Charcoal dust marked the safety line at Hajin's feet as he shifted left, keeping him clear of Ferra's hammer and its return swing.
Ferra pulled a glowing yellow bar of refined metal from the hearth, spinning on her heel to slam the hot billet onto the anvil horn.
"Do not stand there looking like an ornamental duke, summoner," she barked without glancing back, pointing her tongs toward the primary bellows handles.
"Work the air draft—two long pulls on the upstroke, sharp compression on the downstroke, and do not let the flame turn yellow!"
Hajin smiled, stepping up to the dual levers and wrapping his calloused palms around the worn leather grips.
He engaged his core mana, sinking into a low, balanced stance as he worked the bellows levers with smooth, mechanical consistency.
The air intake hissed sharply with each upward draw, forcing pressurized oxygen through the subterranean tuyeres into the heart of the coke bed.
