Arthur's voice rose, cutting through the noise like steel shearing against stone. "Now let me ask you all a question—every smith here, every master, apprentice, and journeyman alike. Why? Why do you place wrought iron into charcoal? Why do you spend days at this task, locked in smoke and ash, before ever taking up your hammer?"
The words struck the arena like a bell tolling at midnight.
Silence followed. Heavy, suffocating silence. It pressed down harder than the heat of a forge, thicker than the smoke that clung to their clothes. Masters with decades at the anvil shifted uneasily. Apprentices fidgeted, glancing to their betters for an answer. Even the most prideful smiths avoided Arthur's gaze, waiting for someone—anyone—to speak.
In this medieval like fantasy world, everyone knew why they did it. Or at least, they thought they knew.
