The acrid smell of coal smoke always reminded Elias Thorne of his grandfather. He’d spent countless afternoons perched on a rickety stool in the old man’s workshop, watching him coax flames into forging iron into beautiful, useful things. His grandfather believed every piece he made held a story, a whisper of the past echoing through the metal. Elias never forgot those lessons. He carried them with him as he navigated the cobblestone streets of Metier Street, his own hands calloused but steady from years of working in the shipyards down by the river. Every clang of hammer on steel, every creak of rigging against a mast, whispered tales of toil and triumph, echoing the spirit of his grandfather's forge. He'd seen Pilegron change over the decades. The old homes on Metier Street had given way to imposing offices, their windows reflecting the ever-shifting ambitions of the city. Yet, amidst the rush of progress, Elias clung to the belief that each piece of work, each act of creation, carried a story worth telling. Even now, as he walked past the grand facade of Metier Hall, he couldn't help but imagine the hands that had laid those stones, the dreams they'd held for the city. He saw Pilegron not just as a hub of industry and commerce, but as a living tapestry woven from countless stories, each thread connecting to the next, forming a narrative as complex and enduring as the iron he knew so well. And Elias Thorne, with his calloused hands and quiet spirit, was determined to add his own chapter to that grand story.