As the village stirred awake, Cyrus stood at the anvil, shoulders squared, a sentinel of tradition in the heart of the snowy landscape. The scars on his hands, veins coursing with the tales of countless creations, of a blacksmith who wielded not just a hammer but forges in the fires of time.

With a weathered hand, Cyrus retrieved a piece of raw steel, Molten sparks, like fleeting fireflies, accompanied his every move. The forge, bathed in a warmth.

“One moment I’ll be right with you,”