Another clang. Hammer against glowing iron. Tarhuntal could smell the sparks flying before he came around the corner into the workshop. The glow of the Forge dyed the cobblestone walls dull orange. Smoke clogged the air with a haze that still made him squint after so many years.


    He placed his hands on his girded hips. She raised the hammer again, slamming it down with finality. A hiss emanated from her hunched over form, short hair black as coal swaying as she glanced over her shoulder. One gleaming blue eye narrowed at him, her pupil sharp as a crescent moon.


    The sinews in her scarred shoulder tensed as she wiped the corner of her mouth with it. It was rare for her to wear anything that let those scars show. But by the heat of the Forge, it must’ve been a need. How that worked didn’t make much sense. Not for something like her, anyway.


    “Chimaera,” Tarhuntal said, pointing. “What in Kur is that?”


    Her nose wrinkled with a snarl. “I’m here for your Forges, Tar. Not your questions.”


    Tarhunt raised an eyebrow, folding his arms, the scales of iron that coated his vambraces shimmering in the Forge’s light.


    He narrowed his eyes at the weapon laying across her anvil. The shaft was black-iron, its pommel still aglow from the forge. Or her. He couldn’t tell. But it was the head of the spear that made him stare. A long blade the colour of a purple dusk sky standing between three dark horns curling towards it. Like the horns of a ram.


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    “I’ve never seen anything like it.”


    She sniffed, flicking her hair from her face. “Me neither.”


    “I didn’t mean that in a good way.”


    “Me neither.”


    “Then what’s with the smile?”


    She glanced over her shoulder, the scarred corner of her mouth twitching as the other corner smirked.


    “It’s a gift.”


    “Like the one you took to Blacalorse?”


    She rolled her shoulders back, the dark leather of her tunic tightening. “There are new fires being stoked in this place, Tar. Can’t help it if I’m the one making the fans.”


    Well, that was a lie. When people let the world burn, they were rarely the ones sad about it.


    “Where are you taking it?” Tarhunt asked. “Don’t tell me Whicalorse. Or… Whetalon?”


    She stayed quiet, flipping the hammer over in her hand. The red gem encrusted in the side of the hammer’s head cast a sparkle to the room as the Forge’s light caught it.


    Thirteen years. Just under a tenth of his lifespan he’d known the girl for. And she was still as decipherable as Aschythy runes.


    “When we light those fires, Chimaera,” Tar said, taking off his helmet and combing his fingers through thick hair, “we light a memory. Oaths sworn by our forefathers and by us.”


    Chimaera slowly nodded. “It’s a good thing I light them myself.”


    “Who lights them and how is irrelevant,” Tar said, tightening his fingers around his helmet. “Whether or not you can spit fire doesn’t change the Forge. A Chthonic always uses the Forge in servitude to the gods and the people.”


    She chuckled, raising the hammer again. “Then I’m certainly no Chthonic.”