The word still caught me off guard every time.
“This is Nerina,” Veyrion said, his voice carrying a quiet authority that seemed to settle the forge itself. “She is my guest.”
The smith didn’t notice my amusement—or if he did, he ignored it. He bowed his head again, respectful. “Any guest of Skeldrhall is a guest of the forge.”
Veyrion exchanged a few quiet words with the smith, gesturing toward a rack of weapons—axes, swords, and something that looked like a harpoon.
I wandered around the shop, careful not to touch anything. I kept my hands clasped behind my back, as though that alone might prevent disaster.
The place smelled of oil and hot iron, of leather worn smooth by hands stronger than mine. Blades gleamed along the walls, their edges catching the firelight in bright, dangerous flashes.
I turned too quickly—and my hip clipped a narrow stand I hadn’t seen. There was a split second of dreadful balance.
Which, of course, is when disaster found me.
A chaoticclatter-clank-clinkechoed as a cascade of daggers spilled across the stone floor in a metallic riot, skidding in every direction like startled fish.
The shop went silent.
“Oh—stars, I am so sorry,” I rushed out, dropping immediately to my knees. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t touching—I mean, I was trying not to touch—”
I scrambled to gather the fallen daggers, nearly knocking one farther away in my haste. The stone bit cold through my dress as I reached for another. “I can fix it. I will clean it up. I just—”
Veyrion crouched beside me.
Close enough that the warmth of him pressed through the chill air. Close enough that I could feel the weight of his presence before I dared look up.
His hand closed over mine. Not hard. Just enough to still me.
“Slowly, theseareweapons after all,” he murmured.
His fingers slid from mine, gathering the blades with deliberate ease. Efficient. Controlled. As if the world only ever moved at his chosen pace.
“You would think,” he chuckled, “that someone raised by the sea would be more graceful.”
Heat flooded my face. “The sea does not hang blades at elbow height.”
A quiet laugh escaped him—low, warm, entirely too pleased. Not mocking. But undeniably amused. “We will consider this a lesson in spatial awareness.”
I pressed my lips together, mortified, and handed him the last dagger.
When the blades were rehung and the chain secured, I rose carefully, brushing invisible dust from my palms as if that might erase the moment.
Noticing my embarrassment, my glance lingering on the forge—on the way the flames devoured and reshaped the iron—Veyrion turned back to me.
“Do you know what a blacksmith is, Neri?”
I arched a brow, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of admitting the truth. I’d heard the word before, yes—but not like this. Not with reverence. Not with weight. Beneath the sea, the Tidekeepers had made sure I knew only what served them. Sometimes that ignorance felt like shackles of it's own.
So I nodded instead, pretending, while shame burned hot beneath my skin.
Veyrion didn’t press. He only nodded toward the smith, who was stoking the fire with a heavy iron rod.
“A blacksmith is more than a metalworker here,” he said—not with mockery, but with quiet respect, as though he wanted me to understand, not impress me. Not belittle me. “They shape not only steel, but legacy. Every blade, every bit of armor, every link of chain forged in that fire carries weight—honor, blood, duty. In Ymirskald, the forge is sacred. A place where war is born, and sometimes peace too.”
The forge roared as the smith thrust iron back into the heart of the flames. Fire curled and licked at the metal, devouring it without mercy.
I stared at it longer than I meant to. The way it swallowed. The way it reshaped. The way it demanded surrender.
