The hammer slipped from his hand.

It clanged to the stone, bounced, and rolled—striking the anvil with a sharp, discordant ring that echoed far too loud in the vaulted forge. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of heated iron and the sulfurous scent of the magma veins pulsing in the walls.

Vaulkrin stood over the half-shaped blade, his breath thick with heat, shoulders heaving. The metal wasn't right. It should have been—perfect ratios, perfect flame, perfect stroke. But something was wrong. Off. Crooked in a way he couldn't name. The sacred flame in the hearth flickered, rising too high, too wild, casting dancing shadows that mirrored his unrest.

He ground his teeth and stepped back, blood boiling. It wasn't the blade. It wasn't the forge. It was him.

Since dawn, he had heard whispers—tiny, mortal, stupid things: "She has not come to the morning rite,""She was pale last night,""Perhaps she's grown tired of the forge..."

They weren't meant for him to hear. They weren't spoken with disrespect. But they burned.

He had not summoned her that morning—not because he didn't want her there, but because he feared what he would do if she sat beside him again, quietly watching as if she belonged. She did belong. And yet...

The blade on the anvil cracked. Just a hairline. Just enough to remind him what he'd lost control of.

The forge flared in protest as he turned sharply, cloak of soot and heat billowing behind him. He passed his priests without word, scorched the steps beneath his boots, crossed temple courtyards without thought. Worshipers stepped aside instinctively, heat washing off him in invisible waves, curling banners, blistering paint.

Every step without her felt heavier.

She should have come to the forge. She always did. Why hadn't she?

He tried to swallow the fear clawing at his chest. Was she sick? Had someone touched her? Taken her from his reach? Did she still wear the ring he made, or had she placed it aside—cooled it, dulled it, forgotten it?

The main hall opened before him, and he didn't pause. Past the sanctuary fire. Past the acolytes' quarters. Past the statues they'd carved in his honor—all cold, all wrong without her gaze to soften them.

And then, finally—he reached the upper chamber.

There.

The air cooled. His chest stilled.

There she was.

In the dress he never asked her to wear but knew she would. In the room where the heat could never touch her.