King and Ignis emerged from the arena still sweaty, red dust clinging to their skin and scales, the roar of the crowd fading into the distance as an echo. The prize—a leather pouch filled with copper and silver coins—jingled on Ignis's belt as they walked through the wide streets of the capital. The sun was already setting on the horizon, tinging the sandstone towers with a blood-orange hue.
They stopped at the Old Blacksmith's tent, an open shed with a roaring furnace in the background and anvils lined up like soldiers. The blacksmith—beard as white as flour, arms covered in old burns—was hammering a curved blade, the clangor rhythmic like an iron heart. He looked up when the two stopped at the entrance, hammer still in hand.
"Goliath and dragonate..." he said, stating the facts without asking. "Want work?"
King crossed his arms, his chest still heaving from the fight.
"Work, yes." Hammer. Break. Whatever you need. Payment in silver.
The blacksmith measured the goliath from head to toe, then looked at Ignis.
"My furnace doesn't like fake fire." He pointed his chin at her scales. "Do you burn or just smoke?"
Ignis opened her hand. A thin, orange-red flame danced between her fingers—hot enough to make the air tremble, but controlled, as if she were holding an old candle.
"It burns. But I control it." She closed her hand, the flame fading without leaving smoke. "I also tell bad jokes for a pound of steel, if the price is good."
The blacksmith snorted—was it laughter, or perhaps spit. Hard to tell.
"Tomorrow, six o'clock. You light it, dredger. If the joke is good, you get extra. Goliath, you hammer." He pointed to a large anvil in the corner, marked by thousands of blows. "If you break my anvil, you pay double." King nodded, looking at the pile of raw iron beside the forge.
"I don't need a new blade. My fists are enough." He opened and closed his enormous hands, his knuckles cracking like rolling stones. "But if you have good iron to reinforce gauntlets… or to make something that can hold my weight… I'll hammer all day."
The blacksmith raised a white eyebrow.
"Fists, huh?" He stepped forward, grabbed a pair of old, reinforced iron gauntlets from the shelf, and tossed them to King. "Test these. If they can withstand your punch without denting, they're yours. If they dent… you fix them tomorrow."
King caught the gauntlets in mid-air. They were heavy, with thick rivets and plates covering the knuckles. He tightened his grip, tested the fit. Then, without warning, he punched the stone wall of the shed—a short, dry blow, without full force.
A crack echoed. The wall fell. And the gauntlet didn't even deform.
The blacksmith laughed genuinely this time.
"Good. Tomorrow, six o'clock. Bring hunger. And bring silence until I tell you to speak."
Ignis gave King a light tap on the shoulder—the heat of the scales left a subtle red mark on his gray skin.
"Fists are enough, huh?" she murmured, smiling crookedly. "At least until you decide you need a new anvil."
King tucked the gauntlets into his belt.
"If you need them, I'll make them. With a hammer or a punch."
They left the shed, the clang of the forge filling the air behind them once more.
The sun was setting over Quegoes, and the next day promised heat, iron, and the constant sound of hammer against metal.
They made their way back to the Iron Raven, without haste.
Tomorrow would be work.
Today was still rest—and the good feeling of knowing that, wherever they go, their fists (and their fire) always find a place.
The sun had barely risen when King and Ignis left the Iron Raven. The sky was still gray-blue, but the city was already waking up: carts creaking on the paving stones, blacksmiths hammering the first blows of the day, the smell of baking bread mixed with fresh coal. They walked silently through the streets that were beginning to fill, the dry air of Aloscalia clinging to their skin and scales.
They arrived at the Old Blacksmith's forge at exactly six o'clock. The door was open, the heat from the furnace already escaping like a warm breath. The old man stood there, his back to her, throwing coals onto the embers with a long iron shovel. He didn't even turn around when they entered.
"—Punctual. Good." His voice was rough as sandpaper. "—Drag, light it. No smoke. No theatrics. Just constant heat, 1200 degrees, in the forging zone. If it goes beyond that, it melts the steel before I can shape it."
Ignis went to the furnace without hesitation. She extended her hands, palms up. A flame was born between her fingers—not wild orange, but a deep, almost metallic copper, with greenish edges that trembled like dawn. The fire spread, engulfed the coal, and the temperature rose quickly and cleanly. The old man tested it with a piece of iron that began to glow pale yellow in seconds.
"—Perfect," he murmured, almost reluctantly. "Now keep it like this. If it falls or rises, I'll feel it."
King was already at the larger anvil. A pile of raw iron awaited: thick bars, scrap metal from broken weapons, pieces of old armor. The blacksmith threw a bar in front of him.
"Hammer it until it's thin and straight. Then we bend it. No rush, but no stopping. If you get tired, let me know. I don't want an anvil cracked by laziness."
King picked up the hammer—heavy, double-headed, handle reinforced with braided leather. He raised it and delivered the first blow. The clang was deep, echoing through the shed. Sparks flew like shooting stars. He hit it again. And again. Steady rhythm, controlled brute force. Each blow made the iron groan and yield, stretching slowly under Ignis's heat.
The old man watched the two. He didn't speak much, only correcting with short gestures: "Slower there," "Hotter on the edge," "Don't crush, mold." But their rhythm was good. Ignis kept the flame steady, adjusting the intensity with micro-movements of her hands—a touch of her finger to raise the temperature, a subtle closing to lower it. She didn't sweat; copper dragons don't sweat. Only the sheen of her scales grew more intense, like metal being forged.
After an hour, the old man stopped.
"Good. First batch ready." He picked up the bar King had hammered: now thin, straight, uniform. "You two work as if you've done this before."
Ignis smiled crookedly, the flame still dancing in her palms.
"I've seen forges when humans still used chipped stone." She winked. "And I've told bad jokes to blacksmiths who thought fire was just 'hot'."
The old man snorted.
"Save the joke for later. Now make ten more bars. Then lunch. Then bend them into hooks for carts. Real work begins when the sun is high."
King put down the hammer for a second, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.
"How long are we going to stay here?"
"Until I say it's over," the old man replied. "Or until you break something." He looked at the gauntlets King had used in the arena. "And these... held up well yesterday. If you want to reinforce them with better steel, do it yourself. Iron is iron. But good iron... that I'll provide."
Ignis extinguished the flame for a moment, just to rest his hands.
"Then let's make some good iron."
King picked up the hammer again.
The clangor began anew—hammer against iron, iron against anvil, flame against coal. A rhythm that wasn't music, but it was alive.
Outside, Quegoes went about its day: merchants shouting, children running, gamblers discussing the previous day's fights. Inside the forge, there was only heat, weight, and work.
And, for the first time in a long time, King and Ignis weren't running away from anything.
They were building something.
Even if it was just a straight iron bar.