Elma nodded approvingly. “Good girl.” She turned back to me. “Well, there’s not much to it, like most of ‘em. You just need to use fire to make something, and then you’ll present it at the ceremony in a little over a week. Figure you’ve got that one handled just fine.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Thanks, Elma.”
“You beat that bastard, you hear me? The both of you.”
Elma bustled off again, and then disappeared through the swinging wooden doors to the kitchen. Daella was fidgeting with the bottom hem of her shirt, and I could tell she still felt uneasy about the dragon issue despite what I’d shown and told her. I understood, though. When you spend your entire life in fear of something, it’s hard to let that fear go.
“Don’t worry. It’s normal fire, not dragonfire or actual Fildur flames.”
“You know, I’ve never seen Fildur flames,” she said quietly. “I’ve always wondered what they’re like, being an orc and all.”
“Wait, you haven’t?”
“Isveig, he hates fire. He banned it from Fafnir once he took over the city, even normal flames. When I went on quests with his mercenaries or warriors, we never used fire when we camped. Sometimes they would get so cold—not all of them are ice giants, you know. Still, no fire. They whispered about it like it was all cursed, like itallcame from dragons somehow.” She looked up at me. “But you don’t think that’s true, do you?”
“That all fire comes from dragons?”
She nodded.
“Hmm.” I considered the question. “I think they were likely right, at least when it comes to the magical kind.”
Elma soon hastened to the table, balancing two plates and two mugs of tea. She deposited the food before us and fussed over Daella for a few moments as she explained the perfect combination of olives, bread, and cheese. We ate in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on the food and the brilliant sunrise slanting pink and orange light through the inn’s windows.
Eventually, Kari approached. With her elf healing, there was no hint of the fight on her face. If I didn’t know, I never would have guessed she’d almost died a few days ago. When she reached us, she dropped a small leather pouch onto the table and smiled timidly at Daella.
“I wanted to thank you for pulling me out of the water,” she said, pushing her red hair behind her sharply pointed ear.
“You don’t need to thank me,” Daella said. “How are you doing? Looks like you healed up well.”
Kari smiled. “Only because of you. I owe you one.”
“I—” Daella tried to say, but Kari cut her off.
“I do, and that pouch there is the best I can come up with for now.”
“You really don’t need to give me anything,” Daella said, her eyes churning with a darkness I understood all too well. She didn’t think she deserved it.
“I know. But I’m giving it to you, anyway. Use it to win the Games, eh? Someone needs to beat Gregor.”
And then she patted Daella on the shoulder and wandered back to her table.
Daella shook her head and lifted the pouch from the table, weighing it in her hands. “This smells like Vindur sand.”
“It is,” I said. “Kari brought a stash of it with her when she came here. She used to be a scribe, which meant she had access to all the different Galdur sand in the world. Brought Vindur and Jordur with her, though she doesn’t have much left. It’s a remarkable gift.”
Daella fell silent as she finished her breakfast. Every now and then, she’d look at the pouch and shake her head, like she was thinking about trying to give it back. Thankfully, Kari left before she could.
When we finished eating, I left some extra coin on the table and thanked Elma on our way out. A short walk later, we were back home, and Daella helped me haul open the wide doors to my shop. It had been a few days since I’d opened the place, and the familiar scent of woodsmoke, iron, and fire rushed out into the street. Most weeks, I was open every day without fail, but the people of Wyndale understood things were different this year for Midsummer.
I did have some orders I needed to catch up on, though.
Daella followed as I ducked through the doors. Even though she’d been inside my shop twice already, she gazed at the towering brick forge with awe in her eyes. Pride swelled in my chest. I’d spent months getting this place into shape when I’ve arrived in Wyndale. I’d only been eighteen at the time, and it had been the first thing of my own I’d ever had.
“So what’s your plan?” she asked, running a hand along the flat top of the anvil.
“We need to craft something beautiful and eye-catching.” I watched her move through the shop like she belonged there, examining the hammers and tongs with keen interest. “Something beyond what anyone else will accomplish. Something that will clinch the win.”
“One of your swords, then.”
