Night draped Stonefang Combat Forge in a veil of dim ember-lights and distant metallic echoes.
Inside Mira's assigned room, the world felt unusually quiet.
She stood near the window, arms folded, watching the silver moon of Orimund hang high in the sky. Its pale glow washed over the sprawling city of Stren—layers of iron bridges, glowing mana conduits, and slow-moving forge platforms breathing out soft heat like a living thing.
Mira exhaled slowly.
"I'm back here…" she murmured.
Yet the words felt hollow.
Her gaze drifted across the cityscape, memories rising unbidden—late nights in the workshop, arguments over rune efficiency, laughter echoing through metal halls. Back then, everything had felt solid. Certain.
Now…
"It doesn't feel the same as before," she whispered.
Something had changed. No—several things had.
Master Grom.
Even Dren.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously.
