And still, he did not set aside his smithing.
For several hours each day, he toiled in the dwarven forges, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and coal smoke. The rhythm of hammer on anvil, the hiss of quenching steel—it was a music unlike any other. The dwarves' methods were unlike the human ways he had known: every strike was deliberate, every fold of the metal a part of a centuries-old tradition. The craft of the stout folk fascinated him so deeply that he became more than a visitor—he became a worker of their smithy, earning the respect of masters who rarely gave it to outsiders.
They stood there, watching the distant skies and stars.
Somewhere across the vast reaches of the realm, his companions were growing into their own legendary status.
The scattered paths were converging once more, and when they finally met again, the world would tremble at what they had become.
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