Fire and the anvil
In a bazaar workshop, a blacksmith still makes every tool he sells.
The forge is a bed of coals the size of a dinner plate, kept alive by a hand-cranked blower. It's enough to bring a bar of iron to a bright orange in under a minute.
He works sitting down, the anvil set low into the floor, the way his father did. Most of what he makes is for other trades - chisels for the stone carvers, hooks for the butchers, hinges for anyone.
Iron tells you when it's had enough. It goes quiet under the hammer.
Hot and cold
The skill is in the timing. Strike too early and the iron won't move; strike too late and it cracks. Between heats he quenches the tongs in a bucket and watches the bar change colour.
