Back in Elyrion, the air was still.
The frogs hopped lazily by the stream, their faint glimmers dancing across the mossy ground.
Argolaith stepped out beneath the twin stars and looked at the empty clearing beside his cabin.
This would be the forge's place.
He knelt and placed his hand to the earth.
Mana flowed out like breath, etching runes into the soil, quiet and blue.
Stones from his storage ring tumbled out—flat, smooth, and laced with enchantments.
He placed them in a perfect ring, each marked with a glyph to handle intense magical heat.
At the center, he set a flat stone slab.
It came from a quarry he'd visited long ago, resistant to warping from mana and flame alike.
He whispered to it. The stone responded, faintly glowing.
The air around the forge grew heavy with quiet power.
From his ring, Argolaith pulled out the shimmering ore he had taken from the sanctuary ceiling.
He placed it on the central stone and stared at it in silence.
It pulsed.
Not like metal.
