The contract sat on the anvil, a rectangle of pristine white paper in a world of soot and scorched iron.
Anya ran her fingers along its edge. It was cool and smooth.
This is it. The line between scraping by and actually living.
Across from her, Tomas, the lead smith of the Ironvine Collective, shifted his weight. His massive arms were crossed, his brow furrowed. The four other smiths stood behind him, a silent wall of nervous hope.
"The city's offer is an insult," Anya said, her voice clear and steady. She tapped the clause she'd circled in red. "They want lamp-post brackets at a per-unit price that doesn't even cover your coal. Let alone your time."
Tomas grunted. "Told them that. The foreman just shrugged. Said there's a dozen other forges who'd take the work."
"He's lying." Anya smiled—a small, sharp thing. She pulled a folded sheet from her own satchel. "The city's own public works report shows a forty percent increase in decorative ironwork requests. The central forges are swamped. They're desperate for subcontractors."
She handed him the sheet.
Tomas's eyes widened as he scanned the numbers. "How'd you get this?"
"A friend in the records department believes in unions," Anya said with a wink. And owes me a favor for helping her sister's bakery. "Solidarity isn't just a word, Tomas. It's a network. It's knowing you're not alone in this fight."
---
The air in the forge was thick with coal dust and the heat of the iron itself. It smelled of honest sweat and the sharp tang of quenching oil.
Anya breathed it in. The smell of foundation—of real work.
She watched Tomas look from the city's lowball contract to her own counter-proposal. His callused fingers, stained dark with soot, traced the new number she had written.
A living wage. Plus a materials surcharge tied to market price.
"They'll never accept this," he murmured, but a new light kindled in his eyes.
"They will," Anya said. She was a rising organizer for the Amalgamated Guild—the city's last independent union, and the only thing standing between workers like these and complete corporate control. "Because you're not just selling brackets. You're selling quality. You're selling reliability. Your collective has never missed a deadline. Your ironwork doesn't crack in the first frost."
She leaned forward, placing her hands flat on the anvil. It was still warm from the morning's work.
"A contract isn't just paper." Her voice carried through the heat. She met each of their gazes in turn. "It's a promise with weight—the city's vow to pay you fairly, your vow to do the work. Their promise is feather-light. Ours will be solid iron."
Like the promise no one made to my father. The thought was a cold shard in her chest. She pushed it down.
This was how you fought that memory. One good contract at a time.
---
Two hours later, it was done.
The city foreman, a harried man named Evard, had blustered. He'd threatened. But Anya had been a rock. She cited her reports. She highlighted the collective's flawless record.
Most of all, she presented a united front. Five smiths, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, silent and firm.
Evard had finally sighed, scrawled his signature, and stomped off.
The moment he was gone, the tension shattered.
A laugh burst from Tomas, deep and relieved. One of the younger smiths, Elara, whooped. The sound echoed in the high-ceilinged forge.
This. This is the sound of winning.
Tomas turned to Anya, his broad face split by a grin. He extended his hand.
"We did it, Anya. By the forge, we actually did it."
She took his hand. His grip was strong, his palm a landscape of rough calluses and old burns.
The texture of real labor. The texture her father's hands had lost.
Anya's father's last handshake had been different. His fingers had trembled—not from age, but from the nerve damage. The factory had called it "acceptable industrial wear." They'd offered him a pension calculated by their efficiency metrics: three copper pieces per year of service.
He'd taken the deal because he had no choice. Two months later, he couldn't hold a spoon.
She'd held his hand at the end. It had felt like paper. Like something that had already left.
"You did it," she corrected Tomas gently, her own smile feeling real for the first time all day. "I just held the door open."
She folded her copy of the contract and slipped it into her satchel. It felt substantial. Important.
This is how we build. Not with grand gestures, but with fair deals and strong hands.
---
Stepping out of the Ironvine workshop, the cacophony of the Ironworks District washed over her. The rhythmic ring of a hundred hammers. The hiss of steam. The rumble of coal carts on cobblestones.
The air was hazy with smoke, the morning sun cutting through it in dull golden shafts.
Anya took a deep, satisfied breath.
One good thing. One solid foundation laid.
Her thoughts drifted to the bigger picture. The Amalgamated Guild was growing, but a tension was growing with it. A different philosophy, one that spoke of efficiency and centralization.
Gareth's voice echoed in her memory. "Sentiment doesn't pay the bills, Anya."
She shook her head, as if to dislodge it.
Today proves otherwise.
Her next stop was across the district. The Clay and Craft Collective. A group of potters she'd been helping to organize. They were her passion project. The living proof that her way worked.
If the Ironvine smiths were about sturdy strength, the potters were about nurturing fragile, beautiful potential.
She began weaving her way through the crowded streets, her satchel bumping against her hip. The weight of the contract inside was a comforting anchor.
Just wait until I tell Leo about this. He'll—
A sharp crack split the air.
It wasn't the sound of a hammer. It was deeper. Heavier.
A plume of black smoke, thick and oily, began to rise from the direction of the artisan's quarter.
From the exact direction of the Clay and Craft Collective.
Anya's blood ran cold. Her satisfaction vanished, replaced by a spike of pure dread.
Her comfortable, paper-weighted world tilted on its axis.
The forge of the city had just gotten much, much hotter.