Cindrissian produced a pouch from somewhere in his clothes and tossed it onto the bench. Thethunkit made told me exactly how much coin was in there.
Too much. Way too much.
“I can’t—” I started.
“It’s absurd you’ve been left unarmed this long,” Cindrissian cut me off. “Might as well fix it with some decent blades.”
I hesitated, fingers wrapped around the dagger’s hilt. It felt right there. Like it belonged. But?—
“Is it a problem?” Cindrissian was studying me now, head tilted in that way that said he was actually curious, not just performing interest.
“The only blacksmith I’ve ever taken blades from before was my husband,” I admitted quietly.
Cindrissian’s expression shifted into surprise. “I didn’t know you were married to a blacksmith.”
I nodded, throat tight. “He wasn’t just a blacksmith. He wastheblacksmith. Brilliant, stubborn, covered in soot most of the time.” The laugh that escaped was half grief, half fondness. “Navaire made every blade I ever owned. Said he’d rather forge my weapons himself than trust my life to some stranger’s steel.”
I traced one of the runes with my fingertip, the metal cool against my skin.
“He used to say that every blade should know its wielder’s heartbeat.”
“He sounds like a smart man,” Cindrissian said quietly.
“He was.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us would say. Then Cindrissian’s voice came again, softer than I’d heard it all night.
“He also sounds like a man who’d want his wife to be properly armed, even if he couldn’t forge the blades himself.”
Something in my chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.
I lifted the blade again, flipping it in my hand. The movement was automatic, muscle memory from years of practice.
“Show off,” Cindrissian muttered.
The balance was exquisite. Perfect. Almost as good as Navaire’s.
I felt the hum then. Faint but insistent, vibrating through the metal and into my bones. Like the blade was singing, pitched too low to hear but impossible to ignore. I lifted the second dagger, and the sensation intensified. The two frequencies harmonized, vibrating with something deep in my chest that felt suspiciously like power.
“They’re humming,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.
“Humming?” The blacksmith’s brow furrowed. “No, that wouldn’t be the blades. Moonsilver doesn’t?—”
“We’ll take them,” Cindrissian interrupted smoothly. “And some sheaths. Quality ones.”
The blacksmith nodded, already moving to gather the appropriate accessories, but Cindrissian’s attention stayed fixed on me. Too focused. Too intent.
“Have you heard that hum any other time?” he asked quietly.
I hesitated. The memory of the Veil rose up unbidden, that moment when I’d felt the world itselfsingingin my blood. The moments since then, when it had felt like the shadows of the world had a music of their own.
“No,” I lied. “Never.”
The look on Cindrissian’s face told me he didn’t believe me for a second.
Cindrissian took the sheaths from the blacksmith, dark leather worked with silver thread, supple and well-made. He dropped to one knee in front of me without ceremony.
“What are you?—”
