A sharp clang echoed through the room.
Then another.
And another.
Dren's workshop was alive with motion—runes spinning, mana surging, tools hovering midair as if obeying his thoughts alone. The Dawnveil Crest floated at the center, its crescent frame glowing steadily, while beneath it a pool of iridescent abyssal liquid metal flowed like living mercury, shimmering with colors that should not exist.
Dren's hands moved without hesitation.
The last fragments of the old truestone alloy were peeled away, discarded like useless scrap. In their place, the dark iridescent liquid metal rose—drawn upward by invisible force—wrapping itself around the Heart of the Deep Forge's core.
The metal did not resist.
It adapted.
Runes flared.
The Dawnveil Crest pulsed, its light no longer purely radiant but reinforced—stabilized. The liquid metal hardened where needed, softened where pressure peaked, constantly shifting, constantly balancing.
Perfect.
A deep hum filled the room.
