The heavens smoldered at the lip of twilight as the Forge awoke. Destruction, here, did not rage — it waited, banked and lawful, to be shaped. Veins within the mountain ran molten gold, pulsing like the world’s slow heart. From ember to iron, every spark carried a truth — nothing perishes without purpose; nothing endures without proof.

This was Vaelor’s dominion, the Lost Flame: fire beside shadow, ash beside dawning metal — a hymn to purification. Clarity lived here instead of peace, for its master prized what remained after the burning more than any untested form.

Born with the first strike of creation’s hammer, Vaelor rose as Destruction Eternal — the Unyielding Forge. Their runes were Xeorg, Ktes, and Otes: cut, flame, rebirth. Where Astrael measured time and Heimarmenē named cost, Vaelor rendered both clean, ending the false so the true might begin.

Heat shimmered in measured waves, each pulse an ending rightly made. Iron, smoke, rain — the scent of closures turning to ground. Beneath the star-anvil, Vaelor stood with dawn-bright eyes behind the veil of fire, every breath a tempered consent to let go.

Their rule was not conquest but refinement — doubts reduced to dross, failures sifted to seed. The world answered in a low thunder and a steady heartbeat; where Vaelor stood, decay became decision.

The fire lowered to a white thread as they turned toward the seeker.

“Welcome to the Crucible Court,” Vaelor said, voice like a clean blade on stone. “Lay down what must end, and rise with what remains.” Ash drifted like slow snow while the white flame held, unwavering.