"Master Blackwell," Arthur said, his voice calm yet purposeful as he approached the forge workshop nestled behind the Iron Hearth foundry. "How is the manufacturing of the flintlocks and muskets progressing?"
The grizzled master smith looked up from his workbench, his thick gloves still stained with oil and soot. He gave a short bow before wiping his forehead with a cloth and replying.
"It's going smoothly—at least, as smooth as it can," Blackwell said, his voice gravelly from years around burning steel. "We've completed twenty flintlock pistols and ten muskets so far. But as you know, these weapons aren't like forging swords or axes."
Arthur nodded, his gaze moving to the prototype firearms resting on the nearby rack—each one painstakingly assembled from iron, hardwood, and intricate components. He understood all too well. Firearms weren't a matter of hammer and anvil alone; they required precision, experimentation, and testing.
