Weeks ago, that would’ve made me blush and stumble over my words. Right now, my smile vanishes.
A line appears across Malin’s brow as he studies me like before. He’s always been perceptive, and I sense I’m giving away too much. I wonder what he sees.
He finally speaks into my silence. “Well, if he’s going, I’ll pick Seph for sure. He’s solid, and they get on well.”
That doesn’t help. Now I’m trying not to frown. Mal told me so many stories about Sephran that I thought we’d return from Syhl Shallow and we’d all become friends. He spoke with such fondness that I began tolongfor it.
But every time I see Sephran, his expression is unfriendly, his eyes ice cold as he regards me. He’spolite, but it’s a distant politeness, as if I’ve offended him somehow— which I can’t figure out. Does he resent my position? I’ve encountered that before . . . though he seemed friendly enough when I first met him. The change is only since I returned to Ironrose. Could he be bothered by my friendship with Malin?
I have no idea what to say, but I have to saysomething, or my lengthysilence is going to turn awkward. “Whoever you think is best,” I say flatly, though I have no idea if I really mean that. I press my heels into Mercy. “I’m heading for the forge to tell Jax next.”
Malin nods, then steers his horse to fall in step beside me. “I’ll join you.”
But as he does, Mercy slows, sensing my trepidation.
I give her another nudge, because I don’t want Malin to pick up on it. “No,” I say. I still have no idea how to extend this invitation. I definitely don’t want to do it with Malin at my back. That feels too official. “You should head for the barracks and make your other choice. Have them pack up and see to their unit commanders. The king intends for us to leave by first light.”
His eyebrows go up again, and I realize my tone has lost any hint of lighthearted banter. But Malin is a good soldier, and there’s a reason he earned a new stripe on his sleeve.
“Yes, sir,” he says sharply. Without another word, he gives me a salute, then whirls his horse to head south, toward the barracks.
Leaving me on my solitary path to the forge.
CHAPTER 5
JAX
In Syhl Shallow, the forge was always hot and miserable in the summer, but Emberfall is worse. By late afternoon, the heat in the air is nearly unbearable, with a cloying humidity that makes everything sticky. My forearms are always gritty with soot and grime, and any strands of hair that escape the knot at my neck end up clinging to my face. I’m lucky that I can do my work in a loose tunic and casual trousers, with nothing heavier than the leather apron I wear to hold my tools. The soldiers have it worse, with damp skin under their armor and sweat threading their hair. The horses always arrive with darkened flanks, their tails aggressively swishing at flies.
After a day of work, a unique smell clings to this end of the forge. It’s not oppressive, but it’s definitely . . .pungent.
I’m hot and tired and ready to be done, but another soldier is already leading a horse through the smoky shadows, and I swear under my breath. But then I do a double take: the animal is a deep mahogany bay with a stripe down its face.
Mercy?I snap my gaze back to the soldier, hoping for Tycho.
But no— it’s not him. And the horse isn’t Mercy. Just another army steed that needs new shoes.
I tether the animal to a post and sigh. I should’ve known better.
When Tycho was sent away to Syhl Shallow, I spent weeks hoping for any sign of him.Months.I’d stare at the horizon, watching for the rich brown of his mare’s coat, hoping they’d come galloping over the hill. Since the day we met, I’ve known that his job— hislife— is bound to the whim of the king. But that didn’t stop me from lying awake every night, wishing thattomorrowwould be the day he’d reappear. I’d imagine it constantly: he’d return with windblown cheeks and sparks in his eyes and hours’ worth of stories to share. There’d be no more harassment from the soldiers who hate that I was born on the other side of the mountain, there’d be no more attacks from the vicious winged scravers that could swoop down from the sky and dismember a man in seconds.
There’d be no more loneliness weighing on my heart, no more worry tightening my chest, and no more desperation crowding every thought.
For months, I craved his presence. I thought he’d return to Ironrose Castle and my world would right itself.
But he’s been back for two weeks, and nothing feels right at all.
The worst part is that I can’t quite figure outwhy. The first night he returned, I invited him back to the Shield House with me, expecting to fall back into the casual ease we’ve always shared. But somehow that ease wasn’t there anymore, replaced with an odd distance. I’d expected him to stay the night, but within an hour, our conversation became short and stilted. Awkward, like he became someone different during his months away— or maybe I did. Eventually, he claimed obligations in the castle and left.
Is it his role? I don’t want to think so, but . . . maybe. Tycho isn’t one to put on airs, but it’s impossible to miss. Every stitch of his clothingspeaks to wealth and privilege: the calfskin leather, the silver buckles, the threads in vibrant colors that I rarely see on anyonecommon. Tycho looks like exactly who he is: a young nobleman with power and influence— and access to the royal family. I’m just a blacksmith, with soot on my hands and hair in my face. That didn’t seem to matter when he’d visit my forge in Briarlock, but it definitely mattershere.
Since that first night, I’ve tried to shake off the new tension between us, but it seems impossible. He doesn’t mean to be an intrusion, but most everyone knows who he is— especially now that the king has returned alone, withdrawing Emberish forces from Syhl Shallow. I was no stranger to village gossip when I worked in Briarlock, but this close to royalty, it’svicious. Every time Tycho appears in the forge, any casual conversation ceases. The nearby blacksmiths fall silent, hoping to catch a stray word they can whisper about later. Soldiers shut up and snap to attention, all icy formality— including myfriends, like Sephran and Leo.
If Tycho were a common soldier, even one from Syhl Shallow, they wouldn’t do any of that. Sephran and the others would likely invite him to come shooting, and we’d all ride out to the fields together. They’d grouse about officers or complain about their duties or share gossip from the barracks— just like they do with me.
They’re sure not going to do any of that in front of the King’s Courier.
I shift to the other side of the horse I’m working on, and the accompanying soldier sighs, muttering under his breath. I ignore him, because I know he’s just hot and miserable. They used to grumble atmeand knock my crutches into the dirt, but since I helped save a dozen of them from a scraver attack, a lot of the Emberish soldiers have stopped being total assholes.
