Mara sat at her station, hands hovering just above the workbench, but she wasn't touching anything.
Her gaze was fixed on the small vial of the [Broodmother's Ichor] that sat in front of her, its dark contents shifting like thick, oily blood. It had been days since she'd first seen it, and even still, something in her bones told her it wasn't just an item.
It was a message, a warning, maybe even a trap.
The glow of the forge, warm and steady in the background, seemed to dim slightly as Mara narrowed her eyes, focusing more intently.
The ichor didn't shimmer with the vibrant energy of most artifacts, nor did it hum with anything that felt magical. It was just there, organic, alive, maybe, in a way she didn't fully understand.
She had turned the vial over in her hands for hours, running her fingers over the surface of the glass, but even now, after feeling it pulse with something she couldn't explain, it was still dormant.
Unyielding.
