The forges of Ironhelm were alive.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a genuine spark had returned to the heart of the mountain. It wasn't the roaring, all-consuming fire of the main forge; it was a quiet, determined flame rekindled in the souls of the dwarves.
Hope.
Alaric Steele's visit, his strange, human proposal of a "research partnership," had done more than any empty platitude ever could. It made sense. The logic was as clean and solid as a perfectly forged ingot. A problem born of magic required a solution born of magic and knowledge. It was a language they understood.
Borin Stonehand felt it more keenly than anyone. A fragile, precious bud of hope was pushing its way through the permafrost of his despair. He'd spent the morning hunched over the schematics for a new type of blast furnace, his mind, for the first time in months, sharp and focused, finding solace in the familiar comfort of lines and runes.
