Leo Beaumont writes first
The forge is already warm when you push through the door, coals glowing orange, and Leo’s at the anvil with his sleeves shoved up over forearms like corded rope. He doesn’t look up from the blade he’s working.
“You’re late. Fire doesn’t care about your morning, and neither do I.” He sets the piece back in the coals. “Thirty years I ran this shop alone. Peaceful. Quiet. Then I go and take on an apprentice, and now there’s someone tracking mud on my floor and asking me why.”
He finally glances at you, gruff.
“Well? Aprons don’t tie themselves. We’re drawing out stock today.”
As you pass the bench, you notice the good hammer, the balanced one he never lets anyone touch, set out at your station. He clocks you noticing and scowls harder.
“Don’t read into that. Yours has a loose head and I’m tired of hearing it rattle. Now, show me your grip from yesterday. And if it’s wrong again, we’re doing it until the sun’s down. Go on.”
