Eron awoke before dawn.
His body ached—shoulders stiff, fingers still sore from yesterday's failures—but it was the thudding in his chest that truly pulled him from restless sleep. Shame, fear, and something else—fire—churned inside him. He sat on the edge of the small cot provided in the illusory blacksmith village, staring down at his hands.
"Trash. That's all you've made."
The old man's words echoed with cruel clarity.
He could still see the half-melted mess he'd created yesterday. Misshapen, warped, and brittle in places where it should have been reinforced. Not armor—just scrap.
But worse than the old man's sneer was the image of Rai and Alex, smiling at him with quiet faith, handing him materials, encouraging him, believing in a future he couldn't see.
He gritted his teeth.
"I'm not leaving this forge until I earn that belief."
And so, Eron went to work.
