The Silent Forge

Sparks drift upward into the shadowed vault, where iron cools against the damp stone floor. A momentary warmth that forgets the flame, settling into a shape it never asked to hold.

The anvil waits beneath dust motes and time, knowing the heavy rhythm of the strike. It asks no questions of the heavy air, only echoes what the maker demands.

What is born in the heat must learn the cold, hardening in a world that did not want it. The silent forge cools slowly in the dark, a resting heart before the next spark leaps.