The forge annexe sweated and sang. Flames breathed; anvils remembered thunder. Aurelia ruined a brass hinge ten times; on the eleventh, the metal buckled, and so did her composure. Frustration flushed her cheeks, tears brightened her lashes, and she murmured an apology to her brother for being unfit for his craft. Vulkan only shook his head, all patience. He touched his brow to hers, then kissed her forehead with the unhurried love of an elder brother. "Again," he said, guiding her hands. He showed her how to ruin it safely, then how not to ruin it at all—heat even, pressure honest, breath steady until the temper's colours walked true.
"If a thing keeps a door true," he said, "it is more beautiful than any carving that fails."
"Then I am not a tool," she said, smiling.
"No," he said, as if that settled an argument never spoken. "But you may choose to be useful." He guided her wrist until the temper colours walked the line from straw to peacock and stopped shy of brittleness. He left her a tempering schedule written like a blessing, and a small scar on his thumb from catching her work before it fell. He refused to heal it. "Makers keep their lessons."
She looked at the hinge cooling in its cradle and let out a breath. "I wish I were as talented as you," she admitted softly. "And as strong as you are when war looks back."
Vulkan's smile was the warmth of a forge without flames. "You are strong," he said. "Your kindness is a sword; your compassion, a shield. Do not forget to use them—especially for those who have never known such love."
Her smile brightened, unguarded. "Will you be there if I fall?"
"I will be there before you fall," he answered, touching her brow again. "To catch you."