The sound of footsteps draws my attention, and I turn to see the blacksmith approaching, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the bright sunlight. His face is a mixture of purpose and reverence as he walks toward me with two fae boys in tow, each holding the handle to a large trunk between them. I set down my water glass and take a step forward, my curiosity piqued.
“Your Majesty,” he greets me with a respectful bow, one hand fisted of his heart.
I blink in surprise. “You’re a faun,” I blurt and slap a hand over my mouth, embarrassment heating my cheeks. “I apologize.”
A boisterous laugh rumbles from the blacksmith, his hazel eyes shining with mirth. “No apologies needed, Your Highness. I’m the blacksmith in Skora.”
“Yes. George, right?”
It’s his turn to look surprised. “You know my name?”
“Maxon took me into Skora, and we passed by your forge. It had some beautiful pieces. You’re very talented.”
George’s eyes grow wide. “That truly means a lot, coming from the Druid Heir.” He bows.
I smile, a warmth invading my cheeks at his kindness. “You wanted to see me?”
“That I did. I have something for you. When I saw you at the king’s crowning, I had a vision.”
I tilt my head to the side, the faint scent of pine needles tickling my nose as he steps closer.
“A vision?”
“Yes.” He turns and gestures for two young fae boys to approach. The markings on the wood give me pause. They are mine and Maxon’s marks. My hand drifts to my face, tracking over the markings there, as the two of them place the trunk on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Lutin and Senka step closer as George opens it.
He pulls out a chest plate with a heart-shaped neckline, adorned with dark green metallic plating that mimics the intricate look of leaves. Delicate, twisting golden vines are embossed along its surface, weaving gracefully across the chest and down the torso, blending seamlessly into a layer of detailed leaves that appear almost alive. The leafy embellishments extend along the edges of the armor, giving it a natural, forest-like aesthetic, as if it were crafted from living plants.
“The design is both elegant and formidable, blending the essence of nature with the unyielding strength of armor,” he declares.
I’m completely speechless. Stepping forward, I glide my fingers over the golden vines, feeling their smooth, intricate texture beneath my fingertips.
“This is stunning,” I whisper in awe.
George beams with pride. “It is a gift.”
He gestures for the men to bring forward more pieces. One of them holds up a set of shoulder guards, spiked and angular, adding an edge of fierceness to the enchanting armor. The other presents a pair of forearm guards, each crafted with the same exquisite ornamental metalwork that ties the set together.
“This is too much,” I breathe, words lost in my astonishment. “How much do I owe you?” I glance up at George, still in disbelief at the beauty of the armor.
“Nothing. This is my gift to you,” he replies warmly.
Before I can protest, he steps forward, lifting the chest plate with gentle hands. “Let’s try it on.”
I hand my glass to Lutin, who takes it without a word, his eyes also fixed on the armor. George carefully fits the chest plate around my torso, adjusting it with care as I lift my arms slightly. The shoulder guards are fastened next, and then the arm guards. Each piece fits perfectly, as though crafted to match my form alone.
“It’s so light.” I move my arms and marvel at the weightlessness of the armor. “It doesn’t even feel like I have anything on.”
George’s grin widens. “Exactly. That’s the magic of it.”
I return his smile, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
“One more thing,” George says, his voice tinged with excitement. He turns and bends down, reaching into a chest beside him. When he stands again, he holds a sword, its silver blade gleaming in the sunlight. He turns back to me, holding it in mydirection. “The king came by and asked that I make you a sword as a wedding gift.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, nearly overwhelming me as I take in the craftsmanship, the blade reflecting rays of light like liquid silver. Golden symbols matching the design of our mate mark are etched along the length of the blade. The hilt gleams with a burnished gold finish, adorned with an intricate crossguard.
The gesture from Maxon, and from George, means more than words can express, and I feel a lump forming in my throat. I reach out to take the sword, feeling its weight, its power, as I cradle it in my hands.
“That is a gorgeous sword,” Senka marvels in awe.
