Father stoked the fire again, and the forge hissed as if it were alive. The bellows groaned, sending a fresh surge of heat washing over me, and the coals brightened to a white-hot glow.
I stepped back, flexing my fingers against the hammer's worn grip. My palms were sore, the blisters from yesterday's work raw under the calluses. But I refused to complain. Father never had, and if I wanted his respect—not just as his daughter, but as a blacksmith in my own right—I'd prove I could endure.
"You're pushing too hard," he said without looking at me, as if the steel itself had tattled. "Let the fire do its work."
"Maybe I like pushing," I shot back. "Iron's stubborn. Someone has to be more stubborn."
His head turned then, his gray eyes catching mine. The forge-light painted the creases of his face, deepened by years of heat and labor. He had the kind of presence that made others fall quiet in his company, a strength that was never loud but always certain.
"You've got enough fight for three men," he said at last, voice low, "but fight won't always save you."
I bristled. "And patience will?"
"Aye," he said simply, turning back to the anvil. "Patience is what makes iron a blade instead of brittle scrap."
I bit back a retort, because he wasn't wrong. But the truth stung anyway, because patience was the last thing I wanted. Not when war whispered at the borders. Not when people muttered about fae lords who demanded tribute. Not when I woke from dreams of shadowed eyes burning into mine, a voice I could almost—but not quite—hear calling my name.
I shook the thoughts away with a growl, lifted the hammer, and struck again.
The sound rang through the forge, deep and final, the kind of sound that settled in your bones. Sparks leapt upward, scattering in the air before falling dim. I lifted the blade with tongs and plunged it into the water. Steam exploded, cloaking me in a veil of heat and hiss.
When it cleared, Father was watching again. That look he gave me—the one caught between pride and worry—made me shift my weight and glance away.
"I'm not made of glass," I muttered.
"No," he agreed. His voice was softer than I expected. "You're made of fire. That's what I'm afraid of."
For a moment, the forge was too quiet. The anvil silent, the hammer still, the fire breathing low. His words sank deeper than the heat ever could, because I knew what he meant. Fire created, but fire destroyed too.
Before I could answer, the door creaked. A shaft of daylight cut into the forge, carrying with it the smell of fresh bread and the distant sound of the village square stirring to life.
And then Ronan stepped inside.
He filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and tall, with a coil of leather tucked under one arm and a grin that made him look both infuriating and boyish. His brown hair was damp with sweat, as though he'd come straight from hauling crates at the market, and his shirt clung to him in a way I tried not to notice.
"Your forge could melt the hide right off me," he said, fanning himself with exaggerated flair. "Mind if I leave my skin here and pick it up later?"
I rolled my eyes. "Only if you want me to tan it and make boots."
Father snorted, but he didn't look up from his work. That was his way—pretend disinterest, though he missed nothing.
Ronan stepped closer, the grin widening as his gaze flicked from me to the half-finished blade cooling in the trough. "Looks sharp. Planning to use it on anyone in particular?"
"Only on anyone who keeps interrupting my work," I said, lifting the hammer meaningfully.
His laugh was easy, familiar, the kind that warmed the forge in ways the fire never could.
But beneath it, beneath the humor, I caught the faint tension in his eyes. He'd heard the rumors too. Everyone had. And though he wore his grin like armor, I wondered if the thought of war made his chest as tight as mine.