Deeper in the mine, where the massive entrance was long out of sight and the flow of people had thinned, Vell led Sonder to a particular smithy—a house carved from the mountain rock itself, reinforced with slabs of wood and stone.

The air was warm and stuffy from the forge fire roaring within, but outside, all was quiet. No clang of hammers, no hiss of cooling metal.

A small figure rushed out of the house, startling Sonder. She guessed it was a young dwarf, likely an apprentice, judging by his patchy beard fuzz and oversized leather apron, cinched around him so many times that it bunched awkwardly at his sides.

A streak of soot smudged his cheek, giving him the look of someone deeply engrossed in his work and short on time.

Without even a glance at them, he darted over to the tool rack, sorted through several hammers, and grabbed the one he needed before disappearing back inside. It seemed there was no time for pleasantries.

Vell knocked lightly on the stone door frame, but when no one responded, they followed the boy inside.

The interior was a workshop dense with purpose; tools cluttered every surface, and stacks of raw materials, half-forged pieces, leather scraps, and metal rods leaned against each other on crowded shelves. Hammers, tongs, and chisels lined the walls, each bearing the wear and polish of use.

The young dwarf was already hard at work, placing the hammer he had fetched next to an anvil where an older, more weathered dwarf was waiting, examining a piece of glowing iron with a practiced eye.

At the center of it all was an older dwarf, his graying beard bound in leather cords and his gaze focused intently on a piece of glowing iron on the anvil. The older dwarf barely glanced up but acknowledged their presence with a rumbling voice.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Master Vell,” he said with gruff respect. “Not many come down this far uninvited. What brings you?”

Vell inclined his head. “Lunt. It’s good to see you. We’re just visiting. Nothing urgent this time. But tell me, where is old Master Lunt?”

The dwarf grunted. “Grandpappi? He passed on long ago. Right after I reached adulthood.”

Vell’s face softened. “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope he went peacefully.”

“As peacefully as a dwarf can, crushed in a mine while on the hunt for ore.”

“And what about your father?”

“Lunt Senior’s gone too. He met the same end.”

“Then I think I know how you hope to go.”

“Don’t tempt me, wizard,” Lunt muttered, with a faint smirk.

Vell gestured to the young dwarf, who had returned to the forge, this time holding the tongs with a disciplined focus. “And this one?”

“That’s Lunt Junior,” said the older dwarf, giving the boy a proud nod.

“Your son?”

“My grandson and apprentice.”

The older dwarf cast a curious, assessing look at Sonder, his gaze lingering long enough to make her shift slightly under his scrutiny. Then he grunted and returned his attention to the red-hot iron on the anvil.

“And does the girl have a reason to be here, or are you just here to show her around?” he asked, voice as rough as the stone walls around them.

Vell looked over to her. “This is Sonder, my apprentice. It’s her first time seeing the dwarven mines, and I thought there’d be no better place for her to witness true dwarven craft than here at the Lunt forge. I’d say she’s quite curious.”

The new Master Lunt huffed softly, a sign of mild approval. “Curiosity’s a fine start,” he said, then gestured to the young dwarf, who was eying the two strangers with a lot of interest. “Lunt here,” he said, nodding to the apprentice, “is full of curiosity himself, though he channels it through his work.”

Lunt Junior took up a pair of tongs, carefully turning the hot metal on the anvil. He worked with a kind of disciplined excitement and held it over an anvil while the older began to hammer on it.

Sonder watched their work.

“It almost seems… peaceful,” she murmured, watching the metal transform with each well-placed blow.

Master Lunt's eyebrows rose. “Peaceful? This?” He chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting. “Forge work is all noise and heat, girl. But to a dwarf, the rhythm, the feel of shaping metal—that’s as close to peace as you’ll ever find.”