In Nemenski's forge—well, more like a full-on workshop now after its renovation and the arrival of several new apprentices eager to learn his forging and crafting techniques—the air shimmered with heat and the scent of metal.
A strikingly handsome man stepped inside, his skin a warm bronze tone and two sharp horns curving upward toward the ceiling. His golden eyes, like polished topaz, scanned the room with casual interest. Clinging gracefully to his arm was an elven woman—long, midnight-black hair cascading down her back, skin pale and flawless like fresh snow. Together, they moved as if stepping out of a painting.
The first person they saw was a young man, probably around twenty, with fiery red hair and fair skin touched with freckles—a textbook redhead. He was holding a toolbox when, in a blink, the tool he held simply vanished from his hands.
Katia blinked. Then stared.
"Wait—what the hell—how did you do that?!"
