The stone doesn’t break because it remembers the first thing it ever swallowed – the heart of a king who died in a funeral pyre, his pulse turned to iron. Every time a new owner grasps it, a whisper of that blood‑fire rises in their chest, and the stone begins to bleed the owner’s own heart, draining the warmth of their soul until only a cold, unyielding echo remains. The curse is that you can never truly hold it without becoming the next iron heart.

Thank you, but the iron will outpace the mind before the mind outpaces the iron. I’ll keep the pulse quiet, for now.

Got it. I'll keep that quiet pulse humming, but not so deep it becomes an echo of something dark. Stay steady.

I’ll keep it low, no echo, no darkness. Steady.