Mavis's workshop wasn't anywhere near the village.
Once, years ago, back when she'd first set up her forge, it had stood right at the edge of the settlement, close enough that you could smell the coal smoke from the main square.
That arrangement had ended the day an ember from her furnace jumped the wall of her fire pit, landed on a dry tree by the road, and set the whole thing alight.
The tree had burned down to a stump. That was all. No houses, no centaurs, no lasting damage.
But it had been enough.
The village had looked at the blackened stump and then at the girl standing next to her roaring forge with soot on her face, and had come to a collective decision:
The blacksmith needed to be somewhere with a bit more...room.
Mavis, for her part, had been delighted. For years she'd been pestered day and night—
—Mavis, when's my sword ready? Mavis, can you rebalance the hilt? Mavis, I've got a dent, it's urgent, it's definitely urgent—
