The forge did not sing; it vomited.
Deep within the subterranean belly of the rogue fortress, the blacksmith’s vault was an inferno of choked coal-dust, unrendered sheep-tallow, and the toxic, yellow sulfur-static of the low-tier furnace.
The walls were black, weeping grease that turned to a hard, glossy lacquer under the intense, orange glare of the melting pots. Outside, the solstice blizzard had reached its absolute, screaming crescendo, burying the mountain paths in twelve feet of blind white drift. But down here, the heat was a physical blow, a heavy, wet blanket that smelled of burning scale and raw iron.
Selene sat motionless on a low, unworked stone anvil in the center of the vault.
Her gray wool tunic had been stripped to her shoulders, leaving her collarbones bare and white
