The tension inside the forge became almost physical—dense, heavy, as if the air were made of molten iron about to cool.
Brokk and Sindri were motionless.
Sapphire, who rarely fell silent, blinked twice, confused by the sudden silence.
Vergil merely watched, arms crossed, as if witnessing the most interesting part of the play.
Brokk finally opened his mouth.
A word came out, drawn out, heavy as a rock thrown downhill:
"...A scythe?"
Sapphire gave a firm nod.
"Yes. A scythe."
Silence.
The two dwarves looked at Fafnir's tooth.
Then at Vergil.
Then at Sapphire.
Then at each other.
Then, again, at Sapphire.
Sindri was the first to react, frowning with the desperate delicacy of a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
"Excuse me… just to be sure… you really mean… a scythe? The agricultural weapon that cuts wheat?"
