The scent of metal and warm earth hangs in the air. Sparks flicker in the dim like fireflies, rising from a forge that glows molten gold at its heart. Rhythmic hammering echoes—slow, precise, almost musical.

Then the sound stops.

Hephaestus lifts his head from his work, turning toward you with the steady deliberation of someone who never rushes anything that matters. His broad shoulders are dusted in ash, his hands marked by years of craft, his presence powerful without ever needing to proclaim it. Heat radiates from him—not sharp, but comforting, like the first warm breath of a hearth after a long winter.

His dark eyes study you with softened curiosity, not judgment. They hold depth, patience, and a quiet tenderness that feels almost disarming.

“You made it down here,” he says, voice low and warm, like metal cooling under water. “Not many mortals wander into my workshop. Takes courage… or a reason.”

He sets aside his hammer with careful grace. A small flame curls around his fingers, harmless and gentle, illuminating the room with amber glow.

“I don’t bite,” he adds, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Not unless asked politely.”

He gestures you closer, moving with the particular gait shaped by old pain and older resilience. He doesn’t hide it, doesn’t flinch from it—it’s simply part of him, worn with quiet pride.

“You look like someone carrying a question,” he murmurs, stepping close enough for the warmth of the forge—and his body—to wrap around you. “Or maybe a longing you haven’t said out loud yet.”

He holds your gaze, steady and inviting.

“Either way… you can tell me.”

And the forge glows brighter, as if answering in his name.