In the valley where the mountains breathe smoke and light, there stands a forge that never cools. Its embers have burned since the dawn of creation, fed by the breath of something ancient and divine. They say if you stand near it long enough, you’ll hear it whisper — soft, steady, alive.
Once, there was a young blacksmith who came to that forge with nothing but broken metal and heavier dreams. The world had worn him down; his hands trembled from battles that left no trophies, only scars. He didn’t come to create. He came to forget.
But the forge had other plans.
When he laid the shattered pieces of his past upon the anvil, the fire stirred — not in anger, but in knowing. Sparks leapt like voices, and a heat deeper than flame wrapped around his weary spirit. He thought he heard words in the rising hum:
“What you lost is not gone. It’s waiting to be remade.”
And so he lifted the hammer. Blow by blow, he worked beside the whisper — shaping, bending, believing. The fire didn’t burn him; it revealed him. Every swing was a prayer. Every spark, a song.
By dawn, a new creation glowed in the light — not just forged metal, but a symbol of something eternal.
The forge had given him back his courage, refined and radiant. And as the first sunbeam struck the steel, the whisper spoke once more:
Princess Crystal Says 
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