The forge had never truly gone cold.
Even when battles ended.
Even when councils disbanded.
Even when the spiral replaced the sword.
There was always some need for fire.
Mending.
Shaping.
Reminding.
---
Riven wiped his forehead with a soot-streaked cloth, staring down at the old forge stone.
It was cracked now.
Like him.
But it still held heat.
So did he.
---
That morning, Liora found him there.
Alone.
Hammering a small spiral into a thin piece of root-tempered metal.
Not for a weapon.
For a memory.
"You should rest," she said gently.
He didn't look up.
"I'm not tired yet."
She leaned against the doorway.
"I'm worried," she admitted.
"About what?"
"That you're still trying to fight a war that ended seasons ago."
---
Riven placed the spiral mark aside.
Sat back on the stone bench.
And sighed—the kind of sigh that sounded like it had taken years to climb out of his ribs.
"I was the flame they hid," he said.
