On either side of the Blacksmiths are many smaller metal crates, each with wheels on the bottom and straps at their sides.
As I pass by the first of them, I see that it’s empty.
We hurry to the far table, where Braddock stands at the farthest end. Tools are set up at intervals along the table—a chisel and hammer, along with a clamping device that appears to be attached to the table.
Many of the other human men have already taken up position at the tables and the remainder hurry to do so.
Nero follows the last human into the room but remains at the door. “All miners are accounted for, Lord Copperstream,” he calls.
The shortest Blacksmith standing in the middle of the three gives a sneer, his hand resting down on his hammer. “Then get the fuck to work already.”
He must be Cohen. Father to Landon. Brother to Deron.
Thoren and I will need to be particularly careful around him.
Nero reaches for the door, sealing it shut with aclang.
We’re dropped into near-darkness, the only light coming from several small openings in the roof.
“Get to work!” Nero bellows.
Braddock casts me a glance, murmuring, “Do what I do.”
That’s all he says as he steps away from the table toward the nearest crate at the end of the room, reaching in to pull out a misshapen, gray stone, which he carries back to his place at the table.
Thoren and I do the same while the men farther along the table shuffle past us, each choosing a stone one by one.
I watch Braddock carefully, mimicking his actions when he clamps the stone to the table and starts chipping away at the outside of it.
The purpose of our actions becomes clear when he chips away a piece to reveal the bright coal hidden beneath it.
The surface sparks at the next impact of his chisel.
A flash of heat.
A spark of flame.
Fuck!I fight my instinct to leap away from it.
No wonder these men all have burn scars.
I quickly roll up my sleeves in case the material catches fire. It certainly explains why Braddock was removing his bandages.
Along the table, small pinpricks of light illuminate the workers’ faces until there’s a haze of crimson throughout the room.
We work for hours, chipping the stone away from around the coal, using tongs to carry the clean chunks up to the empty crates near the Blacksmiths.
They patrol around us and, given the cruel expression on Cohen’s face and the way his metal swirls across his powered hand, I expect violence at any moment.
But it seems that the Blacksmiths respect the coal’s volatility and don’t get too close to us.
Thoren is quick to clean multiple pieces, but when I follow him up to the crates with my own clean piece—a moment when all three Blacksmiths are at the other end of the room—Nero grabs his arm.
“You’re working too fast, Boy,” he mutters beneath his breath, his demeanor not as hostile as it was before. “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”
Thoren narrows his eyes. “Why would you warn me?”
Nero’s expression gives nothing away. “Because my daughter told me what you did for her last night and?—”
