The sound of hammers, the hiss of quenching water, and the smell of hot metal had become Eron's everyday reality. Days in the forge blurred together — a haze of sweat, soot, and the old man's endless scolding.
And yet, for all the repetitive work, there was a spark in him that had nothing to do with crafting. It was the door.
That damn door.
It sat tucked away at the far end of the old man's private quarters, solid oak bound with blackened iron, the kind of thing that looked like it would take a siege ram to break down. Every time Eron had seen it — whether in a quick glance or from the corner of his eye — there had been that faint, almost imperceptible gleam of secrecy about it.
It wasn't just locked. It was sealed.
But now… now Eron thought he finally understood.
