Kaelira's workshop stood behind the main house, in the new shadow of the trunk, and the forge inside it was already lit when Quinlan came through the door.
He had guessed it would be. The shy elf fled to her anvil the way other people fled to bed, and the house behind him was full of screaming brides.
She stood at the bench with her sleeves rolled past the elbow and her dark blue bob tied back, laying out stock in a row.
Pale gold, then silver, then a coil of mithril drawing-wire beside a rod of orichalcum. At the end of the row sat a raw adamantite core the size of her fist, drinking the forge-light and giving nothing back.
The deep metals had come up from the mountain at his word. Brokk, First Hammer of the royal smithy, had emptied the crown's rack onto an elf's bench.
Kaelira did not look up. "How many?"
Quinlan grinned.
"Let's make twelve."
The Runeweaver Titan's hands stopped on the adamantite core.
