The forge is cold.
I notice it every morning now—the way the metal sits silent in its rack, how thick ash has settled in the hearth where fire should be crackling and popping. My father’s forge, my mother’s forge, and now mine for eight years. But I haven’t had time to light it in weeks. There’s always something else that needs doing.
Someone else who needs saving.
I run my fingers along the anvil’s edge, feeling the familiar pits and grooves worn smooth by three generations of Mitchells. My father used to say the forge was the heart of Ironhold—that as long as the fire burned, the village would survive. He died before he could see how wrong he was. The fire went cold the night the chaos-beast tore through our home, and Ironhold has been dying by inches ever since.
But that’s not something anyone wants to hear, so I don’t say it.
The morning mist curls through the main square like fingers searching for something to grip. I stand at the edge of the smithy’s shadow, a cup of cold tea forgotten in my hands, and watch the messenger’s horse pick its way up the narrow mountain path. Stone Court livery—I can tell even at this distance by the bronze and gray colors, the way the rider sits his horse with that particular Fae arrogance.
Another tribute demand. It has to be. That’s all they come here for these days.
I set down the tea and check my weapons automatically. Sword at my hip, knife in my boot, throwing blade tucked against my forearm. I count the exits from the square—three, plus the rooftops if I’m desperate—and note the positions of the few villagers already awake. Old Marta sweeping her doorstep.The baker’s boy hauling water from the well. Councilman Harrick pretending not to watch me from his window.
None of them will help if this goes badly. They never do.
My hand finds the sword at my hip, fingers wrapping around the worn leather grip. It’s good steel—I forged it myself the year after my parents died, working the metal until my hands bled and my arms shook, because no one else was going to make me a blade and I refused to face the monsters unarmed. Not that it would help against Fae magic, but the weight of it settles something in my chest. Makes me feel less like a girl playing at being a warrior and more like someone who might actually survive another day.
“Hannah.” Elder Brennan’s voice comes from behind me, thin and reedy with age. “The messenger—”
“I see him.”
“Perhaps we should gather the council before—”
“Perhaps you should go back inside, Elder. I’ll handle this.”
I don’t turn around. Don’t need to see the relief that washes over his face, the way his thin shoulders sag as he passes the weight to me. Again. The way he’s been passing weight to me since I was sixteen years old and he realized that the blacksmith’s daughter had more steel in her spine than every elder on his council combined.
That first year, they’d at least pretended to be grateful.Thank you, Hannah. We don’t know what we’d do without you, Hannah. Your parents would be so proud.
Now they just expect it. Send Hannah to negotiate with the traders. Send Hannah to investigate the strange noises from the northern caves. Send Hannah to stand watch when the chaos-beasts howl in the distance, because someone has to and it certainly won’t be them.
I was sixteen when I killed my first monster, standing over my parents’ bodies with a sword I barely knew how to hold. I’ve killed thirty-seven since then. I know because I carved a notch into the forge’s doorframe for each one, back when I still thought someone might notice. Might saywell doneorthat must have been frighteningorhere, let me take a turn.
No one ever did.
The messenger pulls up on his horse and scans the square, looking for someone in charge. His eyes skip right over me—a young woman in worn leather, dark hair pulled back in a practical braid, nothing impressive about her except the sword at her hip and the scars on her hands.
“I’m looking for the village council,” he says to the air above my head.
“You found it.”
His gaze drops to me, and I watch the familiar calculation cross his face. Too young. Too female. Too human. “I was told to speak with the elders—”
“The elders will tell you to speak with me. So let’s save time.” I hold out my hand. “The tribute demands?”
He hesitates, but something in my expression must convince him I’m not going to make this easy. With a soft noise of disapproval, he pulls a sealed scroll from his saddlebag and places it in my palm.
“A delegation from Stone Court will arrive at sunset. Guardian Karax Terranus requires the village’s tribute be readyfor inspection at that time.” His voice is clipped, professional, already dismissing me. “The specific demands are listed within.”
“And if we can’t meet the demands?”
Something flickers across his face—not quite pity, but close. He knows what happens to villages that fall short. Everyone knows.
“Then alternative arrangements will be discussed.”
Alternative arrangements. Such a polite way to saywe’ll take what we want anyway, and you’ll thank us for not burning your homes while we do it.
