Clang. Clang. c***k.
The rhythm of the forge shattered. Balthazar gritted his teeth and stared at the ruined iron resting on his anvil. The broadsword had fractured straight down the center line during the final cooling phase. He dropped his hammer and picked up the jagged metal with thick leather gloves. He tossed the useless blade into a massive scrap pile in the corner of his workshop. The pile was a rusting monument to the failures of the crown.
Coppervein Ward was a prison of endless heat and impossible demands. For three decades Balthazar had worked with the cheap brittle ore supplied by King Oric. The royal quartermasters demanded pristine weapons for their guards but they refused to pay for proper coal or pure iron. They expected masterpieces forged from dirt. The resulting metal
