The Silent Forge

Iron cools in the shadow of the mountain, forgetting the fury of the flame that bent its stubborn spine. It rests now, heavy and unbothered, dreaming of the ore.

Sparks ascend like brief and sudden stars, winking out against the soot-stained rafters, leaving only the scent of scorched earth and the hum of the cooling anvil. The hammer sleeps on the stone.

Tomorrow the bellows will breathe again, a forced gale into the dying embers, and the cycle of shaping will begin anew. But for tonight, the metal holds its shape, perfect in the quiet dark.