Morning in Drak'thar came as the purple sky brightened from deep violet to lavender, the dimension's ambient magic providing illumination without a real sun.
Owen found Celeste in the palace smithy. Someone had prepared a full workshop for her: anvil, tools arranged with the same precision she had maintained in her own shop. She worked steadily at the anvil, hammer ringing against hot metal in a rhythmic pattern.
"Couldn't sleep?" Owen asked.
"I Slept fine. Just woke early." She plunged the piece into the quenching barrel. Steam erupted violently. "Needed to work. It helps me think."
The metal revealed itself as a dagger blade: simple in design, functional rather than decorative.
"For?" Owen asked.
"For me. I feel naked without a weapon." She examined the blade critically, checking for warps.
Owen understood immediately. The blade wasn't just steel, it was psychological armor, one of the few things she could command in a situation spiraling beyond her influence.
