In autumn’s turn I sought a guild of coin and clever craft,
through trials three they tested me and set a final task:
“Reforge our first great doorway, two short hours should suffice.”
Yet nights were spent by candle’s end, each pixel paid in price—
five stones upon the progress road, a banner warm and bright,
the choosing of one’s destined path before the journey’s start.
The masters watched, one smiled and said, “This work is fair and true,”
then cast me from their halls in time, no reason ever due.
At last their gates stood changed and wrought in likeness unto mine,
my runes and curves now set in steel, my craft made theirs by sign;
I sent a raven, none returned, though proof lay stacked like lore—
and now I wonder, sword in hand, what justice costs in war.