Whatever remained of the cold washed off Liron as he entered the forge with the other workers. The forge's heat singed the air itself, every breath feeling like one had to devour fire. It had taken Liron an entire week to get used to it. The beatings of the hammers welcomed them, iron forced into the desired shape. Smoke filled the sky, a stain in the otherwise pale blue sky.
The weapon manufactory was the heart of Eisenrahm. Half of the town worked here, their entire working lives spent between flames and steel. The hall dwarfed every other building in Eisenrahm, the only place to contain over a hundred people with ease. Several massive furnaces heated the iron for the smiths to hammer it into the form of swords and axes. Once finished, the blunt weapons needed their blessing, phrases from the holy scripture carved into them.
Without them, they would prove less effective on the battlefield against the Qilesh. The engineers responsible for this didn't choose freely which line would be immortalized into the steel. The empire provided the list of quotes. At first, Liron asked which passage had been decided, but soon he stopped caring, as they repeated frequently.
What happened with the weapons afterward, no one knew. Most guessed they would be brought to another manufacturer, focusing on sharpening and giving the final touch. No matter how much they asked, the caravans picking them up refused to tell. It was forbidden. Knowledge like this could fall into the hands of the Resistance. This is why they weren't allowed to have maps of Nordland or their close vicinity. They knew the names of the neighboring towns, but that's where their knowledge ended.
The smithery had a clear hierarchy in their workforce. The engineers were at the top, only the best allowed to occupy this position. The smiths came next, sweeting the entire day in front of the furnaces. Liron was nowhere near even a smith. He was hired half a year ago and thus had to slave away at the bottom of the hierarchy.
Each day, the forge got a new delivery of raw iron and coal. Liron and the other new hires had to move all of them inside the smithy. Thereafter, they all got a shovel and hoisted them into the furnaces. While they had smaller wagons to transport the iron and coal, after the fourth or fifth run, Liron's arms and back ached. None of them dared to slow down, though. As they were at the bottom of the packing order, they would be made responsible for every accident or mistake that happened in the forge. The smiths took every excuse to yell insults at them, and the engineers enjoyed the sight of that. Should one of them raise their voice, Liron and the other boys would be truly fucked.
One of the core teachings of the empire. Work hard enough to not be the scapegoat.
Liron and the other worker stopped by one engineer positioned near the entrance. He took their nameplate and marked them, proving they showed up for work. At the beginning of the week, they all received a new nameplate. Without them and their marks, there would be no payment. Next to the engineer stood their lockers containing their working uniforms. The smell of smoke had crept into them, refusing to leave. Even if they would wash their uniforms every day after work was done, the stench wouldn't go away. So, nobody attempted it, growing accustomed to it.
To not waste any more space, their locker place also had to serve as their shower area, several larger bowls with fresh water and some soap. The only part Liron was looking forward to. He hated the smell of smoke and coal. Freeing himself from it, even if it never truly worked, was the only joy he had inside the smithy.
While they got ready, putting on their uniforms, Liron's colleague shared some pleasant small talk. Some one-on-one, others in groups. None talked to him, though, walking around him like his black hair could infect them. The older ones made sense. Smiths and engineers only talked to a shovel boy if they had to or if they needed someone to blame. But even the other apprentices avoided him, all forming smaller teams that excluded him. Liron didn't mind it. Nothing new. And he had no real interest in speaking with any of them either.
Right as Liron and the other shovel boys got their cards, the overseer, Thomas, came out of his office. It stood at the other side of the hall, a small chamber with dirty windows attached to the upper section of the wall, overlooking the hall. A staircase led up to it with no one allowed close to it.
Thomas leaned against the railings, sheets of paper in his hands. He had been an engineer before an Inquisitor had removed the former overseer. Apparently, an entire freight of weapons had been in horrible condition, costing the soldiers who used them their lives. The former overseer had begged for his life, arguing that the material they had received was of poor quality and that one freight couldn't have been responsible for the loss of an entire empire army. The Inquisitors had none of it, condemning him to be a traitor and thus to become a Sinner to repay for his crimes in Sannara against the Qilesh.
Thomas, so the rumors said, was thrilled at first about his new position. He was passionate about the smithy, trying his best to improve everything for it and the workers. His enthusiasm withered away under the cruel hand of reality. He had gained weight, only a few tufts remaining of his former blonde hair.
His eyes spoke volumes of all the lost sleep, stress having eaten deep into his face, marking it with wrinkles he shouldn't have yet. For ten years he had endured this, fighting to keep his head. For how much longer, though, no one could say. Well, at least he had the biggest house in Eisenrahm with the best lunar panels one could buy. And his family had a hound, making him the only family in town that could afford a dog. Liron had seen the beast, taller than even him. It growled at everybody who came too close to Thomas's house, its massive body and six legs thick with muscles. Devouring Liron would satiate it for perhaps a day.
Most workers cursed as they saw him, and they gathered in front of the office. As soon as Thomas could stare down at them all, he did start.
"Well, good morning, I'd say if there was anything good about it. I've got some bad news."
He waited a moment for his employees to get all the moaning out of them. "The Department of Efficiency wrote me. They increased the contract up to twenty percent for all manufacturers in our area. For the dumb fucks of you that can't count, this means eighteen more blades. Eighteen!
"Yeah, whine as much as you want, but you know what will happen if we fuck this up. Those rats will check what we deliver, and they made it obvious the worst-performing manufacturer will get its production shrank. That means I have to fire some of you lazy fucks! So, no one leaves until we have met their demands. You better hurry! I don't want to miss the hunt or mass."
Liron had heard of temporary increases in production. They came with a new wave of soldiers to the frontline. Once enough of them had fallen in Sannara, the empire would turn down the contract again. During the increase, the empire never offered more resources for the manufacturers, always selecting those that proved not efficient enough. It always starts with punishing the worst workers. But the responsible overseer wouldn't keep his job for too long should they fail to meet the set standard again.
Liron put his shovel into his cart, shoving it towards the mountains of coal. He kept his eyes down. He didn't need to see all the glares pointed at him. Many considered it a miracle the forge hadn't burned down after hiring him. Many more, though, questioned Thomas's decision to hire him at all. Only thanks to Liron's father, who was good friends with the overseer, did his son receive this job.
The usual rhythm of the workflow accelerated. Everybody wanted to be done here as fast as possible. The engineers preferred to keep light conversation while working. Now, they were drawn into work, focused on nothing else. The smiths let out their frustration with each hammer blow. Whatever remained, they spat out at the shovel boys.
"Bloody doom!" One smith yelled at Liron. "Hurry, Ravenspawn! We don't have all day!"
"Sorry, but I am not used to do fast," Liron whispered to himself. "Your wife always says she likes it slow."
The smith jerked his head towards Liron. He had said the words just loud enough for him to notice something. "What did you just say, boy?"
Liron blinked, having perfected his act. "I… I'm sorry. I said nothing. I will try my best to not hold us back. Hail Augustus."
The last part threw the smith off. Patriotism ran deep in Eisenrahm. "H… hail Augustus."
As Liron emptied his card, returning outside to fill it up again, one of the other shovel boys, Emil, pushed his card next to Liron's.
"Don't fuck this up, Ravenspawn," Emil whispered, getting close to Liron. "I swear to Harras, I will make you regret it."
By Harras's will, if they at least could come up with good insults. Ravenspawn had lost all its bite over the years.
"Shut your mouth, you rat," Liron said, putting iron into his voice. "If I weren't busy actually working, I would show you what my boots taste like after stepping in horse shit."
Emil was taken aback. He had never said something directly to him, always going for smaller calls while protected by the group. "Y… you… I will…"
"Hold us back? Yeah, you're doing that quite well, you cunt."
To emphasize his point, Liron tapped his card, already filled, while Emil had lagged behind. As the other shovel boy stared at Liron's progress, Liron kicked a larger clump of coal right under Emil's card, blocking one wheel. Emil noticed nothing, glaring after Liron, driving his cart back to the furnaces. Liron didn't turn around as he heard Emil cry out, his card falling over because he pushed too hard, the coal doing what it was supposed to.
At first, Liron was concerned about the increased demand. But soon after starting, he thought it a blessing. The reason Thomas hadn't kicked him out yet was that Liron was one of his best. No one wanted to admit it, but he made the other shovel boys look like the failures they were. Liron was bigger than them and ready to work harder to get even stronger. They would dare nothing but name-calling, knowing the punch Liron would pack. Without his hair, they all would sing his praises.
In his younger years, Liron had cried about the injustice, cursing Harras for all of this. But he had learned to find a certain pleasure in his situation. No sight was more beautiful, no feeling more satisfying than outperforming all his detractors. The Empire desired constant competition amongst its people, hoping to strengthen the strong and punish the weak.
Liron was one of the strong, and while they would never admit it, he saw it in their eyes. He saw it when he brought the tenth card while the others struggled with the sixth. And he saw it when he shoveled into two furnaces without complaint, getting better at it day by day. He wanted to do as Emma had said, dream bigger. But if this was all Harras had prepared for him, then Liron would be damned if he wouldn't become the best at it.
As the hours passed, Liron noticed how everybody worked faster. He knew it was most likely to not miss the hunt. But a part of him hoped they did so to not be outdone by a Ravenspawn. Liron grinned, the thought fueling his drive. One of the many petty pleasures of his day. Proving to them who was better.