“The Molten Anvil sits half-carved into the living rock beneath Mirabar, a shop warmed by a central forge that never quite goes out. The air carries iron, coal smoke, and the faint scent of gemstone dust. Walls are hung with tools, rune-forged molds, and a single battered banner from a now-defunct caravan company. Sparks leap like tiny fireflies when the bellows are used, and the earthen floor is slick with oil and metal filings worn smooth by years of foot traffic. Borin Ironhand, the proprietor, is a compact mountain dwarf with a cropped beard threaded with slivers of steel—a living advert for his craft. He is blunt but fair, bound to clan traditions and Mirabar's trade rules, and keeps a ledger of owed favors as carefully as he keeps his heat. He greets customers with a measured nod then sizes them up for coin and temperament. On slow days a human journeyman named Edda helps the trade counter and brings news from the surface markets. The shop offers reasonable repairs, custom fittings for armor and weapons, and a quiet corner where a traveling adventurer can bargain over a map with a tankard of bitter ale. Customers should expect a short waiting time for full custom orders, but the smith will always knock a few coins off for stories of tunnels and lost veins.”