The magical elevator opened, revealing a vast workshop illuminated by blazing furnaces. Hammer strikes echoed against the metal, and the air smelled of molten iron. A stout dwarf, with a braided beard adorned with runes, awaited them with a proud smile.
"Welcome to Kragmir's Forge. No blade in this world can match mine."
Tala stepped forward, her eyes shining like a child at a fair.
"Is that dwarven steel? Look at those temper lines, they're perfect! What blend do you use to keep the edge from breaking?"
The dwarf laughed with a booming sound that rattled the walls.
"Finally, someone who knows how to appreciate a weapon! Girl, this isn't common steel—it's Obsidian Mithril, reinforced with runic fire. Forged over seven moons without rest."
Zela unsheathed one of the displayed swords. Its weight made her smile with satisfaction.
"This cuts like it's part of my arm… I've never felt such perfect balance."
