The rhythmic clanging of hammer on anvil grew louder as Mikhail and Anora approached Thorgar's forge. The sound echoed off the weathered stone buildings, a steady heartbeat in the bustling Artisan's Quarter. Heat radiated from the open doorway, carrying with it the sharp tang of hot metal and coal smoke.

  Inside, the forge's warm glow cast dancing shadows on the walls. Through the shimmer of heated air, they saw a stocky figure hammering at an anvil. The dwarf's powerful arms rose and fell in a practiced rhythm, each strike sending sparks cascading through the air like golden rain. His thick black beard, streaked with gray and secured with iron rings, swayed with each movement.

  Mikhail cleared his throat, his fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of his tunic as he watched the dwarf work. "Master Thorgar?"

  The hammering continued unabated, each strike echoing through the forge like thunder. The dwarf's powerful arms rose and fell in perfect rhythm, his concentration absolute as he shaped the glowing metal before him. Sweat gleamed on his bare shoulders, each movement speaking of decades of mastery at his craft.

  Anora pressed closer to Mikhail's side, her orange eyes wide as she watched the display of power and precision that Thorgar exacted on the pieces of metal he was hammering. Her small hand found his, squeezing gently as if sensing his growing nervousness.

  "Master Thorgar, if I could just-" Mikhail tried again, his voice cracking slightly.

  The dwarf responded by hammering even louder, each strike deliberately drowning out Mikhail's words. Finally, with a grunt of clear annoyance, he plunged the worked metal into a nearby quenching barrel. Steam exploded upward in a thick, angry cloud as he turned to face them, his dark eyes burning beneath brows as thick and wild as storm clouds.

  "What is it boy?" he barked, his voice rough as unworked iron. His gaze swept over them both like a physical force, lingering first on Mikhail's height - too tall for a proper forge, his expression seemed to say - then on Anora's green skin. His thick fingers tightened around his hammer's handle until his knuckles whitened. "Can't you see I'm working here?"

  Mikhail swallowed hard but stood his ground. "I'm seeking work," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite his racing heart. "I have training as a blacksmith. My father-"

  "Bah!" Thorgar cut him off with a disgusted wave of his hammer. "Don't care about your father, boy. Don't care about you neither. Got enough work of my own without some human fumbling around my forge." He turned back toward his anvil, clearly dismissing them.

  "Please," Mikhail pressed, taking a step forward. His voice cracked slightly, but determination blazed in his eyes. "Just give me a chance to prove myself. One chance - that's all I ask. Eliath said you might-"

  "Eliath?" Thorgar spun back around, his beard bristling. "Bah! What does that knife-ear know about forge work? Probably sent you here as a jest." His dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "Get out of my forge, boy. The both of ya!"

  "No!, Not until you've seen what I can do," Mikhail said firmly, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides. "I need work, Master Thorgar. And I'm not leaving until you give me a chance to earn it."

  The dwarf stared at him for a long moment, his expression thunderous but somewhat impressed at the young man's resolve. Both of the men seemed to be searching for a weakness in each other's resolve. Finally, he gestured toward a nearby anvil with various tools laid out beside it. "Fine," he growled, though the word sounded like it had been dragged unwillingly from his throat. "Show me. But waste my time, boy, and you'll wish you'd never darkened my doorway." he said pointing a short, thick finger at Mikhail.

  Mikhail hesitated for a moment, then moved toward the indicated workspace. Behind him, he heard Thorgar mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "stubborn fool" in Dwarvish. But he had his chance - now he just had to prove himself worthy of it.

  Anora started to follow, but Thorgar's voice stopped her. "Not you, lass. Stay back there where it's safer." His tone, though gruff, held no malice. "Don't need you getting burned by stray sparks."

  Anora retreated to a wooden bench near the entrance, her small hands clasped in her lap as she watched Mikhail approach the anvil. The morning light streaming through the doorway caught her red curls, setting them ablaze with golden highlights.

  Mikhail surveyed the tools before him - hammer, tongs, various punches and chisels. All were well-worn but meticulously maintained, their handles smoothed by years of use. He picked up the hammer, testing its weight and balance. It was heavier than what he was used to, but not uncomfortably so.

  "Make something," Thorgar commanded, crossing his muscled arms across his broad chest. "Anything you like. But make it well."

  Mikhail nodded, his mind already racing through possibilities. He needed to choose something that would demonstrate his skills without taking too long. His eyes fell on a pile of iron stock in the corner, and inspiration struck.

  The forge's heat wrapped around him like a thick blanket as Mikhail selected his material.He placed the piece of Iron stock into the coals and began to work the bellow. Heating the metal until it glowed a bright orange and was malleable. He pulled the metal from the coals and placed it upon the anvil before him. As he lifted the hammer, his father's voice echoed in his memory, warm and steady: "Let the metal speak to you, son. Each piece has a song - you just need to learn how to listen."

  As he began to work, he felt Thorgar's critical gaze following his every movement. The dwarf's presence was like a physical weight, but Mikhail forced himself to focus solely on the task at hand.

  The first strike rang true against the heated iron, sending sparks dancing through the air like fireflies. His father's lessons flowed through him with each blow: "That's it - feel the rhythm. The hammer's not just a tool, it's an extension of your arm, your will. Much like a spear or sword." Mikhail could almost smell the familiar smoke of his father's forge in Aldernhor, could almost see the pride in the older man's eyes as he shaped the metal before him.

  "Watch your edges," his father's voice whispered in his mind as he returned the piece to the flames. "The fire's not your enemy - it's your partner in this dance. Too hot and you’ll ruin the metal, too cold and you can’t forge what the piece wishes to be.” The familiar motions of the craft - heating, hammering, shaping - began to calm his racing heart. Each movement felt like coming home, like speaking a language his hands had never forgotten.

  The metal glowed like captured sunlight as he worked it, his confidence growing with every strike. "Let your heart guide your hands son," his father had always said. "The best pieces aren't just shaped by skill - they're shaped by love." Sweat trickled down his back, but he barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of creation.

  He remembered countless hours spent in his father's forge, learning every subtle nuance of the craft. "Patience, Mikhail. Good work can't be rushed." The words came back to him as he carefully monitored the metal's color, waiting for just the right moment to strike. "That's what separates a novice from a smith - knowing when to wait."

  Thorgar observed silently, his dark eyes missing nothing as Mikhail shaped the glowing metal with increasingly precise strokes. The rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil filled the workshop with its song, each note clear and purposeful. If he noticed how Mikhail's lips moved occasionally, forming silent words as if speaking to an unseen mentor, he gave no sign.

  "Remember," his father's voice guided him through each careful adjustment, "every piece tells a story. Make sure yours is worth telling." The metal took shape beneath his hands, transforming from simple stock into something with purpose and grace. Years of lessons, of triumphs and failures, of patient guidance and hard-earned wisdom, all flowed through him into this moment, this creation.

  From her seat by the door, Anora watched in fascination as Mikhail worked. She had never seen him practice his craft before, well she had seen him perform one of his crafts with his spear and he seemed to prove very proficient in that. Sometimes cold blooded, but to her the world had been cold blooded. The sight of him moving with such purpose and precision stirred something within her. His face was set in concentration, his blue eyes intense as he shaped the glowing metal before him. It was something about him that she had started to notice. From fighting and killing to now working metal, if Mikhail set his mind on something then he set it wholly on that and nothing would move him from that task.

  The forge's heat cast a sheen of sweat across Mikhail's brow as he worked the metal with steady, purposeful strokes. Each ring of hammer on anvil echoed through the workshop, blending with the crackling of the forge and the distant sounds of the city beyond the doorway.

  Thorgar watched in silence, his dark eyes missing nothing. The dwarf's thick fingers absently stroked his iron-ringed beard as Mikhail shaped the glowing metal, turning it from shapeless stock into something with purpose and form. When Mikhail paused to check his work, Thorgar's grunt of acknowledgment was barely audible over the forge's roar.

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  The dancing flames cast Mikhail in an otherworldly light, his movements graceful despite the demanding nature of the work. His muscles flexed beneath his tunic with each strike, and something stirred in Anora’s chest at the sight. The raw power of his craft combined with the delicate precision of his touches reminded her of the duality she'd come to love in him, strength tempered by gentleness.

  "Hmmph," Thorgar's voice cut through Mikhail's concentration. "Your heating's uneven lad. Watch your edges."

  Mikhail nodded without looking up, adjusting his technique. The dwarf's criticism was accurate - he'd been letting the metal cool too much on one side. He returned the piece to the coals, carefully monitoring its color as it heated.

  When he withdrew it again, the metal glowed a uniform orange-yellow. Mikhail returned to the anvil, his strikes more measured now, more precise. Each blow of the hammer drew the metal out exactly as he intended, the shape emerging with growing clarity.

  "Better," Thorgar muttered, moving closer to observe. "But mind your angle. You're striking too flat."

  The dwarf's presence was intimidating, but Mikhail forced himself to focus solely on his work. The metal slowly took shape beneath his hammer - curved here, tapered there, each detail carefully considered and executed. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn't pause to wipe it away.

  Anora leaned forward on her bench, her orange eyes bright with curiosity. She could sense something was taking form, though she couldn't quite make out what it was meant to be. The methodical rhythm of Mikhail's hammering had become almost hypnotic, and she found herself swaying slightly in time with each strike.

  As Mikhail worked, he became aware of other sounds filtering in from outside - the calls of merchants from their stalls, the laughter of children on their way to lessons, the general bustle of Cedarcrest now fully awake. But within the forge, time seemed to move differently, marked only by the steady beat of hammer on metal and the constant roar of the flames.

  Finally, Mikhail stepped back from the anvil, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. The piece before him was complete - a delicate yet sturdy flower, its petals curved and layered as if caught in a gentle breeze. The stem twisted gracefully, ending in a small leaf that seemed almost too delicate to have been crafted from iron.

  Thorgar moved forward, lifting the piece with calloused fingers. He turned it over, examining every detail with a critical eye. His expression remained unchanged, but something flickered in his dark eyes as he studied the workmanship.

  "A flower?" he asked gruffly, though there was a note of curiosity in his voice.

  "Yes," Mikhail answered, trying to keep his voice steady despite his racing heart. "My father always said the true test of a smith isn't in making weapons or tools, but in creating beauty from unyielding metal."

  The dwarf's bushy eyebrows rose slightly at this, and his gaze shifted briefly to Anora before landing on Mikhail and then returning to the iron flower. His thick fingers traced each petal, testing the edges and joints with expert precision.

  Silence filled the forge as Thorgar continued his examination of the iron flower. The only sounds were the steady crackling of the forge fire and the occasional hiss of cooling metal. Shadows danced across the dwarf's weathered face as he turned the piece over and over, his dark eyes missing nothing.

  Anora held her breath, her small hands clasped tightly in her lap. The orange glow of the forge caught the freckles on her green skin, making them seem to shimmer like copper dust. She watched Mikhail's face, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his sides as he awaited judgment.

  Finally, Thorgar spoke, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Not bad. Not bad at all." He placed the flower carefully on a nearby workbench. "The petals show good control. Clean joints. Decent heat management, once you corrected yourself that is." His thick fingers traced one of the curved petals. "But the stem's proportion is off by a hair, and your hammer marks aren't quite as even as they could be."

  Mikhail nodded, accepting the criticism. Sweat still glistened on his brow, and his tunic clung to his back from the heat of the forge. "I can do better," he said firmly.

  The dwarf's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "Can you now?" He stroked his iron-ringed beard thoughtfully, then gestured toward the pile of raw materials. "Prove it. Make another, but this time, mind your proportions."

  Mikhail smiled, and without hesitation returned to the forge. The familiar heat embraced him as he selected another piece of iron stock. This time, his movements were more assured, more fluid. The lessons learned from his first attempt guided his hands as he worked the metal.

  Anora watched in fascination as a second flower began to take shape beneath Mikhail's hammer. This one seemed to flow more naturally, each petal and curve emerging with greater precision. The rhythmic striking of hammer on metal became almost musical, a song of creation that filled the workshop.

  As Mikhail worked, Thorgar moved to stand near Anora's bench. His presence was imposing, yet she felt no fear from him. Though barely taller than her, the dwarf radiated an ancient strength, like the mountains themselves given form. His thick beard, interwoven with iron rings that caught the forge light, swayed gently as he studied her.

  "You're different," he said quietly, his gravelly voice pitched low beneath the rhythmic hammering. "Not like the goblins I've seen in the mines. They've got a wildness about them, a darkness in their eyes." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But you... there's a light in you, lass."

  Anora's fingers twisted nervously in her lap, the fabric of her dress bunching beneath her small green hands. "I'm... half," she replied softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of Mikhail's work.

  "Got a name, lass?" Thorgar asked, his dark eyes still fixed on Mikhail's movements at the forge.

  "Anora," she answered, a note of pride creeping into her voice despite her nervousness. Her orange eyes lifted to meet his, bright with an inner fire that seemed to surprise the dwarf.

  "Anora?" Thorgar's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "Like the mountain pass?" When she nodded, he let out a low rumble of laughter. "Fitting, that. A passage between two worlds, joining what most think ought to stay separate." He gestured toward Mikhail with a thick finger. "Rather like you two."

  The dwarf grunted, a sound that might have been acknowledgment or simply thought. "He cares for you," he observed, nodding toward Mikhail. "Made that first flower for you, clear as day. Could see it in every stroke - the way he shaped each petal, like he was trying to capture something precious in iron and fire."

  Heat rose to Anora's cheeks, turning them a deeper shade of green. The freckles that dusted her skin seemed to glow in the forge light, like copper speckled through jade. "We care for each other," she whispered, her orange eyes shining with emotion as she watched Mikhail work.

  Thorgar's expression remained largely unreadable, but something softened almost imperceptibly in his dark eyes. “Aye lass, that I can see." The rings in his beard clinked softly as he shifted his weight. He watched Mikhail for several more moments before speaking again, his voice still low enough that only Anora could hear.

  "World's not kind to folk who're different," he said, and there was a weight to his words that spoke of personal experience. "Humans, especially, they fear what they don't understand. And dwarves..." he tugged at one of his beard rings, "well, we're not much better sometimes. Set in our ways like the stone we work."

  Anora inwardly scoffed at the fear part, especially with humans or other goblins. If fear is what they had exhibited towards her then it had been a very strange version. What had they had to fear from her?

  He turned to look at her fully then, and Anora saw centuries of dwarven wisdom in his gaze. "But sometimes different is exactly what's needed. Sometimes it takes a crack in the stone to let the light in." His weathered hand reached out, hesitated, then patted her shoulder gently. "Just remember, lass - the strongest metals are often those that have been mixed, forged together in the same fire."

  "Besides," he added, turning back to watch Mikhail's progress, "anyone who can make that boy work the metal like that is welcome in my forge. Haven't seen such natural talent since..." he trailed off, lost in some distant memory. "Well, it's been a long time."

  The second iron flower emerged from Mikhail's hammer with even greater grace than the first. Each petal flowed naturally into the next, the stem curved with perfect proportion, and the leaf caught an imaginary breeze with delicate precision. As he completed the final details, Mikhail felt rather than saw Thorgar approach the anvil.

  The dwarf lifted the second flower, comparing it side by side with the first. His thick fingers moved over each piece with expert precision, testing every joint and curve. The forge's light caught the metal, making both flowers gleam like captured flames.

  "Better," Thorgar declared finally. "Much better." He set both flowers down on the workbench, then turned to face Mikhail fully. "You've got skill, boy. Rough in places, needs refinement, but there's promise in ya."

  Mikhail stood straighter, hope rising in his chest. Sweat had soaked through his tunic, and his arms ached from the work, but none of that mattered now. He could feel Anora's presence behind him, and could almost sense her held breath.

  "Three silver a week," Thorgar said gruffly. "Work starts at dawn, ends at dusk. You'll learn proper dwarven smithing techniques, none of that human nonsense." He paused, his dark eyes meeting Mikhail's. "And the lass can stay, long as she keeps clear of the forge proper. Don't need the distraction of you worrying about her safety while you work."

  Relief and joy flooded through Mikhail. "Thank you, Master Thorgar. When do I start?"

  "Tomorrow," the dwarf replied. "But first..." He moved to a corner of the workshop, rummaging through a pile of what appeared to be discarded projects. After a moment, he returned with a small iron box, its surface covered in intricate geometric patterns. "Open it."

  Mikhail took the box carefully. It was heavier than it looked, and the patterns seemed to shift in the forge light. He found the catch on the side and pressed it. The lid sprang open with a soft click.

  Inside lay various tools - small hammers, punches, and chisels, each sized for precise detail work. All were made with obvious skill, though they showed signs of wear from years of use.

  "My first set of finishing tools," Thorgar explained, his voice gruff but tinged with something like nostalgia. "Made them myself when I was just starting out. They're yours now. Use them well."

  Mikhail stared at the tools, understanding the significance of such a gift. "I... thank you, Master Thorgar. I'll care for them as if they were my own father's."

  The dwarf waved away his thanks with a calloused hand. "Just don't make me regret this boy." He turned back to his own forge, effectively dismissing them. But as Mikhail and Anora headed for the door, his voice carried after them: "And boy? Keep that first flower. Give it to your lass. No sense letting good work go to waste."

  Mikhail smiled and stepped back to the anvil, grabbing the first iron flower he had made. He returned to Anora, offering it with gentle reverence. She accepted it gingerly, her small green fingers tracing the delicate petals as she marveled at its unexpected weight. A soft smile bloomed across her face like a sunrise as she studied the intricate details of his craftsmanship.

  Mikhail smiled, reaching out to tuck a stray red curl behind her pointed ear. "Not as beautiful as you," he replied softly.