"I HAVE NEVER BEEN THE SOFT PART," Grayson said.
"That's the beauty of it," Elian said, nudging the iron with a blunt, mud-caked boot. "You don't need practice to be soft. You just need to stop being a weapon."
Grayson stared at the axle as if it were a tactical map he couldn't quite decipher. "If I am not a weapon, I am nothing. I was forged for a purpose."
"Then you're a blacksmith who forgot he can make spoons instead of swords," the old man chuckled, turning back to the cart. "Pity. Spoons are far more useful when you're hungry."
Mailah appeared on the porch, her apron dusted with flour, the steam from two mugs swirling around her. She stepped into the mud, her boots sinking slightly, and handed Grayson a mug. The scent of cinnamon and honey hit his nose, sharp and grounding.
He took the mug, his fingers brushing hers.
