The second chamber of Elyon's smithy was like stepping into a contradiction, a very serious contradiction.
Azel paused on the threshold, his senses jolted the moment the door creaked open.
The air clung with a strange chill, which was normal since the first time he had come here, it was very cold yet his lungs burned with heat as if he'd stepped too close to a forge.
Frost spread like veins across the floor, but sweat beaded on his brow within seconds.
It was like the room couldn't decide what it wanted to be — a tundra, or the heart of a volcano.
His crimson eyes scanned the clutter, his instincts ticking.
A dozen tables littered the space, stacked with Elyon's works-in-progress.
Swords, spears, and axes — none of them masterpieces, not yet.
They bore uneven seams where monster bones had been force-fused with iron, or jagged edges that pulsed with faint, unstable magic.
What had he even been doing?
