The old hall reemerged from the quiet corridor with all the heat of its purpose still alive—metal clashing, runes sparking, whispers of aether curling through the air like breath held between hammer strikes. But the moment Harlan stepped into view, the rhythm faltered.
Not because he demanded it.
Because presence carved space.
The blacksmiths paused.
Not all at once—but like dominos in silence. One stopped mid-swing, another lifted her head from a glowing blade, a third turned away from a cooled crystal mold. Eyes followed. Movements stilled.
Even among masters, Harlan was the line between fire and flame.
One of the oldest smiths—tattoos inked in liquid steel across his arms—straightened his back and gave a nod deeper than ritual. Another pressed a hand to her chest, a subtle mark of recognition. Even the apprentices, those who had only heard his name in murmurs and warnings, stiffened unconsciously like the forge itself was watching through him.
Harlan didn't blink.
