Veyrion stepped closer beside me. “You’re watching the wrong thing,” he said quietly.
My gaze flicked to him.
“The flames aren’t the power,” he continued, nodding toward the smith. “The hands are.”
The hammer struck. Steel screamed.
He leaned slightly, voice lowering — not for secrecy, but for me. “Fire is only destruction when it’s left wild.”
My pulse stuttered.
“In the hands of a smith,” he went on, eyes still on the forge, though I could feel his attention anchored to me, “it becomes something else.”
Another strike. Sparks scattered.
“Something honed.”
His focus shifted. Found mine.
“Something strong.”
I glanced again at the glowing embers, the way the flames curled and licked the iron. The fire felt alive. And somehow… it made sense.
I drifted a few steps away, feigning interest in a rack of ornamental blades, though my ears remained trained on every word.
They spoke of reforging old steel. Of weight. Of balance. Of what was to come.
The blacksmith disappeared into the back room and returned with a long bundle wrapped in thick cloth. With practiced hands, he untied it and folded the fabric back.
A beautifully crafted axe lay within—its head etched with interlocking runes, the steel polished to a mirrored shine. The edge caught the forge light like captured lightning.
Veyrion took it without ceremony.
But not without reverence.
He tested the weight, rolling his wrist once, twice. The movement was fluid—intimate. The weapon fit him as though it had been waiting.
A rare smile touched his mouth. Unshielded. Almost boyish.
The blacksmith returned with a second bundle. Smaller. Handled with more care. Cloth fell away.
A smaller axe lay revealed—elegant and lethal. The blade slimmer but no less deadly, its steel etched with delicate runes that echoed those on Veyrion’s weapon. A crescent had been carved into the handle, subtle but unmistakable. The dark leather grip was molded for a finer hand.
The town unfolded before us, carved from timber and stone, snow clinging to steep roofs. Each building bore the stamp of an old lineage—dragon-headed beams, rune-carved thresholds, doors banded with hammered bronze.
Veyrion extended his arm slightly. “Come. There’s more I want to show you.”
He walked beside me without speaking, letting me take it in. We passed weavers knotting wool into thick cloaks, smiths drawing blades along whetstones, children carving shapes into the snow with sticks.
At one stall, a woman with wind-burned cheeks and dye-stained hands lifted a bolt of fabric—deep green stitched with threads of gold. “Lady,” she said with a small incline of her head. “Would suit you well.”
Lady.They said it so easily, as though it fit. I murmured a polite thank you, uncertain, and turned away before she could press it further.
Veyrion led me to the center of town, where a wide square opened around a great firepit ringed in stone. The flames burned steady despite the snow, throwing orange light against the surrounding benches carved with knotwork scenes—beasts, battles, ships.
“This,” Veyrion said, gesturing to the firepit, “is where the town gathers. For feasts. For war councils. For weddings. For all celebrations. It is the heart.”
His voice carried differently now—not with command, but with something closer to reverence. “And when Yule begins in just a few days,” he continued, his tone warming as though he could already see it, “this place will transform. The townsfolk will gather around the fire, to remind the gods—and themselves—that the dark cannot last forever.”
