They reached the edge of the slum, where a hellish noise assaulted their ears. The hammers struck the anvils with a deafening clatter, creating a harsh symphony that hurt normal human hearing. It sounded like a massive explosion that never ended.

"Here." Althur turned back to Brahms. The two walked for a while before arriving. They noticed a row of houses where the mine's blacksmiths lived and worked.

In a small hamlet, one forge would do. Althur had grown up in such a hamlet, where an old blacksmith had been the sole one of his trades. There were some forges, each with intense, infernal streets made of red bricks radiating in the heat.

Smoke poured from each entrance, blocking the sight. There was scarcely any wood to be seen, for it would have burned to cinders in a moment. The steam and soot blended, making the air denser than the mud road they had walked on before. This place seemed different from the rest of the slums. Not only for fireproofing but also for its fierceness.

Brahms took a keen interest in the work of the blacksmith. He did not mind the heat and smoke that filled the air or the dirt that stained his face. He watched in wonder as the hammer and anvil shaped the metal, sending sparks flying in all directions.

He was fascinated by the craft, unlike anything he had seen in his slum. He stood behind Althur, not daring to overtake him but leaning forward slightly, watching with curiosity.

He remembered reading a poem about blacksmiths somewhere, though he knew it wasn't what he read on the train while traveling with Althur.

It was just there, in his memory, a poem about a woman's disappointment in her blacksmith that he recalled.

There were several carts parked in front of some dwellings, loaded with newly forged iron and steel. They moved swiftly, as if eager to flee this furnace and deliver their cargo to the mines.

Althur surveyed the scene for a moment, then entered the third dwelling.

He encountered a blacksmith's forge, separated from the living quarters by a wooden door with an iron anvil on it. The anvil acted as a latch, preventing anyone inside from opening the door without permission.

The only light came from the forge, where the fire flickered under the gust of air from the bellows, enough to fill the room. The metal bars and pieces were piled in one corner, while the burning coals were kept in another corner near the forge.

A man in casual clothes toiled at the forge, his cowhide apron torn with burns and bearing the likeness of a wild beast. His belt was crammed with tools that rattled and clanked as he swung his hammer. With a single blow, his hammer could shatter the bones of an animal.

The man's skin was dark and tough, like leather that had been dried and treated. It was hard to see any scars on his skin, for it was covered with a layer of smoke that clung to him like a cloak. With a bald head and a thin beard, he hammered the metal bar with one hand, shaping it to his liking.

A small child shoveled the coals into the fire, his face covered with soot. He was gasping for breath, but he kept adding coal to the fire to keep it hot. Sparks flew and molten iron spilled as he worked, creating a lively scene. The boy didn't dodge it but let it splash onto his skin without raising an eyebrow, as if he'd received it a hundred times before.

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Althur and Brahms lingered at the door for a moment, looking at it and wondering if they should disturb the people inside. The blacksmith didn't look like an easy person to talk to, unlike everyone else they'd met before, including the former driver. Althur was considering the simplest way to meet the woman inside rather than getting nervous about the scene.

"Blacksmithing is said to be the art of the dwarves," Althur remarked as they stood still. He also flashed back to the conversation he had had with Robert before coming here. They had talked about some of the new technologies on display at the fair and the rapid development of telegraphy.

"Dwarves? They're real?" Brahms inquired in surprise.

"Of course, they are. They just don't appear in this world."

"Why not?" Brahms wanted to ask more, but they had already entered the forge. The sound of hammers drowned out his voice and curiosity.

Althur stepped inside and felt his senses assaulted by the heat, smoke, and noise.

It was a typical blacksmith's shop, but he was more interested in what was behind the securely locked door.

"Good day, sir. I hope we're not interrupting your work," he said politely.

"Then you should bugger off," the blacksmith snapped.

"What do you want?"

"We are colleagues of the exorcist you hired earlier. We have some reasons to check the results of the exorcism."

"Bloody hell!" the blacksmith swore.

"Why your people so bloody annoying?"

"What did that little witch do to attract all these visitors?"

"Father Colby has been here before, hasn't he?"

"He did. Strange fellow." The man continued to hammer.

"Hell, if he wasn't a respectable man, I wouldn't have let him into my living room so generously."

The blacksmith maintained pounding the iron bar with his hammer, making it bend and twist under his force. His voice was hotter than the furnace beside him. The boy who was adding coals to the fire didn't seem to mind and kept on working.

"Excuse me, sir, can we talk to your wife for a moment?"

"What for?"

"She's okay, isn't she?"

"Get lost. You're not welcome here, your scam."

"And there's enough trouble right now because of your idiot." He turned and yelled at the child standing by the fire.

"But people say this place can help us."

"Shut up, you little brat. You'll end up in the fire one day and burn to ashes." He snapped, making the child shake.

"Get lost." The man turned and shouted at them.

"This was not going to be easy." Althur sighed and looked at Brahms to make a motion. The boy nodded and began to sing a lullaby softly.

"Sleep, my child, and do not be afraid."

"The smiths who work so near."

"They kindle the flames and make the sparks."

"They shape the metal with their marks.

"Sleep, my child, and do not be afraid."

"This is a beautiful song, Brahms. We should use it more often."

"Thank you, Althur." He was shy.

"I can tell. But remember, your power is not a toy. It can be very useful, but also very dangerous."

"Know it." Brahms nodded obediently.

"Don't abuse it, right?"

"Right. Now let's go inside."

"Is that okay? Aren't we breaking in?" The boy asked.

"Not at all, young man. We're just visiting. The owner was here. He saw us. We also said hello."

He saw the boy still looking doubtful, so he continued, "Besides, we're not going to take anything or break anything. We just want to talk to his wife. She might know something."

"Okay..."

"Trust me, Brahms. We're not doing anything wrong. We're just doing our job."

"Are you planning to steal something?"

"No."

"Are you planning to damage anything?" The boy shook his head.

"Then we're not thieves or vandals. We're just guests. Father Colby told us to come back, right?"

The boy wished he could use his power more often. Like the heroes in the books, he read. They always used their strength to solve everything. But that was not the way of a gentleman. He wondered to himself. Althur was a true gentleman.

Althur wrenched the iron bar from the door. The wooden door, charred by the heat, groaned as he swung it open.