The next morning, mist blanketed the forest.
Adrian stood at the gate, a small travel pack slung over his shoulder, the weight of responsibility pressing heavier than his tools. The villagers gathered to see him off—faces mixed with pride and fear.
Torren handed him a short-handled hammer, the same one he'd used to forge the first kiln.
"You might not need it," the blacksmith said, "but it's better than walking without something that reminds you who you are."
Adrian gripped it firmly. "Keep the wall steady while I'm gone."
Elara approached last. "You don't have to go," she said softly. "You could send scouts instead."
He shook his head. "If there's technology out there—if there are others like me—I need to see it myself."
Elara hesitated, then tied a small leather strap around his wrist. "For luck," she said.
He managed a faint smile. "Then I'll bring it back in one piece."
Beside him, Kaela adjusted her cloak. "If we leave now, we can reach the ridge before nightfall. After that, the Iron Hills are two days west."
Without another word, they stepped into the mist, leaving the village—and its fragile peace—behind.
The forest thinned by midday, giving way to rolling plains streaked with gray rock. The ground shimmered faintly in places, as if the soil held traces of metal.
Kaela walked ahead with the confidence of someone who'd traveled this road a hundred times. "The Iron Hills got their name from the ore veins beneath them," she said. "But there's something else—machines buried in the rock. Ancient. Not from this world."