The war forge crackled with energy, faint smoke curling from molten joints and humming wires as Rohzivaan crouched beside his unfinished mecha. Sparks flew like fireflies, dancing in the shadows that lined the chamber walls.
His hands were blistered, dark smudges staining his cheeks, but his eyes, his eyes burned brighter than ever. He had not left this room in days, maybe weeks. Time no longer mattered. Only progress did. And today, progress came in the form of a single ancient book, heavy, leather-bound, etched with runes so old they seemed to whisper when the pages turned.
His mother had given it to him at last. After months of pleading, after he'd nearly fallen to his knees in front of her, Fiorensia had stared into his unrelenting gaze and understood that he would not stop. He would not rest. He would either destroy himself or become something far worse.
