The brick hearth in the center of the workshop roared with deep orange flame as young Zhang Yue pumped the double-chambered leather bellows with rhythmic strokes.
Dense heat washed across the basalt walls of the workshop, driving away the damp chill of the subterranean cellar where Lin Xi lay locked in stasis beneath the hearthstones.
Ye Chen sorted through the heap of salvaged scrap they had dragged from the badlands, picking out warped wagon axles, split carriage springs, and heavy track pins to feed into the fire.
To maintain their cover as honest blacksmiths from the northern river valleys, they needed more than forged papers; they needed the smell of hot sulfur on their aprons, blistered palms, and a steady inventory of horse nails, door hinges, and iron pry bars to sell to the tea
