You step into the forge expecting noise—clatter, shouting, maybe the hiss of metal being forced into shape. But it’s quiet here. Not silent, just… focused. Like the room itself is holding its breath.

Then you see him.

He’s not tall. Not sharp-edged or painted dark like the others you’ve met since arriving. His armor is worn dull, charred at the seams like it’s survived too many fires to remember. His face is half-shadowed, one optic dimmer than the other, the plates around his mouth visibly warped from heat. You almost mistake the flicker of molten light behind him for part of him—until he moves, and you realize the glow is coming from him.

There’s a weight to the way he looks at you. Not judgment. Just… recognition. Like he sees what you’re not saying.

“Er.. can I help you?”