The forge had not cooled.
Rivers of molten metal still flowed through their channels, glowing white-orange beneath the iron grates. The bellows breathed like a sleeping beast, each exhale sending sparks drifting lazily into the air. The heat pressed down, familiar and constant.
Elder Thrain stood near the anvil, hammer resting against it, eyes fixed on the doorway Luca had just passed through.
He did not move.
Behind him, Durgan Blackvein remained where he was told to stop—arms crossed, posture relaxed, gaze indifferent. Like a mountain that had decided waiting was beneath it.
For several heartbeats, neither spoke.
Thrain finally turned.
He did not look angry. He did not look curious.
He looked… measuring.
His eyes traced Durgan slowly—from the set of his shoulders, to the relaxed readiness in his stance, to the faint, controlled aura that never fully left him. An aura that did not belong to a slave.
"…You've changed," Thrain said at last.
Durgan didn't react.
