The forge roared back to life with the familiar bellows of heat and breath. Eron stood at its edge, sleeves rolled up, soot already smeared across his cheek, and a thin film of sweat forming on his brow. Today would not be an easy day—but he didn't want it to be. Not anymore.
The old man grunted from behind the anvil, his heavy boots scraping the stone floor as he stepped closer.
"You're early," he said, not unkindly but not kindly either. "Don't tell me you actually slept last night?"
Eron cracked a sheepish grin. "A few hours. Maybe."
"Hmph. Sleep's a luxury for those who aren't lazy, anyways." The old man tossed a pair of thick gloves to him. "You want to make something real today? Something that doesn't look like a lump of burnt cabbage?"
"Yes," Eron said firmly, slipping the gloves on.
"Then shut up, listen, and don't die."
