The forge's air was as thick as ever, filled with the mingling scents of burning coal, hot iron, and that faint tang of oil that clung to everything in the old man's domain. For the past few days since his last misadventure, Eron had worked under the old man's relentless eye. Each sunrise was met not with birdsong or the warm glow of morning, but with the metallic clang of the hammer, the hiss of quenching, and the old man's voice barking corrections that cut sharper than any blade.
"Good," the old man muttered once, so quietly that Eron almost thought he imagined it.
But the door… the door still lingered in his mind like an itch beneath the skin. It was maddening. Every clang of the forge's hammer seemed to echo the same thought in his head: 'What's behind it? Why does he hide it so fiercely?'
