Chapter 59. The Blacksmith's Forge - Part 1
The great roar of the forge hit Seraphina's senses first—a deep, bellowing heat that rolled over her like a living thing. The air smelled of burning coal and molten steel, thick enough to coat her tongue; it tasted awful, she could feel it in her breath and wings. She hesitated at the threshold, her talons curling against the stone walls.
At the anvil stood the blacksmith she had been recommended to go to. "Korvash, he's a big guy! You won't be able to miss him."
She'd known about the Royal Forge, but until now hadn't actually known where it was or who owned it. Until she had asked some of the royal knights around the castle today. What was better place to learn about control and fire than the place where the weapons themselves were forged?
A silhouette against the embers of his work, Korvash's massive frame haloed in firelight, hammer rising and falling in a rhythm that shook the ground beneath her talons. The outline was wrong... for Korvash had no wings.
It was in that moment she hesitated.
This was not a place for winged nobility, never mind royalty.
This was not her world.
Neither were they.
At least, it didn't feel like it despite this being in the very Kingdom she would one day rule. Yet one day, they would be her subjects.
The blacksmith stood dutifully at the anvil, his massive frame silhouetted against fire. His ashen, both by colour and the ashes of the coal, made some sense as to why his hair was tied back. Revealing a face lined with soot and scars. His arms, corded with decades of labour, swung a huge hammer, as though it were weightless, in a rhythm that seemed to shake the very ground. Sparks leapt like dying stars around him, but he didn't once flinch.
This forge, like all forges, was run by the Wingless.
Among the Raven harpy kind, it was seen a cruel fate — some born without wings through what was deemed to be an unlikely ancient quirk of blood. Others had been punished by the Queen, her own mother, for the worst types of crimes imaginable. That type of wingless had them hacked off or severed, leaving only jagged scars and parts of limbs that jutted out from their shoulders. She looked closer and could see no limbs or bumps poking out of the back of Korvash's shirt.
Seraphina's gaze flickered to his hands—broad, calloused, and marked with old burns. A black ring sat on his finger, the metal dulled by years of fire, soot and sweat.
He is mated. The realisation struck her with an odd weight.
Until now, she had never considered that the Wingless might have bonds like those who have wings... she herself barely recognised them as her own kind. Even though they were. In fact, she had never really considered the Wingless at all.
Then she noticed the two younger apprentices.
Seraphina's throat tightened.
She had never spoken to a Wingless before. Not truly. Not as equals.
Korvash turned then, sensing her presence. His golden eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then he inclined his head—just slightly. Not a bow. Not quite.
"Your Highness," he rumbled, his voice like gravel dragged over iron.
Her words caught in her mouth, for a split second, her mind ran away with her words as she fumbled to find a response to say. She felt so out of place.
Like she was the impostor here or the intruder - she was, and she knew it.
This particular forge was well regarded among the R and the Royal Guard. For it was run by the Wingless. An unfortunate among group Raven Harpy kind, and the reasons for that misfortune varied, it was a cruel fate — some of them were those who had been born without wings. It was known as a sorrowful ancient quirk of harpy blood; others were punished by having them severed, leaving only jagged scars on their shoulders.
Many nobles sneered at them, but in truth, their lack of wings gave them power here. Sparks could not catch their feathers, and they did not mourn what they never had. Instead, they had honed fire and steel into their dominion, becoming artisans whose skill rivalled that of any noble warrior.
The blacksmith who greeted her was one such man: broad-shouldered, his talons still gleaming sharp despite the soot ground into his skin. His hair was tied back, his arms blackened from years of labor, and his hammer rose and fell in a rhythm older than song. The anvil sang with every strike, ringing like a heartbeat through the chamber.
"Your Highness," he rumbled once again, his deep voice respectful but steady, not fawning. "Royal company is rare here."
"I wanted to see," Seraphina admitted, stepping closer... "Do you not miss it, the skies?" She blurted out before she could begin to take it back. "I'm sorry if-"
A gravely and deep chuckle escaped the man. This blacksmith had never mourned the sky. "It's alright, Your Highness. You can't miss what you never had," his tone was even cheerful, instead of a sorrowful matter of fact, as if it were truly that simple for him.
"Yup!" His younger son chimed in, he could have been no older than 10. With gold eyes and ashen hair. A miniature and childlike version of his huge hulk of a father. Although slightly shorter by his ears and not yet tied back, "What's so great about wings anyway? You must miss so much from way up high."
His young eyes gleamed like banked embers. He worked the bellows, his jaw set in stubborn concentration, his bare shoulders already glistening with sweat. Pausing to clear his voice, Korvash spoke to him not like an apprentice but as she suspected, like his son, "Go and wash up for today, Pyran. Then help your mother peel some potatoes for tonight's stew. Nyxis will help me wrap up tonight."
"But... Dad..." The boy protested, pouting as he poorly whispered the next words, "You never get royal visitors and the real life princess is here!!"
At this, Seraphina couldn't help but laugh, "I'll need to come back, so you will probably see me again."
Folding his arms and narrowing his eyes at her, a gesture that would still the hearts of any winged noble and demand penance for insolence. Something that was building in Korvash's stance with tension. Afraid that the next minute his son might say the wrong thing... and-
"Pinky swear." The princess held out her pinky to the young boy. Who gleefully agreed to a pinky swear.
He ran out yelling, "Okay, okay. I'll go wash up and help mum because the princess told me tooooo!!" His energy seemed endless.
Affectionately slapping the top of the young boy's back as he left, where there would be wings on any other harpy child.
An older boy, perhaps around 15 or 16 remained. An older apprentice although he was silent by comparison and had a different complexion to the younger. This one was taller, leaner, his dark hair tinged with red streaks in his wings, largely coated with soot, his features sharper, nobler even, beneath the grime. There was something in the way he moved—like he was used to being watched, even as he bent over a half-formed blade, his fingers deft despite their scars.
A noble's bastard. She considered studying him a moment longer before he turned away from her gaze. Not out of shame. Just to not be ogled at by some princess.
"Don't mind Nyxis," The behemoth of a blacksmith encouraged, unsure what else to say, "He's just not used to princesses being around."
There were some rumors she remembered and at this moment they slithered back to her. That a child born, not too many years after her and her sister, to a noble widow of the Dreylorn's. A female harpy who'd taken a new piece for her affections far too soon.
Resulting in a child born to an unmated couple, what ravens considered a bastard, and there was no luck or hope for a noble's bastard who was without wings.
Abandoned to the streets as though he were a pet to be discarded, Nyxis had struggled to survive on the lower streets until Korvash found him.
Apprentices and the discovery the bastards of nobles was not what had brought Seraphina here at the fall of afternoon to evening.
The firelight played across her pale features contorting with uncertainty as to weather or not that was considered rude. Alive with the colours of fires, the glow of hot coals, turning her dark hair into a curtain of molten black.
She finally asked, "How are they is made? The blades we carry into battle. The blades that choose who lives or dies."
The smith grunted, approving of her curiosity.