The forge had never known silence.
Its rhythms were the pulse of the world — hammers falling in perfect cadence, gears locking and releasing in endless succession, the roar of molten metal flooding channels older than the city that housed them. Day and night had no meaning here; only the beat of the forge defined the passing of time.
Then came the pause.
It was not a sudden shattering, but a withdrawal — as though the furnaces themselves had drawn in a single breath and refused to let it go. The hammers hung mid-swing, the gears held their teeth locked, the molten flow stilled in its conduits.
The air shifted.
Not in heat or weight, but in essence. The familiar tang of oil and steel was tainted by something alien — sharp, metallic, yet laced with a faint rot. The breath felt thicker, as if the atmosphere itself had been recast.
Workers stood in frozen ranks, eyes lifting to the priesthood. The priests scanned the CogNet, searching for a reason, a command, a sign. None came.
From beyond the Production Citadel walls came a new sound — slow, deliberate, without pattern. It was not the voice of the forge.
And so the furnaces held their breath, as though the world itself waited to see what would step into the silence.
[End of record]