The sound of hooves echoed across cobbled stone as Arthur's carriage rolled steadily through the heart of Iron Hearth, the anvil-beating soul of Keldoria's industrial frontier.
Peering out from the carriage window, Arthur observed the city unfold before him—raw, loud, and alive.
Iron Hearth wasn't polished like the capital. It didn't wear elegance or pageantry. It wore soot like armor and smelled of molten metal and smoke. The streets bustled with blacksmiths and miners, all hardened by fire and steel. Children with coal-smeared cheeks darted between carts, and the clang of hammer on iron was a constant rhythm, rising like a heartbeat from the forges.
Here, magic and muscle worked side by side. Artisans channeled mana through chisels, shaping enchanted tools, while other hauled carts of iron ore from the mines carved deep into the mountainside.
It was a place built by sweat and flame—a city that respected results over rank.
But Arthur wasn't here for the city.
