Three days had passed since Eron's failed attempt to uncover the old man's secret. Three days of restless sleep, of imagining gears turning and locks clicking in the dark shadow of that heavy, iron-banded door.
The forge was warm again that morning, the familiar glow of molten metal filling the air with an orange haze. Sparks hissed and danced across the floor like restless fireflies.
Eron was bent over the anvil, sweat dripping down his forehead and nose, his hammer striking in a steady rhythm. The old man stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze critical but… less hostile than before.
"Your grip is still sloppy," the old man barked. Eron grunted. "It's better than yesterday."
"Better than yesterday still means bad today," the old man said, walking over and adjusting Eron's hands without asking. His grip was firm, calloused fingers pressing Eron's knuckles into a new angle. "The hammer's head must fall straight. You're striking like a man trying to scare a rat, not shape steel."
