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,”
We use essential cookies to make our site work. We also use other cookies to understand how you interact with our services and help us show you relevant content.
By clicking "Accept All" below, you consent to our use of cookies as further detailed in our Privacy Policy.