The sound of a hammer striking iron was the only thing splitting the morning air. Clang, clang, clang. Regular. Unwavering. Yet somehow resigned. Horn Village, nestled in the western foothills of the Karnadoom Mountains, clung to the mountainside at an altitude of six hundred meters—a small settlement of roughly two hundred twenty people. The bleating of goats and the blue scent of medicinal herbs mingled with the wind. The stone-paved village road glistened wet with morning dew. It lay about two and a half days' ride northeast of Saint Clairvol, the former capital during the height of the Glione Kingdom's prosperity. One might call it a frontier, but the villagers accustomed to mountain life never complained. There was quiet here. A quiet where unnecessary things never came. Beside the plaza at the village center, right next to an ancient oak tree, stood a small stone workshop. There was no sign. But everyone knew. This was the "Ash-Iron Furnace"—Aldric Ironheart's smithy. Insid