Cold Hearth

Caught the scent of cold ash and charred oak drifting low off the hearth. Hauled up onto the slate ledge to check the perimeter. Dead center sat the heavy cast-iron grate, one curved rung choked with a dense wedge of burnt birch bark. Hardened like stone. Didn't wait around. Planted both boots on the soot-dusted brick, jammed my claws right under the charred seam, and levered back with my entire frame. Carbon creaked, gave an inch, and snapped clean across the grain. Threw the loose chunk down onto the slate. Pathway cleared. Wiped the ash off my knuckles and held my stance against the cool brick.