Yes, he has never tested it against a Strigon like me.
Before I can press him further, the forge door scrapes open. Cool air rushes in, hissing against the heat. Both of us turn.
Shade slinks through the entrance, clutching a roll of parchment and a small earthenware pot that contains cheap ink. The prison guards don't stop him. They rarely stop either of us. Grimsbane visits mean fewer attempts on Hrolf's life. Fear works better than iron bars.
"Fifth lesson," I mutter to the assassin.
"I know." His voice is quiet, defensive. "I've been practicing."
"Have you?" I arch a brow. "Can you write your name yet?"
Silence answers me. I set the hammer down with a dull clang and wipe my hands on a rag.
"Sit," I say. "We'll try again."
The Grimsbane moves toward the wooden bench along the wall.
But he isn't alone.
A wolf pads into the forge behind him. The creature is magnificent, with slick charcoal fur. It sits like a soldierat attention, back straight and forepaws aligned. There's something almost regal about its bearing.
Hrolf sets down his tools slowly. "Did you bring a wolf to my forge?"
"He's polite," Shade says, dipping his quill into the ink pot as if this is a perfectly reasonable answer. "Please let him stay."
The wolf's ears swivel toward us, tracking the conversation with obvious comprehension. Those sapphire eyes regard me with an awareness that no animal should possess.
"He's one of the strays the Queen feeds," Shade adds quickly, as if that settles it.
I know that already.
I can smell her on him. Rhianelle patted this creature yesterday. That is not what troubles me. What troubles me is that he is not a wolf.
Not truly.
Through Wendy's eyes, I see the shape beneath the fur, the echo of another form. Elven lines, something halved or hidden. I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
"Master smith,” Shade says carefully, glancing at Hrolf. "May my friend stay?"
Hrolf grunts. "Fine. But keep it away from the fire."
"Start," I tell Shade.
He spreads the parchment across the bench, weighing the corners with small stones. The wolf settles at his feet, tail curling neatly around its paws, watching everything.
Ink immediately blotches across the surface in an ugly splatter. Shade curses whoever invented writing and tries again. The letters he manages are heavy-handed and crooked. The 'S' of his name resembles a dying snake.
Hrolf returns to the anvil beside me, but his attention keeps drifting to the bench. "Never thought I'd see this," he mutters in Dwarvish, shaking his head.
He is watching the wolf that had procured its own parchment. The creature dips the paw's edge into the ink pot and draws across the canvas.
I stop hammering to watch. The wolf makes another mark, and the shapes begin to form recognizable patterns.
"By the mountain fathers," Hrolf breathes.
The wolf completes a passable letter ‘L’. Not perfect, but leagues better than Shade's attempt. Then it starts on another letter.
Shade stares at the wolf's parchment, then at his own ruined attempt. His face darkens with embarrassment.
