The sky above the illusionary village was caught in a strange twilight. The villagers' shadows flickered in and out, walking their looped patterns of laughter, grief, life, and death. But Eron had stopped paying attention to them.
The forge never slept.
In this illusion-wrapped village lost to time, neither sun nor moon governed the sky. Only the fire in the forge burned with any certainty. Its embers hissed, cracked, and flared—feeding on the same relentless rhythm that now pulsed in Eron's chest.
He hadn't eaten.
He hadn't rested.
But he wasn't done.
The Forgefather hadn't spoken to him since the last failure. Just a disapproving grunt and a dismissive wave. And so, Eron no longer waited for approval. He wasn't here for comfort or kindness.
He was here to earn a legacy.
All that mattered now was the anvil in front of him.
He had slept for maybe an hour. If that. More like a nap taken while sitting against a wall, still gripping the hammer in his soot-stained hands.
