I can’t hear myself think.
People with dull, brown hair and downcast eyes hurry past us. Although they keep their heads down as they pass Malak, more than one of them glances at Skirra and then at Thoren and me, their eyes widening before they quickly look away again.
I consider the rips in their ragged clothing, the scars on their arms and legs and faces, and their thin frames.
They must be humans.
They give Malak such a wide berth that they veer to the very edge of the cobbled path and even step off it if there’s space. They do so in such a way that the path simply opens up before us, the walkway clearing within seconds.
Malak strides onward, his cloak billowing in the increasing dark. A glance behind us tells me that the portcullis is already closing.
Even if we could find a way to dart back through it, we would also have to find a way to remove the claws from our chests along with the metal thread Malak shot through us.
Bells start ringing, jarring my hearing and making me jolt. I quickly locate the large, metal bells located up on the wall, set at intervals.
I’m not the only one who startles.
Skirra’s ears sit flat against his head and Thoren winces with every strike of the bell.
The people around us pick up their pace.
A woman carrying a covered basket murmurs to the child beside her, “Quickly now. Back home before darkness falls and the next bells ring.”
I glance at the sky. The woman didn’t say as much, but I’m guessing the humans aren’t allowed out after dark. The bells must tell them when they have to go indoors.
Malak pauses briefly ahead of us, waiting for us to catch up.
He gestures to the wall, seeming to ignore the bells as he says, “If you want to survive in this city, then you must understand the hierarchy.”
His tone is conversational, but all the while, the threads of tension and anxiety in the air around us only increase as humans hurry past.
“Every Blacksmith House has a role to perform,” he says. “For example, House Renderbronze provides security. You will see them up on the walls and along the streets. House Silverspun is responsible for raising our children and teaching them our ways. And House Copperstream is in charge of mining and coal distribution. Come. I will show you.”
Along the way, he points out the place where the Blacksmiths weave their cloth, a squat building from which emanates a hum of machines.
Next, he gestures to a forge, which he says is just one of the places where metal objects are made.
Finally, he pauses in front of a large, stone building that sits on the left-hand side of the path. The honeyed scent that was so thick around the fires at the northern gate lingers around this building, too.
Blacksmiths with the same copper hair color as Kalith are coming and going from this building, each of them bowing to Malak as they pass.
“That building there is the infirmary,” Malak says, pointing to a smaller building next to the larger one. “But here is our coal house. Crimson coal is required for our forges. It’s mined in the eastern mountains and must be cleaned before it can be used.”
Malak continues. “It’s particularly busy here today. We received a large delivery of coal early this morning, along with the return of the miners and their Blacksmith guards, in preparation for the upcoming festival.”
He peers at me expectantly, as if I’m supposed to speak. So far, he has barely paid any attention to Thoren or Skirra.
I am the center of his unsettling attention.
My voice is cracked with thirst. “A festival?”
It’s the last thing I care about right now.
“To celebrate our students,” Malak replies. “They’re given five days of rest between the forging of each medallion. Once they forge their third medallion, they will have attained their place as our next generation of Blacksmiths, and that merits a celebration. Every Blacksmith home will be bright with festivities.”
He wears a smile as he turns and continues along the path.
Thoren speaks up beside me, his voice a rasp like mine, telling me he’s just as thirsty as I am. “EveryBlacksmithhome,” he says. “What about the humans?”
