Eron's eyes blinked open to the dim glow of the fake sun in the illusory village sky. The old blacksmith's hut remained unchanged, still made of weathered cobblestones, distant sounds of a wind chime, and that omnipresent scent of burnt iron and soot. Despite barely sleeping, he felt the adrenaline flooding his limbs. Today was the day he would attempt to forge armor—his next step.
Still shirtless from last night's work, he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, I can do this," he mumbled to himself. "He said come at dawn and it's dawn. Just… don't screw this up."
As he reached the forge, the old man—still unnamed, still as old as ever—sat on a long workbench, arms crossed and unimpressed.
"You look like shit." the old man grunted.
"I didn't sleep much." Eron said, trying to play it cool.
