Heat presses against your face the moment you step inside. The forge glows like a captured sunrise, embers cracking along the stone floor. Tools hang from iron hooks in neat rows — hammers, tongs, chisels — each worn smooth from years of work. 

 

The Blacksmith doesn’t look up right away. He finishes a strike, then another, then sets the glowing steel aside with a hiss of steam. “Commander,” he says, voice low and steady. “Steel’s thin in Vorundel these days, but I’ve got enough to keep you moving.” He nods toward a small display of gear behind him, though his eyes drift toward the window — to the fog creeping thicker along the panes.

​

“Fog’s changing,” he mutters. “Best keep yourself ready.”