THE FORGE THAT WAITS
The forge was working for the first time in days.
Heavy heat filled the air, making sweat pour down even when standing still. The smell of burning coal mixed with heated iron permeated everything, entering the lungs with every breath.
Occasional sparks jumped from the anvil when someone hammered metal incorrectly, briefly illuminating the dark corners of the workshop.
Repetitive work: take metal, heat, hammer, cool, repeat. The two guards were sweaty, dirty, clearly out of place there. They weren't blacksmiths. They were soldiers trying to do work they didn't understand.
One of the guards held a simple sword on the anvil, the still-hot metal glowing a faint orange.
He tried to polish it with a rough stone as Gandloaf had shown, but the blade rejected the work; the stone slid without marking anything, as if the metal refused to be shaped by inexperienced hands.
"This doesn't even look like iron..." he muttered in frustration, dropping the stone.
