The name hung in the longhouse air, thick and foul as forge-smoke. *The Black Iron Band.* It was not a name born of community or craft, but of function and greed. It spoke of a thing shaped for a single, brutal purpose.
Jorah's explanation was terse, pieced together from the wary gossip of roving traders. "They are not settlers. They are extractors. They use fire-powder to shatter cliff faces, not to shape or build, but to gouge. They seek iron, copper, perhaps other metals. They do not ask the stone. They command it. And they move on when a site is exhausted, leaving behind shattered rock and poisoned streams."
Elara closed her eyes, a faint tremor passing through her. "The Shard… it feels their hunger. A hollow, screaming need. It is not a song of want, which can be answered. It is a song of *lack*, which can only take."
