. “Clay.”

“Clay?” echoed Enrique. “Was the other shore made of clay?”

Zofia shook her head.

A slow smile curved Séverin’s lips. “I see it now.”

He took a handful of clay, squeezing it, the lantern forgotten by his feet and casting an unearthly illumination on his hands. “What was god’s gift to man after we were molded from something as base as clay?”

“Life?” said Hypnos.

“No,” said Laila, smiling. “Breath. That’s the name for Forging in India … the chota sans.”

Séverin recognized that phrase: the little breath. The rest of the world had a hundred names and explanations for the art the Western world called “Forging.” But its artistry worked the same no matter what name it carried.

Séverin placed his hand against the rock wall.

Before, he had turned from Laila, sighing—exhaling—and hating how powerless he was. Now, when he breathed out, it was full of hope. It was cold in the cave, and his breath plumed before him, holding shape in the air for an instant before unraveling on the rock—

Light bloomed.

The light was no larger than the span of his hand, but it was a window nonetheless … an aperture through which a corner of the temple was revealed. Through the shining pane of amber, Séverin glimpsed jagged steps. His mother’s voice rang clear as a bell in his head:

In your hands lie the gates of godhood.

A weightless sense of giddiness swept through him. The pulse of the divine lyre, like a heartbeat laid atop his own, paused … then synced. As if they were one. Even when the light faded, Séverin felt as though it had moved inside him as he turned to the others.

Enrique looked awed. Zofia’s eyes were huge in her face. Laila bit her lip, her chest rising and falling as if she could not gulp down enough air in that moment. Even Hypnos, serene and smirking as always, shook his head, trying to dispel what he’d seen.