The Palace Blacksmith Workshop was a cavernous space filled with the rhythmic clang of hammers and the roaring breath of the Great Forge. Heat radiated from the glowing coals in shimmering waves, making the air thick and tasting of charcoal and sulfur. Great plumes of orange sparks erupted every time a heavy mallet met white-hot iron, illuminating the soot-stained faces of the men who labored within. Constantine stood at a massive wooden drafting table in the center of the workshop, his eyes fixed on a large sheet of vellum. He looked out of place in his fine silk tunic amidst the grime, yet the authority he radiated was more stifling than the heat of the furnaces.
"The tension in this spring is insufficient, Master Berthold. If the torsion isn't increased by three degrees, the bolt will
