Grabbing a glowing-hot iron bar from the forge with a pair of tongs, Lilian slammed it down onto the anvil with a grunt.
"There. Your stupid ore."
She stepped back, wiping sweat off her brow.
Sylvia didn't even flinch. She gripped the hammer in her only hand, eyes closed, murmuring in thick Dwarvish under her breath.
"Drah'mek Varn. Nuthul Dor."
("Shape the will. Breathe the fire.")
A heavy silence followed—then she struck.
CLANG.
The first hit sent golden pixelated sparks into the air, as if the forge itself had swallowed a bit of magic. Instead of flattening, the iron cracked apart—splintering into fragments with each blow, as if surrendering to her will.
She didn't stop. Each strike was harder and sharper. Her shoulder tensed, her chest heaving, a single bead of sweat trailing down her neck, slipping between her cleavage before sizzling against the heat-glowing mold.
Then it began: the real show.
