The interior of Mara's Forge was quieter than usual.
The clang of metal, the hiss of steam, and the vibrant, hammer-born symphony that usually defined the space were all absent. Instead, the space was filled with a strained kind of silence, one that hung over them like the darkened sky beyond the city walls.
Miles stood near the workbench, Dee curled in the crook of his arm this time.
The little salamander was still sluggish, no longer glowing with its post-hatch brilliance, but still warm to the touch. Sarissa leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest, silent but watchful.
Mara, for once not buried in half-finished schematics, holding a wrench in her teeth, or scheming with the guild masters for the nearing [Dungeon War], paced the length of the room with tightly clenched fists.
