he anvil was a cool presence beneath my hand. I uttered a few quick words, and sprinkled a pinch of salt upon its surface, and the iron in it bound tightly to a charm of seasoning. It was an inconsequential enchantment, but it would serve to prime the metal as my father had instructed me.

I reached into a basket I had brought, and found the thick mixture of cured dragon meat. I had set it next to the forge to warm, and now I kneaded it. With greasy hands, I returned to the anvil, and traced the intricate symbols that would focus the energies of the first spell I intended to cast. For long minutes I did this, and as my hands cooled against the the dark metal, the grease coating them began to congeal. I sang the rhyme of the spell, and sat back to concentrate and recall the next enchantment.

A few deep breaths, and I began again. “Avenal, Avenal, Parsela, Flam,” were words of protection, and I repeated them like a prayer. I scooped handfuls of white powdered saleratus and spread it upon my arms. That done, I returned my hands to the basket.

Goran stood by, motionless. With his frown and crossed arms, he was the embodiment of disbelief.

I took a ball of the cured meat and slapped it onto the anvil.

“I hope you plan to clean that up,” said Goran.

I looked up at him, but I was in the thrall of multiple intertwining rituals. I re-focused on my work. I opened a vial of conjurer’s oil and poured it onto the anvil.

“Fire to the fire breather,
Flame to that which does not burn,
Alight, imbue, and heat in turn”

And I slammed my striker onto the anvil, sparking the oil, and setting the anvil ablaze. I reached into the flame, knowing that the coating on my hands and arms protected me.

Goran grunted and moved to pull me away. I raised my hand in warning, and quickly returned to the ritual. I cupped my hands on the meat, flames curling about me. With a quick movement I drew upon the anvil, fingers moving out in opposite directions, then circling around to form two halves of a circle. The oil followed my fingers and the fire followed it, creating a flickering circle bisected by a line, a rune of redoubling.

I stepped back and plunged my arms into a basin of water. Despite the protective spell, they still stung as if held too close to a campfire. I washed the sweat and soot from my brow and then turned back to the anvil.

We watched the fire slowly consume the ball of dragon meat. Goran spoke first. “So, what now? Is that it?”

“Get your hammer,” I said.

And as the flames flickered down to nothing, the anvil began to glow red. I watched, and the glow grew brighter and brighter, until looking at it was like looking into the heart of the forge.