We know why no aid came.
The Universe is vast, and its wars are without number. There are worlds closer to the frontlines, worlds whose loss would unmake entire campaigns. In the ledger of survival, we were an entry too far down the column.
There is no anger in this. The forge served the heart of war for centuries without question, and in its silence it will not question now. To be overlooked is no betrayal — only the way of a galaxy stretched thin across its own survival.
We remain here, in shadow. The halls echo only with the breath of wind through broken vaults. The furnaces are cold, yet the memory of their fire lingers in the stone and steel. Somewhere within these depths, the last rhythm of the forge still waits — faint, patient, unbroken. When the day comes that a hand reaches into this dark and sets the gears in motion again, the halls will remember their song.
Until then, we endure. In stillness. In shadow.
Waiting.
[End of record]