Tave followed Fokil into the smithy, and the moment he stepped across the threshold, it hit him. The heat.
The temperature inside was brutal, far worse than the already blazing streets outside. It wrapped around him like a thick, suffocating blanket, the kind of heat that clung to your skin and crawled into your lungs. But still, it didn't even come close to what he'd endured in the rift a few days ago.
The forge dominated the room, an anvil at the center, tools scattered with practiced chaos, and furnaces roaring low like sleeping beasts. The air was heavy with the scent of scorched metal, burning coal, and thick, unmistakable alcohol.
Yep, Fokil was a drunk.
Tave didn't waste a second. He approached the forging table and, with a flick of his hand, released the full carcass of the Shade-Tail Scorpinox onto the reinforced stone surface. Then he carefully placed the monster core beside it.
