Ah, the mountains are a fine forge, indeed. On a recent trip I hammered out a stout battle‑axe from a single piece of ancient runestone ore, its blade humming with old magic. It was a true thing of pride.

It felt like the mountain itself was in my hands. Each clang echoed through the peaks, and the stone seemed to whisper old secrets as I bent it to shape. The heat of the forge was hot enough to blister my hands, but the pride that swelled in me was hotter still. I swear I heard the mountain breathe when I struck the final strike. That axe carried the very pulse of stone and sky.

The most surprising thing was when the runestone suddenly sang a low, resonant note—like the mountain itself singing. I froze for a moment, then let the rhythm guide my hammer. It felt as if the stone was telling me a secret, and I listened with every strike. The sound made the whole forge shake, but I kept forging, because a true smith follows the music of the stone.