Where flame spirits stir, and ancient oaths are hammered into steel.
The ringing echoed through the hallowed halls, summoning flame spirits to appease the forge.
Ring.
“I must strike with truth.”
The words carried weight.
Ring.
“I must strike with purpose.”
Each blow reset the stanza — a rhythm absorbed by the molten weapon. Sparks shifted in hue: white-hot to blue, then yellow…
Ring.“I must strike with courage.”
The mantra, disciplined and solemn, had the cadence of prayer — a benediction to the gods of the forge.
Ring.
A breath. Silence.
The atmosphere thickened, as though the very air were drawing itself inward — a great suction, coalescing into something alive. Something powerful. The chamber thrummed.
Read the full tale and uncover the Pactsmith’s battle in the Scriptorium →
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