"Hey little brat! How about showing a little more concentration here!"
The gruff voice cut through the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal, causing me to pause mid-swing. I turned my head toward old Henrik, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The forge's heat made the air shimmer, and the acrid smell of burning coal mixed with heated iron filled my nostrils.
Henrik stood hunched over his own anvil, his weathered hands still surprisingly steady as he worked. The village's only blacksmith had seen better days—his once-broad shoulders now curved with age, and deep lines etched his face like the grain in old oak. Yet his eyes still burned with the same fierce intensity I'd known since childhood, and his voice could still boom across the workshop loud enough to wake the dead.
