Page 109 of Fallen Nocturne

My uncle has not forgotten that Hrolf gave his own blood to save me. He sent new smithing tools to the forge and even presented a motion to the council asking for Hrolf’s pardon. The motion has not passed, but Rainer continues to press for it.

That alone should be strange enough. My uncle fought against Darvan during the war and has never hidden his hatred for dwarves.

Yet there is something else that bothers me more.

Whenever I wander too close to this forge, Shade appears to escort me home. I always assumed Rainer was merely being overprotective and keeping me away from Hrolf.

But now I am no longer certain Hrolf was ever the reason at all.

My gaze drifts to Arescaine.

Questions about him are met with careful answers. Council members avoid certain questions, and conversations change the moment I appear. Even my own knights and handmaidens sometimes seem to steer me away before I can ask too much.

Sometimes it feels as though the entire city knows something I do not.

Then there are my own memories, full of missing roads. Pieces of my life should be there, but they are not.

The more I think about it, the harder it becomes to believe any of this is accidental.

If anyone could persuade an entire city to keep a secret from me, it would be Rainer.

But why?

I push the question aside and look at Hrolf. “Lady Deirdre said it took four bags of blood to save me.” I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. “Thank you.”

“Please, lass.” Hrolf holds up a hand. “I have plenty of blood to spare. But that does not change what you did for me, and it does not erase the debt.”

Hrolf turns and walks to a workbench in the corner, where something large rests beneath a cloth. He picks it up and brings it back to me.

“I’m a weaponsmith,” he says. “Been forging for three hundred years. I swore I’d never make a weapon for an elf. Swore it on my daughter’s grave after what your kind did at Dunrovin.”

Shame settles heavily in my stomach. The horrors of Dunrovin are no secret to me, least of all what they cost Hrolf. His daughter died, and nothing I say can ever make that right.

There are no words that would be adequate.

“I am sorry,” I say quietly. “What the elves did to your people was unforgivable. I cannot change the past, and I will never defend it.”

His jaw tightens, old pain flickering across his face. “But you’re not like them. You proved that when you saved a dwarf who had every reason to hate you. So I’m breaking my oath. Just this once.”

He pulls away the cloth.

The sword beneath takes my breath away.

It’s beautiful. No—beautiful is too small a word. It’s magnificent, a work of art that could take a life as easily as it takes my breath. The blade is long and slightly curved, the metal so perfectly polished. It catches the firelight and throws it back in brilliant colors.

“Starfall steel,” Hrolf says, watching my face. “Rarest metal in the world. Comes from minerals that fall from the sky once every century or so. I’ve been hoarding this piece for five hundred years, waiting for something worthy of it.”

He offers me the sword, and I take it carefully.

The crossguard is wrought in the shape of spreading branches, delicate in appearance but strong beneath my fingertips. White leather wraps the grip, soft as silk against my palm. Set into the pommel is a pale stone that glows with a faint inner light.

“Hrolf, this is incredible,” I breathe, turning the sword slowly in my hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Moonstone from the deepest mines of Darvan,” Hrolf explains. “I want you to have this sword.”

I stare at the blade, overwhelmed. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much and far too precious.”

When I hold the sword out to Hrolf, he refuses to take it. My eyes dart to Arescaine for help. But he has already turned back to Coral’s brace, adjusting one of the joints.