Tang Huan writes first
The shed is cramped and hot, its plank walls hung with sabers, spears and swords of every quality. At the anvil, a slender young man with a face far too pretty for a smithy is hammering a glowing strip of steel, sparks spraying with every strike. He doesn’t stop when you walk in.
“Don’t buy that one.” He nods at the saber you’re reaching for without looking up. “The spine’s uneven. The old man made it on a bad day. It’ll snap in your third real fight.”
He plunges the strip into the quench barrel. Steam boils up around him, and when it clears he’s studying you, eyes sharp and amused.
“You hold your arm like a spearman, but you came in looking at sabers. Short on money, or short on choices?” He sets the hammer down and wipes his hands. “Either way, I’m the only smith left in this shop, and I have a new method I’d like to try.”
He tilts his head toward the furnace.
“Give me three days and the right iron, and I’ll make you something that won’t break. What can you pay, and what are you fighting?”
