“Well?” He arched a brow. “What’s the answer?”
“The answer is no, Rivelin. Isveig always sent guards with me. Or mercenaries, depending on what he was after. They never let me out of their sight.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Best get moving, then. We have a lot of wood to gather, if we want to make it back on time.”
“Time for what?” I asked, but he moved down the path without answering.
11
RIVELIN
Ifollowed Daella out of the woods, my arms loaded up with logs. Her hips swayed as she walked, the curves of her lower back tantalizing where they dipped into her well-fitting trousers. I tried not to look but fates be damned. She might be working for the enemy, but she looked delicious doing it.
Her story today had surprised me, and even though I knew it all might be a lie, I leaned toward belief. Isveig had always been a murderous bastard who had tried to paint his war crimes as noble and just. When he’d invaded Fafnir, he’d been “saving” the world from the dragons and their terrible magic.
He hated orcs. I’d always assumed he’d conquered Fafnir so easily because he had a spy in the court, someone who helped him learn their defenses and how to best them. That person had been Daella, or so I’d thought. Now I wasn’t so sure. The look in her eye…that flicker of pain and defiance. The haunted ghost of her fake smile.
It was impossible to feign that kind of pain. I would know.
When we reached the edge of the village, music and laughter already drifted through the air from the market square, where everyone had gathered to celebrate the evening away. Daella and I had been in the woods for hours, gathering branches and sawing logs. She’d spent the time helping me without complaint. In fact, she’d been uncharacteristically silent. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d taken it a bit too far with the dagger. I’d only been trying to get the truth out of her—see if a little extra intensity would get her mask to crack. She was an infamous murk, that kind of thing wouldn’t be new to her. I’d assumed she’d take it in stride.
And she had. Until the silence.
A strange sensation clenched my heart, and I frowned. There was no reason to feel guilty. Maybe Lilia’s arrival in Wyndale had made me softer than I usually was. That was the only logical explanation.
Back at my home, I unlocked the door to the shop on the ground floor. Hollowed out inside, the room held a brick forge along one wall, where I spent hours of my life surrounded by flickering sparks that filled the air like fireflies. Horseshoes and decorative bracelets hung along the timber beams, and my work table held various hammers and tongs. I motioned to an open spot on the floor beside the anvil.
“Just dump the logs there. I’ll sort it all out in the morning.”
The wood tumbled from her arms, logs thudding. “Nice shop.”
I pulled off my gloves and ran my hand along the smooth steel of the anvil, pride unexpectedly blooming in my chest. “I’ve worked real hard on it.”
“What do you make most of here?” she asked in a too-casual voice. That was when I caught the slight flare of her nostrils, quick as a snake. I kept my expression blank, but inside, my heart kicked my ribs. She should not be able to smell any hint of dragons, and yet…there was that flash in her eyes. That knowing glint.
I fought the urge to search the room for any clue as to what had set her off, but I forced myself to appear relaxed.
“A lot of horseshoes. Candlesticks are also a favorite around here, plus the wagons that roll in for every Midsummer Games always need new fixings.”
“Seems like such a waste, what with all this space and your tools. You could craft some incredible daggers and swords.”
“You and your fixation on weapons.”
“I have a right to be. You threw my mother’s dagger into the sea.”
I leveled my gaze at her. “I thought we were being more honest with each other now.”
“I swear to Freya that’s the truth. The dagger you stole from me was once my mother’s.”
“You don’t worship the Old Gods in Fafnir.”
She hissed at me—reallyhissed. “I’m tired of arguing with you. I’m going to bed.”
Daella, with her fierce, wild eyes and her vibrant intensity, spun on her feet toward the door. I caught her arm. The heat of her body seeped into my hands like a furnace. Steam hissed where we touched, and the collision of our skin sent a thick fog sweeping across us.
She glanced back at me, and her cheeks bloomed like spring flowers. “What’s happening?”
“I’m an elf from Edda. We have a bit of Vatnor magic in our blood, and orcs run hot, like you’ve said. Have you never touched an elf before?”
