The forge gave a steady, punishing rhythm.
Each strike of Quinlan's hammer sent a ring through the air and a tremor through the chestplate on the anvil.
Kaelira's blows answered him, precise and measured, shaping metal that wanted to tear itself apart under the strain of their combined mana. Sparks hit their arms. Sweat ran down their bodies.
Quinlan handled the enchantment. Kaelira handled the metal.
He poured fire into the sigils while she drove the hammer where the weave needed pressure.
The work required a balance between force and finesse. Too much mana and the veins in the armor would collapse. Too little, and it would never hold its shape under attack. They traded quiet warnings and single-word corrections between breaths, then sank back into the cadence.
Rykar watched from a shaded corner with his arms folded. Yet, on his face, the biggest, proudest of smiles could be seen. At least, as long as no one watched.
