I crouch to help him gather his parchments.
He picks up the final one and hugs the stack to his chest. "I was on my way to the royal library. I've been reconsidering my vocation."
"Your knighthood?" I arch a brow.
He winces faintly. "I fear I am spectacularly unsuited to it. The sight of blood makes me faint."
The air shifts between us. A faint prickle along my spine. It passes quickly.
"You wish to abandon the sword for ink," I say simply.
He blinks. "When you put it that way, it sounds rather cowardly. I suppose I am a coward."
The words are humble. But the cadence is not.
"What will you do?" I ask him.
"I thought perhaps I might request reassignment as an archivist, something quieter," Cedwyn says earnestly.
The bells continue to toll behind us as I study him.
"If you truly wish to lay down the sword, I need a scribe," I say carefully.
A pulse of something flickers across his face. "That is… a generous offer."
"I need someone to manage correspondence, maintain records, catalogue the intelligence reports coming in from the outer passages," I continue.
He blinks again, slower this time.
"I would be honored," he says, bowing.
"Report to the library at first light. We will see whether ink suits you better than steel," I tell him.
Cedwyn nods eagerly. "Yes, Your Highness."
He hurries off, nearly tripping over his own boots. I remain still on the steps.
A clumsy squire, and yet… the back of my neck tingles. I cannot name the feeling. But I have learned not to ignore it.
Instead of returning to the palace, I turn toward the old castle behind it. The prison forge sits half-buried beneath stone arches, smoke curling lazily into the winter air. The guards outside are laughing over a skin of ale.
They barely notice me pass.
I don't need the iron key from the warden's ring. They've left the prison unlocked, trusting the fetters bolted to the floor to keep the prisoner where he belongs.
I stand at the entrance for a moment. Then I step into the warmth. The forge is smaller than I expected. Finished metalwork lines the walls. A copper pot with a leaping fish for a handle hangs near small helmets built for children and a row of little figures set neatly on a shelf. There is not a single sword or piece of armor.
Hrolf stands over the anvil with sleeves rolled up and beard braided back. He looks up and freezes. Recognition flickers in his eyes.
"Ah, didn’t expect to see you again, little elf."
Yes, little elf.
The girl who once stepped between him and my uncle's blade. He does not know I am the queen of Aelfheim.
I incline my head. "Hrolf."
He studies me a moment longer, then jerks his chin toward the tables. "Look if ye want. Just don't burn yerself."
