The Ironforge district didn’t breathe; it burned.
Sulfur bit the back of Ramona’s throat. Steam-hammers slammed down with bone-jarring concussions, beating white-hot iron into submission while cinder-dust choked the air like a perpetual ash-storm.
She didn't slow her mount. She spurred the horse straight into the chaotic heart of the district, reining in so hard the stallion reared before the soot-blackened gates of Master Hayes’s compound.
Dismounting mid-stride, she didn’t wait for a groom. She marched through the open double doors, the roaring heat of the blast furnaces hitting her like a wall of fire.
“Clear the way!”
A handcart loaded with glowing pig-iron squealed wildly out of control, careening directly toward her.
Ramona didn’t blink. With the feral reflexes of a veteran combat commander, she sidestepped the heavy metal cart with millimetric precision, her hand instantly dropping to the hilt of her riding crop as she scanned the floor.
There. Standing over a cooling rack, inspecting decorative window grilles for some pampered duke, was Master Hayes.
In her past life, Hayes and his entire forge had been reduced to slag within the first seventy-two hours of the collapse, torn apart by horrors that chewed through steel like paper.
Ramona closed the distance, her boots hammering an aggressive, staccato rhythm against the stone until she was standing right at his shoulder.
“Your quench-temperature is three hundred degrees too high,” Ramona snapped over the roar of the bellows. “Cool it that fast under lateral stress and the joint will shatter on impact.”
Hayes froze, the iron bracket trembling in his tongs. He turned, his face dark with fury, ready to dress down whatever noble brat had wandered into his workshop. Instead, he locked eyes with a pair of dead, terrifyingly cold gray eyes that looked at his metal not as art, but as armor.
“And who in the blazes are you?” Hayes barked, crossing his massive arms. “These are decorative grilles for the Duke of Valen! They don't need to—"
Before he could finish, Ramona snatched a heavy pair of iron tongs from a nearby rack, plunged them into a water trough, and slammed the quenched edge directly against Hayes's approved bracket.
Crack.
A hair-thin fracture spider-webbed straight through the metal.
Hayes’s jaw dropped.
“Decorations won't save you when the walls come down, Master Hayes,” Ramona whispered, her voice dropping into a lethal register that cut straight through the deafening din of the forge. “Melt them. All of them.”
“Melt them?!” Hayes roared, veins bulging in his neck. “The Duke paid a fortune! I have royal contracts—!”
Clink.
A heavy velvet pouch slammed onto the cooling table, splitting open to spill a blinding, deafening cascade of platinum imperial notes and heavy gold sovereigns. It was three times the Duke's total fee.
“You work for the Monroe estate now,” Ramona said, stepping into his space, her gaze locked onto his wide eyes. “Every forge. Every anvil. Every man under your roof. Bought and paid for.”
Hayes stared at the gold, swallowing hard. “My lady... what the hell are you building? A fortress?”
“A tomb for whatever tries to breach our gates,” Ramona fired back instantly. “Listen to me, Hayes. I want three-inch carbon-steel plating for our perimeter walls. I want portcullis teeth forged from folded, double-quenched alloy. I want window shutters reinforced with internal cross-bracing and iron spikes built to withstand a siege engine.”
The old smith stared at her, the bluster entirely stripped away, replaced by a cold sweat. The young woman standing before him wasn't a noble debutante; she was a predator wearing a lady's face.
“Double-quenched alloy...” Hayes muttered, running a calloused hand over his beard. “That’ll take tons of raw iron. We’ll have to strip every rail and surplus shipment in the district!”
“Then strip them!” Ramona commanded, her voice absolute. “Double your workforce. Pay triple wages out of that pouch. If the Ministry asks questions, tell them we’re reinforcing against ground subsidence.”
Hayes looked at the gold, looked at the roaring fire, and then let out a grim, savage grin. “Subsidence, eh? Fine. I’ll have the boys casting portcullis teeth by noon.”
“If a single batch fails specification,” Ramona said, leaning in close, “I will throw you into your own furnace.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She pivoted on her heel, her long coat snapping behind her as she headed back out into the sulfur-choked fog.
One piece locked in. The walls would rise.
She vaulted back into the saddle, turning the horse toward the western garrison. Captain Julian Vance was waiting. Time was running out, and the apocalypse wouldn't wait for permission.