Hajin dragged his hand out of the cracked circle as the woman coughed into the vault's cooling air.
Charcoal-gray hair lay tied behind two curved horns, and scales ran along her forearms above a scorched leather work apron. Her amber gaze swept the three Rings still orbiting him while Hajin pushed off the floor, cradling his aching forearm.
She tested the draft above her palm, then glared at the closed door like it owed her money.
"Air that scratches the throat, stone that sweats, and mana so thin it barely stirs," she rasped, "and you call me into this damp hole?"
"Hey, it's a frontier vault, not a damn palace," Hajin wheezed, planting his heel outside the crack before his knees could vote otherwise.
"The workshop's upstairs, so... welcome?"
She stepped right up to his orbiting Rings, and her stare followed the bands with open, prickly suspicion.
