You wind through Endsquare’s ash-choked alleys, the forge’s heat guiding you like a beacon. At last, you reach it—stone, soot, and steel. Inside, sparks fly. A figure turns: broad-shouldered, face like carved obsidian. The blacksmith eldest eyes you, hammer resting on one shoulder. “So,” he says, voice like grinding iron, “you’re the new coal scrap they sent me.” Your journey has begun.
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