Smoke curled from its chimney in steady plumes, and the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel had returned to Winter Town like an old song. For the first time in years, the forge was alive not just with fire, but with purpose.
Vulcan stood at the anvil, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hammering out a bent sword brought in by one of the town guards. The blade had belonged to Ser Jorren, a grizzled veteran who'd once trained alongside Vulcan's old master. The man had come in with mist in his eyes and a voice thick with memory.
"Didn't think I'd see this place lit again," Jorren had said, laying the sword on the counter. "He'd be proud, lad. Damn proud."
Vulcan had only nodded, then set to work.
But the truth was, most of his days weren't spent on swords. Not yet. He was forging nails, hinges, door latches whatever the townsfolk needed. It wasn't glorious, but it paid. And he needed coin. Every silver stag counted. He had plans: to hire climbers to scour the deeper mountain veins, to find untouched iron, maybe even drag back something older, something forgotten.
The personal projects the ones that stirred his blood would have to wait.
Later That Afternoon
The forge was quiet, save for the low hiss of cooling metal. Vulcan sat behind the counter, hunched over his sketchbook. His fingers were blackened with soot, but his lines were clean, precise. He was mapping out a new runic array something delicate, something powerful. A system of heat and flow, of balance and containment. It was meant for something greater than nails and hinges.
The bell above the door jingled.
He didn't look up at first, lost in the curve of a spiral rune. Only when he heard the shuffle of boots and the low murmur of voices did he glance up.
Three men stood in the shop, all broad-shouldered and sun-worn. Builders, by the look of them. One stepped forward, a man with a thick beard and a crooked nose that had been broken more than once.
"Name's Halder," he said. "We're fixing up some houses down by the river bend. Heard you've got the best nails in town."
Vulcan set his quill down. "That's true," he said. "What do you need?"
Halder listed off a dozen items hinges, brackets, iron rods, roofing nails. Vulcan moved through the shop, gathering the supplies with practiced ease. The other two men browsed the shelves, murmuring over the tools and admiring the craftsmanship.
"You make all this yourself?" one asked, holding up a set of ornate drawer handles.
Vulcan nodded. "Every piece."
Halder chuckled. "Didn't think a man your size could make something so fine. Thought you'd be hammering warhammers, not window latches."
"I make what's needed," Vulcan said. "For now."
They paid in silver and copper, no haggling. As they left, Halder paused at the door.
"Glad to see this place open again," he said. "Your master was a good man. You do him proud."
Vulcan watched them go, then returned to his sketchbook. The rune he'd been working on stared back at him, half-finished. He dipped his quill and began again, the lines flowing smoother now.
The Ember Forge was no longer just a memory. It was a living thing. And soon, it would be more.