The next morning, Howen rose before dawn, shouldering his hammer and joining the stream of smiths flowing through Eldoria's streets. The closer they came to the competition grounds, the thicker the crowd grew. Wagons rattled under the weight of tool chests and spare anvils. Apprentices carried bellows and buckets, their faces flushed with nerves. Masters walked in proud silence, cloaks stitched with guild emblems trailing behind them. Even travelers with no hammer to their name followed along, drawn by the promise of spectacle, eager to see history forged in fire.
When the gates finally opened, Howen stepped inside—and stopped dead in his tracks.
The competition grounds had been utterly remade. What had once been a broad field now stretched out in perfect order: three hundred and fifty open-air workshops, each one a forge in miniature.
