Go southeast, through deserts and forests. Arrive at a volcano nestled in the jagged jaw of a mountain range. The volcano is active. There is an opening at its base. Enter this cavern, where smoke and embers will sting your eyes, where you must traverse across bridges of solidified lava. You run into the young man you saw at the manor. He is determined to win the girl’s hand in marriage. There is love in the watery tremolo of his eyes. He’s known her since they were children, has always loved her. If you could speak, you would ask him why he doesn’t just tell her this, why he thinks this gesture of searching for a fire-powered ring would mean more. Think of what you have done for love: the typewriter you stole from your parents’ closet, to give to her. The letters you wrote, one for every day she was away. The spray that stung the back of your throat, the strips you stuck to the bridge of your nose, all to stop your snoring so she could sleep. Think of mountain retreats, of hard-bedded hostels, of trips across countries, how you are always burning for the digitized voice, the pixelated eyes of someone somewhere else. The air feels like a sunburn. The ground scorches your feet. Finally, you find the circle of fire, glowing red, on a peninsula surrounded by magma. Think of the girl with the kind smile, her cheek dimpled like a scar. Think of the girl with the sharpness in her eyes, each blink like the lash of a leather whip. Imagine that this is something you might do for love, and not just to win a shield you cannot even wield. As you take the ring, the molten rock surrounding you bends and bubbles. Magmamen rise up from it, seep onto the land. Put the ring on your finger, feel it burn a circle into your skin. Wearing it, you feel like you could walk on glowing coals, like you could step through walls of fire, but that’s not so: the magmamen, they will char your skin if you do not draw your father’s sword, if you do not sling your edged boomerang through their molten skin, if you do not command your monstrous companions to fight. Fight, for if you don’t, the walls will melt away, you will have to start over at the entrance to the cave. The ground begins to quake. This burning eye of the earth, it wants to erupt. Think of her fingertips, pressed callused against the strings of her guitar. Think of campfires, of ghost stories. Think of how close you leaned into the light.