The forge had been awake long before the sun.
Down in the cliffside annex of the Iblis Estate, where the sea wind hissed through narrow vents and the rhythmic pulse of the waves echoed like a heartbeat beneath the stone, Hiram Iblis worked. Sparks danced in soft constellations around him, each burst of molten light reflected in the curved surfaces of unfinished armor and half-forged tools. The air was thick with heat and salt, the mingled scents of iron, oil, and ocean mist.
The anvil before him glowed faintly with residual warmth, while the forge itself burned in quiet rhythm, the flames rising and falling as though guided by his breath. He moved with unhurried precision, the controlled grace of a man for whom craftsmanship was meditation. The hammer in his hand struck not with aggression, but intent. Each impact sang like a mantra.
The metal on the anvil, an alloy of durasteel and doonium, responded to his will. Through the Force, he felt its resistance, its fatigue, its quiet willingness to change. He shaped it as one might guide a living thing, letting intuition lead where technique ended. When at last the edges cooled from bright orange to a tempered sheen, he set the hammer down and exhaled. Outside, the faintest light had begun to seep across the sea. The horizon burned soft gold and coral through the lingering morning haze. Through narrow windows cut into the rock, beams of daylight slipped across racks of tools, catching on the edges of finished pieces, helms, plates, and gauntlets forged for the sake of protection rather than war.
A small chrono chimed beside the workbench.
1040 hours.
Hiram's brow furrowed faintly. The time had slipped again, as it often did when he lost himself in the rhythm of the forge. In less than an hour, he was to receive Ariel Korvane, envoy of House Korvane of Rimos, at the main hall above. Their meeting, formal in tone but born of mutual respect, was to discuss the possibility of collaboration between their houses.
Leaving the forge behind, he ascended the winding stairway that led from the lower annex to the main manor. The passage smelled faintly of seawater and ash. Along the walls, lanterns flickered beneath arched windows that framed the morning light breaking over Spinnaker Bay. The estate stirred faintly above, the distant echo of cleaning droids, the whisper of the breeze through half-open shutters, and the soft creak of repaired timbers shifting with the warmth of day. He paused briefly at the landing, gazing through a tall, narrow window. The view stretched far across the coast, the pale cliffs, the slow curl of the sea, and the first glimmers of sunlight striking the repaired copper roofs of the estate. Even in its age and imperfection, it was beautiful, a quiet defiance against time, much like its last heir.
In his private quarters, he stripped away the soot and metal dust, stepping beneath a cascade of steaming water. The shower echoed softly against marble walls, washing away the labor of the forge and cooling the fire that still hummed beneath his skin. The silence there was complete except for the muted rush of water and the occasional sigh of wind through the open lattice window.
When he emerged, the transformation was subtle but deliberate. Hiram dressed in modest attire befitting both his lineage and his station. a simple tunic of dark Nabooan weave. Over it, a robe of deep charcoal fabric, plain but masterfully tailored. His belt carried no ornament save for the polished hilt of his lightsaber and a small forged medallion, a relic of his family crest, beaten thin and worn with years of touch.
Before leaving, he lingered at the edge of his chamber. On the far table, morning sunlight fell across a vase of wildflowers, freshly gathered from the terraces by one of the estate caretakers. Beside it lay the plans for the day's meeting: diagrams of alloy threads, textile samples from Rimos, notes on resonance harmonics, and his own sketches of how light might flow through both cloth and metal when imbued with the Force.
He studied them for a moment, then smiled faintly to himself. The union of their crafts could create something the galaxy had never seen, armor that healed as it protected, garments that balanced as they shielded. The possibilities sang to him like an unfinished symphony. By the time the chrono read 1059, Hiram was already crossing the long hall that led toward the western balcony, the one overlooking the winding road to the sea. The scent of the forge still lingered faintly on him, beneath the clean lines of his formal attire, grounding him between who he was and who he had to be.
In the distance, a sleek transport vessel approached the estate, its engines purring like wind over silk.
Ariel Korvane had arrived.
Down in the cliffside annex of the Iblis Estate, where the sea wind hissed through narrow vents and the rhythmic pulse of the waves echoed like a heartbeat beneath the stone, Hiram Iblis worked. Sparks danced in soft constellations around him, each burst of molten light reflected in the curved surfaces of unfinished armor and half-forged tools. The air was thick with heat and salt, the mingled scents of iron, oil, and ocean mist.
The anvil before him glowed faintly with residual warmth, while the forge itself burned in quiet rhythm, the flames rising and falling as though guided by his breath. He moved with unhurried precision, the controlled grace of a man for whom craftsmanship was meditation. The hammer in his hand struck not with aggression, but intent. Each impact sang like a mantra.
The metal on the anvil, an alloy of durasteel and doonium, responded to his will. Through the Force, he felt its resistance, its fatigue, its quiet willingness to change. He shaped it as one might guide a living thing, letting intuition lead where technique ended. When at last the edges cooled from bright orange to a tempered sheen, he set the hammer down and exhaled. Outside, the faintest light had begun to seep across the sea. The horizon burned soft gold and coral through the lingering morning haze. Through narrow windows cut into the rock, beams of daylight slipped across racks of tools, catching on the edges of finished pieces, helms, plates, and gauntlets forged for the sake of protection rather than war.
A small chrono chimed beside the workbench.
1040 hours.
Hiram's brow furrowed faintly. The time had slipped again, as it often did when he lost himself in the rhythm of the forge. In less than an hour, he was to receive Ariel Korvane, envoy of House Korvane of Rimos, at the main hall above. Their meeting, formal in tone but born of mutual respect, was to discuss the possibility of collaboration between their houses.
Leaving the forge behind, he ascended the winding stairway that led from the lower annex to the main manor. The passage smelled faintly of seawater and ash. Along the walls, lanterns flickered beneath arched windows that framed the morning light breaking over Spinnaker Bay. The estate stirred faintly above, the distant echo of cleaning droids, the whisper of the breeze through half-open shutters, and the soft creak of repaired timbers shifting with the warmth of day. He paused briefly at the landing, gazing through a tall, narrow window. The view stretched far across the coast, the pale cliffs, the slow curl of the sea, and the first glimmers of sunlight striking the repaired copper roofs of the estate. Even in its age and imperfection, it was beautiful, a quiet defiance against time, much like its last heir.
In his private quarters, he stripped away the soot and metal dust, stepping beneath a cascade of steaming water. The shower echoed softly against marble walls, washing away the labor of the forge and cooling the fire that still hummed beneath his skin. The silence there was complete except for the muted rush of water and the occasional sigh of wind through the open lattice window.
When he emerged, the transformation was subtle but deliberate. Hiram dressed in modest attire befitting both his lineage and his station. a simple tunic of dark Nabooan weave. Over it, a robe of deep charcoal fabric, plain but masterfully tailored. His belt carried no ornament save for the polished hilt of his lightsaber and a small forged medallion, a relic of his family crest, beaten thin and worn with years of touch.
Before leaving, he lingered at the edge of his chamber. On the far table, morning sunlight fell across a vase of wildflowers, freshly gathered from the terraces by one of the estate caretakers. Beside it lay the plans for the day's meeting: diagrams of alloy threads, textile samples from Rimos, notes on resonance harmonics, and his own sketches of how light might flow through both cloth and metal when imbued with the Force.
He studied them for a moment, then smiled faintly to himself. The union of their crafts could create something the galaxy had never seen, armor that healed as it protected, garments that balanced as they shielded. The possibilities sang to him like an unfinished symphony. By the time the chrono read 1059, Hiram was already crossing the long hall that led toward the western balcony, the one overlooking the winding road to the sea. The scent of the forge still lingered faintly on him, beneath the clean lines of his formal attire, grounding him between who he was and who he had to be.
In the distance, a sleek transport vessel approached the estate, its engines purring like wind over silk.
Ariel Korvane had arrived.