The weapon did not respond. He'd killed it; the iron was dead, probably.

Nearby there were scatterings of other weapons, other tools, most half-formed or long-abandoned, others set carefully against an alcove or atop a time-pitted anvil here and there. A pile of scrap metal and one of coke and coal lay in the shimmering heat.

Among other things, there were twisted pieces of metal armor, abandoned and piled up, likely for reforging. Rings of metal a couple inches in diameter--some heavily-rusted iron, some tarnished steel--lay piled beside a rotted wooden bucket, preserved from insects only by Leo's blistering heat.

And a weapon rack close by held abandoned weapons. There was a copper alloy war-axe, its handle ebony black; it was small, simple but sharp. Parts of its blade head had gone green with age. A massive, two-handed bronze greatsword hung gleaming in the red light, delicate patterns etched along its razor's edge, the guard missing--or never yet attached--above the decorate red grip. Beside this leaned a brass-trimmed steel scabbard engraved with gilded gold--perhaps Mirac would fit into this, if he so wished, or maybe he was too small, yet. An ancient mace, unmarked but with its tempered steel head multi-faceted and riddled with spikes, hung from a wood handle with a lilac-tinted leather grip. And after a few empty spots, there stood a steel alloy halberd: untouched, it seemed, by time, and with a crescent blade and a spiked top. Its haft, wooden, was long; the entire weapon was heavy and well-balanced.

Lastly, fallen to the floor and tainted geen with age, was a copper flail, its spiked ball on its two-foot chain scarred with combat damage.

And here was Mirac: one of the many weapons here, and yet alive, floating, perhaps even breathing.

How strange.