Blacksmith (3)

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.