Relief floods through my dead heart. One weapon of such destruction is tragedy enough. Multiple would be apocalypse.
“But the Fae King does not need my weapon to wipe out Aelfheim,” Hrolf adds, his voice low and grim. “He commands far deadlier arsenals. Aelfheim cannot win this war against the united might of Darvan, Myrkheim, and Avalon.”
“I don’t care about Aelfheim.”
His weathered features soften. “You care about your wife.”
Yes.She is my sun and moon. The one who looks at the monster I am and reaches for my hand anyway.
Hrolf pauses to consider his next words carefully. “I would take her and run, son.”
If only it were that simple.
My wife is the Queen of Aelfheim. She will die fighting to protect her people. But he doesn’t know that. Hrolf thinks I married some elf and became loyal to their kind through love alone.
The beast of Hel in me whispers agreement.We take Rhianelle and lock her away until the war is over.
The noble wolf snarls.She will hate us.
Better she hates us than lies dead,Coinneach chimes in.
I ignore their argument, though I’m always amazed that all of them have somehow fallen in love with Rhianelle just as I have. Even the darkest parts of my fractured soul recognize her light.
“Your hammer work is still sloppy,” Hrolf declares, changing the subject with the bluntness I’ve come to appreciate. He gestures toward a smaller anvil set aside for my use. “Now stop gawking and work those bellows. This iron won’t heat itself.”
I move to the bellows, pumping air into the furnace until the coals glow white hot. The physical labor feels good and grounding. When I finish, I turn to face him directly.
“Teach me your craft,” I say.
The eclipse is coming. I will need something strong enough to endure what I might become before the sky darkens.
Hrolf turns to face me fully, his dark eyes studying my face intensely. “You want to learn smithing?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze. “I need to make armor for my wife.”
He considers this for several heartbeats while the forge flames dance behind him. Then he nods toward the smaller anvil positioned near the wall. “I will teach you armor work. Helms, breastplates, mail if you prove capable.” He pauses, meeting my gaze. “But I will not show you weapon forging.”
“Why not?”
“I will never make a weapon for the elves,” he says, his voice hardening.
He runs his fingers along a curved breastplate on his bench. “Besides, weapons make widows and orphans. I have made enough of both for one lifetime.”
I respect the boundaries he sets. Given his hatred for elvenkind, his terms are more than fair. “Armor is all I need.”
“Start with something simple,” Hrolf instructs, returning to his own work. “A horseshoe. Basic shape and technique. If you can make one that will hold a Noctral’s weight without cracking, we continue.”
I move to my station, feeling the familiar weight of the hammer in my hand. Hrolf pulls a bar of iron from the coals and sets it on my anvil. The metal glows orange in the dim light.
“Heat it first. Watch the color. When it reaches cherry red, you strike.”
I adjust my grip and bring the hammer down. The impact sends vibrations up my arm. The metal barely moves.
“Again. Harder. You’re not petting a kitten.”
I strike again, finding a rhythm. Each blow brings me closer to understanding the craft. The metal slowly curves beneath my strikes.
“Focus,” Hrolf barks as I swing again. “Your mind wanders.”
