The forge was quiet.
No sparks flew. No hammer struck. No glowing metals boiled beneath spellflame or sacred rune.
And yet, Argolaith worked.
Not with fire, but with intention.
He stood at the center of the void-forge, holding only a single sheet of skybark parchment, its surface smooth as silence, untouched by ink or rune.
He whispered to it.
Not in words—but in memories.
Of the boy named Illen.
Of the broken world that healed with gestures.
Of the thousand planets that had taught him what people truly needed.
And the bark began to change.
Not visibly. Not with light.
But it responded—its surface rippling faintly, as if breathing for the first time.
Argolaith didn't draw on it.
He placed it flat on a floating slab of memory-stone and circled it.
He spoke softly to the forge itself:
"This isn't a weapon."
"This isn't a tool."
"This isn't something you use."
And still, he circled.
"This is something you share."
