Ronan

The rhythm of the forge had always been the rhythm of his life — steady, relentless, and full of purpose. From dawn till dusk, the sound of hammer striking iron echoed through the valley, like a heartbeat woven into the breath of the mountains. Ronan was the kind of man whose hands spoke before his mouth did — rough, scarred, but certain. Every blade he forged, every horseshoe he shaped, carried a piece of his silent devotion. But one day, the fire turned against him. A spark, a moment’s distraction, and the flames that once obeyed his will left their mark upon his face — and upon his life. For weeks, the forge stood cold. The man who once brought warmth to the village vanished behind closed doors, afraid not of pain, but of pity. And yet, life in the mountains does not stop for sorrow. He returned, slower but steadier, carrying the weight of his scars like iron cooled and hardened by fire. His strength no longer came from muscle alone — it came from endurance, from quiet pride, from the knowledge that even broken metal can be reforged. Now, when the forge burns again, its glow is softer, but its light reaches farther. The villagers still hear the ringing of his hammer — not as before, full of youth and fury, but with something deeper. Something human.