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“My people have a tale,” said Yinsen slowly,
distantly, as if he were speaking from a place far in the future, “about a
prince, much hated by his king, who was banished to the underworld and jailed
there. The evil king gave him the most difficult labor, working the iron
pits.”Stark didn’t turn his attention away from his work, but his
gaze flickered over to Yinsen just enough to convey that he was listening.Yinsen went on. “Year after year the prince mined the
heavy ore, becoming so strong he could crush pieces of it together with his
bare hands. Too late, the king realized his mistake. When he struck at the
prince with his finest sword- it broke in two. The prince himself had become
strong as iron.”Stark held up the metal that he’d been working on. A crude
iron mask stared back at him. He lay it down carefully and it sat on the
ground, cooling. Stark stared at it.A man as strong as
iron. An iron man.He liked the sound of that. He liked it a lot.
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