A jet of pale orange flame roared into the curved combustion chamber of the reverberatory furnace, illuminating the interior refractory tiles with intense crimson brilliance.
Ferra stood before the open intake archway, her copper-tinted hair tied back with a strip of split rawhide as she manipulated crucible tongs with effortless precision.
"Check the draft gauge on the north chimney!" she barked over the deafening roar of the combustion draft.
Marrick scurried along the lower catwalk with a wooden record tablet, squinting through a mica observation port to inspect the internal air current.
"Draft pressure reads thirty-eight cubic feet per second, Master Ferra!" the scribe shouted back, shielding his eyes from the intense radiant heat.
"Not enough air!" she retorted, slamming the heel of her hand against the air valve.
"Open the lower intake damper three more notches—let the bed breathe before the fuel chokes on its own exhaust!"
