The depths of Ironheart rumbled with activity as dwarven craftsmen worked tirelessly through the night, their hammers striking in rhythmic precision against blessed metals. Morgana watched from a carved stone balcony as golden sparks flew from newly forged weapons, each imbued with the light they had shared. The air was thick with coal smoke and magic.
"They work faster than I expected," Kael said, joining her at the railing. His voice carried the weight of exhaustion, but his eyes remained sharp, alert to the ever-present danger.
Morgana nodded, absently touching the crystal pendant at her throat—a gift from the Elven Council that pulsed with news from Silverspire. "They have to. The darkness isn't giving us the luxury of time."
