In the elder days, when men knew the worth of stone and iron, there stood a forge at the edge of the wild wood. The fire therein burned not by trick nor charm, but by the hand of the smith and the bellows of his craft.

Axe was the tool most sought, for it cleaved timber, it split bone of beast, and it guarded hearth and kin. The blade was wrought by sweat and skill, each strike of the hammer ringing as though the earth itself gave answer.

No man spake of magic, for none was needed. The heat, the iron, and the strong arm sufficed. The axe was born of toil, tempered in water, sharpened on stone, and set to haft of ash.

So passed the forge’s work from father to son, the steel outlasting the flesh. And though ages fade and tongues grow strange, the sound of hammer on anvil yet tells the tale: that strength and craft, not sorcery, shaped the world.