The descent into the bowels of the palace felt like a journey into the gullet of a sleeping beast. Far beneath the polished marble of the main hall, where the echoes of weeping nobles still seemed to linger in the rafters, the air grew thick and heavy. It carried the scent of pulverized stone, ancient iron, and a dry, suffocating heat that made the lungs ache. This was the special forging room, a chamber constructed from dense volcanic basalt that absorbed light rather than reflecting it. In the center of the room stood a massive anvil of obsidian, its surface as smooth as still water. Behind it, the primary furnace roared with a low, mechanical growl, fueled by coals that glowed with an unnatural, white-hot intensity. Constantine stood before the flames, his silhouette framed by the blind
