[Heat 3: Begin.]
[Absolute Regeneration: OFF.]
[Constraint: Maintain contact with billet. Dropping = fail.]
[Imbuement Protocols: ARMED.]
Light ate the steel. Cold answered. It felt like it had been squatting in my bones rent-free since breakfast, feet on the table, smoking where it wasn't allowed.
The Fog Tyrant Core woke in my tongs—fist-sized winter with teeth. Frost crawled out in hairline veins, kissed the Anvilspace bubble, and hissed there like it had all the time in the world and my name on a list.
"Hands on. Hands stay," I told myself. "Call the lines. No heroics."
Cold chewed through the tongs and into my palm, then climbed my forearm—slow, greedy, thorough. The blade sang a thin unhappy note while the trait started threading, sparks skittering down the groove like fire learning cursive and writing my name wrong on purpose.
Up above, all twelve Watchers leaned in. Hoods tilted. Hammers angled. The quiet put on weight and sat on my chest.
