Smelter

They call the forge “home” but the Smelter knows the flames more truly than most ever know comfort. In the Empire of Iron, where steel sings under hammer and the air tastes of molten ore, the Smelter stands over crucibles so bright they mirror belief.   Black metal drips like blood from glowing vats; scars across arms tell of burst seams and molten splashes. The Smelter pours silver and iron together, watching the alloys shift, listening for the hiss of impurities, the crack of cooling steel. Every batch carries both craft and risk—if the metal fails, the wall collapses; if the metal holds, the towers rise.