Brynn led me and a small escort of gawking apprentices through a side passage that opened onto another forge bay, quieter than the cathedral-sized main hall. Three anvils waited. A crucible glowed inside a coke furnace the size of a carriage wheel.
Someone thrust a pair of spare leather smithing overalls into my arms. They smelled of charcoal dust and beeswax, but they fit once I rolled the cuffs a couple of times. Brynn tossed me goggles.
"Stand there," he said, jerking a thumb toward the center anvil. "Lady Hephaestus wants to see your hammer grip before we waste any more stock."
Hephaestus arrived a moment later with Hestia. The taller goddess had changed into a fresher apron, still patched with scorch marks, but at least the worst slag streaks were gone. She cradled two ingots: one dull iron shot through with teal veins, the other a chunk of pure, sea-green Machalite she'd split off the billet earlier.
"Starter test," she announced, setting the Machalite on my anvil and the mixed bar on the next. Every apprentice within earshot edged closer. Hephaestus pointed at the teal-streaked iron first. "That's your control. Similar weight to mild steel. We'll see how you draw it out, how you fold, and whether you heat-cycle or brute-force." Then she tapped the Machalite ingot with a knuckle that came away sparkling. "If the control looks respectable, you get five heats on the good stuff. Keep your quenches shallow, Brynn's already not thrilled about you doing this."
Brynn grunted in agreement.
Hestia perched on a tool chest nearby, chin on her hands, eyes dancing.
I took a breath, let Gemma's muscle memory flow down my arms, and hefted the practice hammer Brynn offered, a three-pound head. When the iron-Machalite billet in the furnace turned a healthy cherry-red, I pulled it with tongs and laid it flat on the anvil.
First strike: straight, clean, landed fractionally left of center to push metal outward instead of down. The bar spread the way soft iron should. The second strike echoed. I felt heads turn. A third, lighter peen-side tap blended the ridge. No visible shearing, no cold shut lines.
Someone behind me murmured, "Huh." Good surprise, not alarmed surprise.
I worked in sets of eight: four drawing strokes, one edge square, three planishing. Between heats, I straightened the billet with a gentle hammer face instead of a brute edge, letting expansion even the grain. The rhythm came easier than breathing thanks to Gemma's memories.
On the fifth cycle, I fluxed a light sprinkle of Bone dust, folded the bar back on itself, and welded. The forge hissed; sparks scattered. When I set the white-hot billet to the anvil again, I didn't even see the bystanders, only the glow, the hammer, the tone. Weld closed in twelve overlapping taps.
I quenched the control piece in oil just enough to color to black, then parked it on a rack. Only then did I risk glancing up.
Every apprentice had stopped pretending. Even Brynn's bushy brows were halfway to his hairline. Hestia… well, Hestia looked like she might burst with smug pride. Hephaestus, though single garnet eye flicked from the cooling bar to my grip.
"Decent," she said at last. "No mushroomed edges, no fish-lips, weld line dead-tight." A pause. "Machalite next."
Someone exhaled a breath they'd apparently been holding since my first strike.
I swapped billets. The pure Machalite bar needed less soak time; its glow shifted from orange to an uncanny aquamarine tint at forging temp. Gorgeous and tricky, because that color masked overheating if you weren't watching.
Lighter blows, shorter contact, sweep the scale before it bakes on. The billet moved slower than mild steel, springy, almost elastic. The hammer rang differently. By the second heat, everyone could hear it. Whang, ting, ting like striking tempered crystal.
I drew the bar, squared the edges, rotated ninety degrees, and drew again, keeping the temperature even. No folding yet; wanted to feel its ductility first. When I did finally score it for a weld. Machalite didn't slough slag the same way. The forge flared turquoise when I set it in. An appreciative "oooh" rippled through the semicircle of spectators.
Third weld, fourth, fifth. Each time the billet hardened a shade, resisting compression, but it never cracked. Instead, it rebounded under the hammer, eager to spring back. By the last heat, I had a bar long enough for a shortsword core, maybe a bit too thick.
Hephaestus broke it with a single clap. "Well done." Her voice carried a note halfway between delight and something warmer.
A red-haired pallum apprentice blurted, "Lady, should I record grain? I've never seen it laminar like that after one forge day—"
"Yes," Hephaestus said, eye still on the bar. "Document every weld seam." She met my gaze. "How many folds on that piece?"
"Fifteen," I answered, heart still thrumming from adrenaline.
Brynn whistled low. "No wonder it rang like chime-steel."
Hephaestus extended her hand. I offered the tonged billet; she balanced it, flexed it gently. "Hammers-by," she declared, turning to her gathered children. "We incorporate a Machalite line effective today. Trial pieces first, chisels, draw knives, then we scale. I want a core-back sword prototype by tomorrow."
The apprentices scattered like kicked ants, energized, chattering. Brynn lingered only long enough to clap me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle my goggles. "Not bad, rookie."
I grinned, cheeks hot. "Thanks."
Hephaestus rested the billet I'd just forged onto a cradle beside the anvil. Her thumb traced a weld seam I thought had been near-perfect.
"Not bad," she said after a pause. Her tone was cool. "It forged clean. You've worked steel before."
I felt a bead of sweat roll down my temple, but not from the forge heat. "A bit."
Her eye flicked to me. "Only a bit?"
I held her gaze, didn't flinch. "Picked things up. Some of it stuck." Not exactly a lie, but not what she was asking. I wasn't sure how to explain Gemma, or that her lifetime of experience now lived in the back of my head like a perfectly filed journal. It wasn't worth dragging that out here.
She let the half-truth hang between us like an unquenched blade.
"I see," she said at last, tone unreadable. "Well, you're either gifted or very well taught. I won't press."
Hestia beamed at me like I'd just passed some unspoken test. My goddess clearly didn't mind me keeping things close to the chest.
"Now," Hephaestus said, dusting her gloves off, "that billet's a good starting point. The ore's not revolutionary, it's worth something, but we're not melting down adamantite here. A few hundred valis a bar, maybe more if it welds into composite stock clean."
"That's fair," I said quickly.
Hephaestus nodded, business-like. "And you brought enough for that. So…"
"I had one more request," I said, stepping aside from the anvil.
Her eyebrow arched. "Go on."
"I'd like to use one of your stations today. One with a forge… and a leatherworking bench."
That made the room shift. Literally.
A few of the nearby smiths froze mid-strike or half-step. One guy actually dropped a chisel. A couple apprentices whispered, not exactly subtle.
Hephaestus tilted her head. "Leather?"
I kept my voice even. "It's something I've been meaning to work on. A personal project. If that's a problem, I can find somewhere else. But I need the space today."
She studied me a second longer, then nodded toward one of the side bays. "We've got a small station off the third corridor. Mostly used by Welf, but it's open when he's not there."
"Then I'll use that."
"You'll be supervised."
I expected that. "Of course."
She didn't call for Brynn this time. Instead, she turned toward the workshop floor and said, simply, "Welf."
The man who stepped forward had a solid build, red hair tied back in a short tail, and a faint scowl like it was stitched into the corners of his mouth. His eyes landed on me. A slow blink. Then his brow lifted slightly.
I blinked right back.
I hadn't expected him to be… well, like that in real life.
Hephaestus noticed. "Welf, show Amara to the mixed bench. She'll be using the hide station, too."
Welf looked at her, then at me again, then nodded. "Sure."
I followed him toward the corridor, the chatter behind us picking up again. Hestia didn't follow, just gave me a wink from behind Hephaestus. I wasn't sure if she was proud or just amused. Probably both.
Welf showed me to a side bay that was half metal shop, half tannery in miniature.
A single forge, a bare anvil, a hide-fleshing beam bolted to the floor, and racks of brushes and edge tools on one wall. The place smelled of iron, ash, and, faintly, saddle soap. Perfect.
He folded his arms. "All yours, Amazon. Just don't light the roof on fire."
"No promises," I said, deadpan, then crouched and unfastened the mouth of my satchel.
First out came a forearm-long slab of Chatacabra fore-shell, mottled teal shot through with gold veins. The moment it clacked onto the bench Welf's brows jumped.
Then a matched pair. Then a bundle of tough, oil-soaked hide strips. Then a sack of mucus-polished stones I'd filleted from the beast's knuckles. The pile kept growing. Welf leaned in, squinting at the satchel's limp sides. "Where are you pulling that from? That bag's empt—"
He reached toward the opening. I smacked his knuckles, not hard, but enough to sting.
"Hands off. Trade secret."
He huffed, half offended, half impressed, and backed up. "Fine. But whatever it is I'd like one too."
I set the last piece, a squat spine chunk the size of a melon, beside the others, then cinched the satchel shut. It slumped as if it weighed nothing at all.
"Never-before-seen monster parts," Welf muttered, turning one shell plate over. "Feels like hard, weight is surprisingly light. What are you making?"
"Armor," I answered, tugging on a leather apron that hung from a peg. "And a hammer to match."
Hephaestus must have felt the ripple of unfamiliar material; her presence filled the doorway a breath later, silent but unmistakable. One crimson eyebrow arched as she took in the mound of turquoise plates.
"Watch and learn, Welf," she murmured, then leaned against the jamb, arms folded, eye gleaming.
Gemma's methodical order of operations, the way she always prepped leather before she heated steel so both cured together. I followed the sequence without thinking.
I rolled the greasy sheets onto the beam, grabbed a dull scraper, and started pulling coagulated fluid off in long ribbons. Welf wrinkled his nose but wordlessly took the spare scraper when I shoved it at him. Side by side we worked, rhythm falling into sync: push, flick, wipe. After we took a bucket of weak solution waited in the corner. We sloshed each strip through, then rinsed in clean water. The Lime smell dulled to raw leather.
I moved on to the plates. "Need those knuckle-stones cleaned," I told Welf, pointing at the fist-rocks. "Wire brush, hot water. No soap."
He obeyed, still shooting glances at the satchel.
I clamped the first shell shard on the vice and took a carbide rasp to the inner surface, knocking off ridges until it sat flush against my chest when I test-fitted. The teal surface threw little sparks under the rasp, hard stuff.
Hephaestus hummed approval. "Good call taking the ridges down first. Otherwise, the lamellar won't sit."
"Need a 20-degree bevel on the plate edges."
Welf swapped rasp for small belt sander, sparks showering.
While the hides hung to dry, I shifted to the forge. The hammer blank was a split shell core welded around a bar of Machalite and mild steel, lighter than pure iron but dense where it mattered.
With tongs, I set the billet in the heart of the coals, pumped the bellows twice, waited for the teal to turn dull orange.
Ring.
The first strike. I angled the face, drawing out the poll, checking symmetry every third blow, rotating like Gemma always had: quarter-turn, tap-tap, quarter-turn.
Welf bit his lip, watching. "Mind if I square the cheeks?"
"Be my guest."
We traded spots; it was weird, but he knew what he was doing. Though I still told him what to do, He put weight behind each swing, sparks strobing. The billet sang, almost literally; Machalite gave a faint chime as it hit oil.
Hides ready, plates beveled, I laid out a rough breast-piece: four curved sections overlapping, teal catching forge-light. I punched holes along the hide flanges, then riveted plates down with the cleaned knuckle-stones ground into domed studs.
Welf set the finished hammer on its side near the quench bucket, handle wrapped in hide with a spiral grip we'd stitched while plates cooled. He watched me lace the last strap and exhaled. "Gotta admit, it's… stylish." A pause. "Cute, even."
I clipped the last strap into place, checked the chest plate's fit, then flexed my arms. The armor didn't shift, didn't drag, was tight in all the right spots. It looked good too. Sea-green plates hugged my frame. The cuirass caught the forge light just faintly. I reached for the hammer, still cooling on the cradle near the quench barrel. The weight settled instantly in my grip, jaw-heavy and balanced. Just like I'd pictured it.
I didn't expect Welf to say anything, but when I turned, he was just standing there, staring at me, arms crossed, brows pulled tight, eyes on the armor like it had just sprouted wings.
"What?"
He nodded slowly. "There's… something in it."
"In what?"
"The armor," he said, stepping closer. "I can feel it. Not enchanted, but…" He narrowed his eyes. "Something else. Passive, maybe?"
I blinked at him. "Yeah? I mean… sure." I gave a little shrug. "My teacher always made gear with effects like that. I just copied what I knew."
That got a small scoff out of him, quiet, but definitely skeptical. "That's not something a level one should be pulling off. No magic, no enchantment tools, and you somehow embedded functional effects into basic armor? With new materials?"
I shrugged again. "Didn't seem weird."
He looked like he wanted to press, but before he could open his mouth, a new voice cut in from behind.
"Welf," a calm, sharp voice called out. "You feel it too?"
We both turned. Goddess Hephaestus had stepped further into the room without us noticing, her single red eye fixed on the armor I wore like it was a puzzle halfway solved.
"I do," Welf said. "It's faint, but it's there. Not from enchantment. Not from the metal itself, either."
She approached, slower than usual. Curious. Her presence felt heavier here, with less of the forge's fire and more of the divine weight she always carried beneath the soot and leather. Her gaze flicked over the chest plate, lingered on the shoulder guards, then dropped to the plated skirt.
"No glow. No script. But there's a pattern," she muttered, half to herself. "It's baked in. Passive traits, not active enchantments. Functional… but undefined."
I didn't say anything. Mostly because I had no idea what she was going to say next. She stepped a bit closer, her fingers hovering near my arm guard without touching. Then she looked at me, head tilted.
"Do you have a crafting skill?"
"Ask my goddess," I said with a straight face.
Her lips twitched. She didn't push.
Welf, on the other hand, folded his arms. "You said you learned this from your teacher. Who?"
"Gemma," I said.
He blinked. "Who?"
"Exactly," I replied, reaching for the hammer again and resting it against my shoulder. "Wouldn't mean anything here."
He didn't look satisfied, but he let it go.
Hephaestus didn't. She kept watching me for another second, then said, "Gemma, huh?" Her tone was flat, but something about it felt like it scraped along the inside of my ribs.
I didn't say anything.
"Hmm." She finally turned away, waving one hand over her shoulder like brushing off soot.
I cleared my throat. "Thanks for letting me use the forge."
Welf raised a brow. "That's what you're calling this? 'Using'?"
I gave him a faint grin. "Yeah. Got what I needed."
He looked at the armor again, then let out a slow breath. "You're… weirdly calm," he said. "For an Amazon. And kind of soft-spoken. Thought you'd be louder."
I slung the hammer over my shoulder, adjusted the strap across my back. "That's a complaint?"
"No," he said quickly. "Just… different."
"Well," I said, nodding toward the open forge doors. "Day's over. Took long enough."
Behind him, Hephaestus lingered at the edge of the doorway, her gaze still thoughtful. She didn't say anything else, but I had a feeling she'd be thinking about this armor for a while.
I adjusted the cuirass one last time, the leather warm against my skin, the shell plates clicking softly with every step. Finally… I had a proper set.