“Tomorrow isn’t like a regular hunt.”
“No one knows that more than us,” he says with a note of severity.
I shrug rather than arguing further. Drew lets it drop. We enter the smithy side by side.
The smithy is one of the larger buildings of Hunter’s Hamlet, set off slightly from the rest of the clustered cobblestone structures cramped together like too many teeth in a vampire’s mouth. Unlike the other thatched roofs of the hamlet, its roof is slate, like the fortress’s. Wooden awnings cover the front, welcoming us inside. The forge is at the center of everything, wooden tables stretching out from it. Usually they’re covered in tools and blades. But tonight they’re covered with food and flagons.
This is the hub of Hunter’s Hamlet, as everyone needs the work of a blacksmith, at some point, and tonight is no exception.
The brewer has brought a cask of ale and tapped it fresh. Farmers have gathered around, sipping on the fruit of their labors. The milliner is spinning stories to children up far past bedtime. And thrumming underneath the din of it all is the beating heart of Hunter’s Hamlet—the smith matron, the shield of Hunter’s Hamlet. My mother.
Mother’s hammer rhythmically rises and falls. Her dark hair escapes the tightly braided bun she wears at the nape of her neck, clinging with sweat to the sides of her face. Even now, late in the night before the Blood Moon, we’re still hard at work. There’s still much to be done.
“By the way, who were you talking to before?” I ask Drew as we weave through a gaggle of gossiping elders.
“When?”
“Earlier. Over there.” I gesture toward the corner. Whoever the young lady was, she wasn’t waiting for Drew to come back.
“I’ve spoken with a lot of people tonight; you’ll have to be more specific.” He knows exactly what I’m talking about and is being obtuse.
“Fine, keep your secrets. But if I saw then Mother did, too, and I canpromiseyou’ll have a harder time dodging her questions.”
“It’s just a woman, nothing serious.” Drew rubs the back of his neck.
“Mother is going to lay into you if you keep up this ‘nothing serious’ business with every lady in the hamlet.” I drop the bucket by the forge and shovel in some of the charcoal, moving to work the bellows to alleviate a burst of frustration. Drew can touch, and dance, and feel all he wants. But me… I pull the bellows even harder.
Mother spares me an appreciative glance before promptly returning to her conversation with the tanner. Whatever they’re discussing must be important, because her expression is severe. Could it be there’s something wrong with the last batch of leathers we sent for the hunters to wear tomorrow? I’m instantly trying to recall every clasp and buckle I made, every pauldron and needle. Did I hammer a defect into the metal without realizing?
“I’ve no complaints from anyone I’ve been with.” Drew shrugs. “I’ll settle down eventually, whenever I decide.”
“Must be nice to just decide whenever you want to be with someone or marry them,” I mutter under my breath. I might gracefully accept my role for the betterment of Hunter’s Hamlet around everyone else. But Drew is the one person I don’t need to be graceful in front of.
“I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. I’m sorry, Flor.”
I shake my head and sigh, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. “It’s true.”
“But it might not have to be for long.”
My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“But—”
“Normal time.”
“Nothing about tonight is normal,” I hiss. Our voices have dropped to a whisper. I can’t believe he’s talking about our midnight training within earshot of so many. “Look at how many people are here; we’re not going to have time to—”
I don’t get to finish because I learn what made Drew so confident we’ll be able to sneak a moment alone.
The smithy falls to a hush. Even Mother’s hammer is silent as she rests it on the anvil and plunges the iron she was working into the almost white-hot coals I’ve stoked in the forge. All eyes have turned to the silhouette in the doorway, outlined by a pinkish, festering moon.
This gnarled and fearsome man is Davos, the master hunter, the man whom our world would be lost without.
His clothes are finely made of velvet. A rare material reserved for the master hunter himself as it can only be procured outside the hamlet. His hands are folded atop a walking stick adorned with the silver head of a raven—one identical to the large bird perched on his shoulder. I fight a chill that runs down my spine at the sight of the raven.
The black eyes of the master hunter.
