The break timer bled out. My left hand had fused to the tongs; my palm felt like wet rope left in winter. The billet sat on the anvil like a hot heart that didn't trust me—and I didn't blame it.
[Heat 2: Begin.]
[Absolute Regeneration: OFF.]
[Constraint: Maintain contact with billet. Dropping = fail.]
The floor-light swelled. Smelt Sight slid over my eyes—hairline impurities, stress rings, all the quiet little lies metal tells right before it snaps.
"Pretty first," I whispered. "Murder later."
The anvil hit that tooth-ache note. A ghost blueprint floated a finger above the billet: long knife: balanced.
They didn't make me wait.
Shadows unhooked themselves from the other anvils—too tall, wrong angles, reed plates clacking like the swamp had joined a drumline.
"Cute," I said, voice thinner than I wanted. "Back for extra credit."
