Ironhold's forge-district had not slept in thirty-one days.
The city — the Sovereign Dominion's industrial heart, built atop the mineral deposits that Zephyr had identified in the kingdom's fourth year of existence — operated on a wartime production cycle that its founders had designed for exactly this contingency. Three shifts. Eight hours each. The forges burning around the clock, their chimneys producing a permanent column of smoke and spark that was visible from twenty kilometers in daylight and that painted the clouds orange at night.
Forge-Master Haelrik — the Cinderlands-born metallurgist who commanded Ironhold's production infrastructure with the exacting precision of a man who understood that every sword produced was a sword that might save a life and every sword delayed was a life that might be lost — stood on the observation platform above Ironhold's Primary Forge and watched the production floor with the focused satisfaction of a craftsman who built things that worked.
