The hammer’s blow rings hard. Sparks cascade, desperate to escape the next strike. Another crack sends a shudder up thick muscle. Sweat pours down to sizzle on white iron. The smell of burnt salt mingles with smoke and rust.
The blacksmith pounds on a thin rod. It flattens into a sheet, arching up and back on itself. The glow dims to a dull red. He thrusts the metal back into the forge and mops the sweat from his lip.
The curved sheet slides easily around the anvil’s horn. A hammer taps the pink metal into shape. A pair of shears clips the excess. The hard edges are filed away, leaving a ring of just the right size.
The smith smiles under his beard. She’ll love it.
Corey Laisure 