He’s right.
Even past stone walls and the clamor of the forge, I can feel Rhianelle’s heartbeat. Her pulse has spiked. Perhaps someone in the council has said something foolish. She’s somewhere in the palace, drowning in council duties as she manages the aftermath of the prisoner exchange. Part of me wants to be there, supporting her through the endless meetings. But she needs good armor more than she needs my presence in those chambers.
I push away the awareness of her presence and strike again. The metal curves properly this time.
“Better,” Hrolf grunts. “Now the other side. Keep the curve even.”
I work the iron until it takes the rough shape of a horseshoe. My technique is clumsy, the strikes uneven, but the basic form emerges. I’ve seen the enemy now at Lysander’s Crossing. The wyverns, the fae warriors. They bring death with them. I need to make sure Rhianelle survives whatever comes next.
The forge heat wraps around me and I lose myself in the rhythm of creation. Strike, turn, strike again. Rhianelle’s heartbeat becomes a distant drum that guides my hammer home.
My horseshoe takes final shape under Hrolf’s critical eye. It bears the marks of amateur work, the curves slightly uneven, the thickness inconsistent. But it holds together under his testing.
“Passable,” he declares, which from him might as well be high praise. “Do it again. Until your hands remember the motion without your mind needing to guide them.”
I return the iron to the coals and begin anew.
The scentof heated metal clings to my clothes despite the time I spent washing the soot from my hands and face. The back streets of the castle district are quiet at this hour. Most servants have retired for the night, and the nobles prefer the well-lit main corridors. I take this route because it’s faster and because I’ve had enough of people for one day.
I turn the corner toward the royal wing, eager to find Rhianelle and discover how she spent the day. The morning’s events at Lysander’s Crossing continue to puzzle me. Sanguisyl’s strange behavior, the deliberate way the elven elders sabotaged what should have been a simple negotiation. Something about the entire affair feels wrong, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit together.
Despite my vampire endurance, I feel the subtle ache from hammering dwarven steel. It’s a feeling I miss from mortal days, the honest fatigue of hard work.
“Evening, vampire.”
The voice is flat and emotionless.
I don’t move or reach for my weapons. I recognize this particular brand of stupidity.
“Shade.”
The grimsbane materializes fully from the darkness between two support pillars. His dull gray hair and the demonic half-mask covering his face make him look like something from a nightmare. No one has ever seen what lies beneath that mask. The exposed half of his face shows pale skin and grey eyes with an unusual violet tint that always makes me pause.
It annoys me that I notice these details.
“You’re getting sloppy,” he says to me. “I could have killed you.”
The bastard can try.
He stands directly in my path but maintains enough distance to react if I choose violence. His hands rest casually at his sides, though I know he can reach any of his concealed weapons faster than a blink.
“Grimsbane.” I don’t slow my pace. “You’re in my way.”
“I require a moment of your time,” he requests.
“I have somewhere to be,” I reply, stepping forward.
“This concerns your queen’s wellbeing.”
The words stop me cold. Every instinct sharpens as I reassess the situation, searching for signs of immediate threat. Shade has all the emotional range of a brick wall, but he’s never used Rhianelle’s name lightly.
“Explain.”
“I want something from you in exchange for this,” he says, a hard edge in his voice.
I could summon Coinneach to rise behind him, snap his neck before he draws another breath. But Rhianelle would notice this fucker’s absence. She considers him a friend. That annoys me again.
“I have information,” Shade continues. “About who hurt the queen in Tavan.”
