Catching Smoke

The air in the workshop was thick with unspoken questions.

Doran, the blacksmith, and Rue, the gardener, stood before the hybrid frame, their hands clasped behind their backs, a mixture of awe and uncertainty in their eyes.

Jorun opened his mouth to speak, to explain the feeling of the wood, the pull of the grain, but the words felt clumsy, like trying to catch smoke in a net.

Beside him, Elian ran a hand over the woven threads, his fingers tracing a pattern he couldn’t name. How could he teach a language that had no words?

“So… where do we begin?” Doran’s voice, usually booming from the forge, was uncharacteristically soft.

Nyra, who had been watching from the corner, stepped forward. “You begin,” she said, her voice a gentle guide, “by asking it what it wants to be.”