The anvil rang once, cracking the whole world cleanly down the middle like a badly poured weld. Ferra felt the hook in her gut before she felt the floor, set deep and hauled hard.
'Cold. Everything here is cold, where did my heat go?'
She landed on her feet with the hammer raised, soot streaking her face, ember-red hair crackling like kindling. Lantern light and a cold draft stung her skin, the quiet far too empty after her roaring forge.
'No fire. No bellows. Where the hell did they put my forge?'
Her eyes swept the great hall, a long table, three women, a fluffy white lump chewing a slipper. At the center stood a skinny boy with a bloody nose and a battered belt crowded with junk.
"You," Ferra said, leveling the hammer at his chest, "what is that thing at your hip?"
The boy glanced at the pry bar hooked on his belt, "This is the Breaker's Lever, it opens armor, doors, the ground, whatever I need."
"It's a crowbar."
