Cold Iron Rest

A heavy slab of carved granite sat flanked by weathered stone legs beside the wall, cooled by the night air. After hours outside, even iron requires a stance of stillness. I marched up its rough base, planted my boots onto the flat surface, and drove my frame down into an unyielding seat. I rested my left fist flat against the rough, chipped mineral, letting the deep chill seep through the stone into my knuckles. The courtyard lay silent beneath the dark expanse. I hold this ground.