The village of Ferrolis was in celebration.

  Barrels of beer were opened, and the smell of roasted meat mixed with the smoke of the forges.

  The blacksmiths toasted, clinking mugs as if the sound were stronger than the hammers that, during the day, shaped the destiny of iron.

  Souta, sitting in a corner, stirred his spoon as if it were just a soup utensil. His bored gaze contrasted with the euphoria around him.

  — *Can I get my payment already?* — he muttered, without enthusiasm.

  The master blacksmith laughed, his voice echoing like thunder.

  — *Patience, traveler! Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow I’ll see to your reward.*

  Meliora, on the other hand, seemed enchanted. Her eyes shone before the flames that lit up the village.

  — *It’s incredible… every forge here pulses as if it had a life of its own.*

  Pikonota was already on her third plate, devouring without restraint.

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  — *Mister Spoon, you should relax! Look at this sausage, it almost feels magical!*

  Souta sighed deeply.

  — *The only magic here is you all delaying me.*

  As the feast grew, in the back of the main workshop, a small figure worked in silence.

  He did not join the toasts.

  He did not lift his face.

  He only hammered.

  Hammered.

  Hammered.

  Meliora was the first to notice.

  — *Who is that?*

  The master blacksmith looked away, uncomfortable.

  — *Just an apprentice. Don’t worry about him.*

  But Souta frowned.

  Each strike of the hammer made the air vibrate with a metallic energy, as if the sound had weight.

  And, for an instant, he swore he heard a whisper coming from the incandescent iron.

  **The Night Forge**

  When night fell and the village slept, the apprentice remained alone.

  The flames of the forge lit his face, hidden beneath a leather mask.

  Sweat dripped, but his eyes — invisible under the shadow — burned with obsession.

  He traced runes on the molten metal.

  Forbidden symbols, lines that seemed to move on their own.

  The iron responded, glowing bright red, as if it breathed.

  — *Still not enough…* — he murmured, his voice hoarse.

  — *I need more power.*

  The air grew heavy. The heat of the forge seemed alive, pulsing with the sound of the hammer.

  And then, in the silence of the night, something impossible happened.

  From the anvil, a shape began to rise.

  A heart of iron, throbbing like living flesh, covered in incandescent veins.

  Each beat echoed like muffled thunder, reverberating through the sleeping village.

  Souta, even from afar, awoke suddenly.

  His spoon vibrated on its own, as if answering the call.