Ferra's hammer was jammed through the iron handles of the mine door, barring it from the inside.
"If you walk in before I call, I will melt you into a doorstop," she shouted through the wood.
Hajin raised both hands to the shut door, "I only came to ask if you wanted breakfast, Anvil."
"I want you inside, holding the trough, quiet as a rock."
He stepped in, wincing at the sight of her hands, wrapped in rags gone brown at the knuckles. "You've been at this all night, Anvil, you're bleeding through the cloth."
"They're hands, they heal," she said, tossing him a leather apron, "you're the one who has to hold still."
The bar scraped free and the door swung wide, a wall of orange heat rolling over him. Behind her the forge roared white-gold, the N above the lintel glowing like a patient, ancient eye.
"Shut the door, you're letting the cold in," Ferra snapped, already turning back to the anvil.
