Chapter 8
Shadow
“F uck,” I growled, tossing my hammer into the wood bucket sitting beside my anvil. Grabbing the red-hot blade, I shoved it back into the ravenous forge. Along with it, some of the meat seared off from my right hand.
The smell of burning flesh permeated the air.
I rolled my hand over, observing the damage I’d inflicted. Bits of iron bone peeked through burnt skin. Tipping my masked face to the ceiling, I rolled my neck back, stretching out my taut muscles. A breath of air passed my lips as I leaned into the sweet sensation of pain.
It was one of very few things in this world that felt good.
“Shadow, your hand,” a worried voice said, followed by rushed footsteps. “Let me see it.” Small, feminine hands, half the size of my own, cradled mine—her skin so soft. So delicate.
“It’s fine,” I answered, although I didn’t pull my hand away, quite liking the feel of her touch.
Avriel shot me an incredulous look. “It does not look fine.” Letting my hand go, she reached for the small cloth pouch hanging on her belt, right beside the rabbit’s foot I had given her for her birthday last year. She loosened the tie and stuck two fingers and a thumb inside.
I leaned in, pretending to get a better look at what she was doing—although I already knew. We’d done this countless times before. In truth, I just wanted to be closer to her. I breathed her in, savoring her citrusy, herbal scent. Lemons, bergamot, and rosemary.
If this world was a free one where I could openly speak my mind, and someone was to ask me what my favorite scent was, I’d point to her. If they asked me what my favorite color was, I’d say her eyes. Favorite anything? Easy answer—her.
But this world was not free, nor was I, so I could never tell anyone that.
Not even her, despite how badly I longed to.
“Hold still,” she scolded me as she sprinkled the silver powder over my injuries.
Upon contact, it began to melt. Then, it began to bubble, emitting small hisses before it disappeared.
Small threads, the color of my tanned skin, began to shoot from one side of the wound to the other, stitching the burns back together, until my hand was as good as new.
The process was painless, no more than a tickle .
She looked up at me and asked, “Better?”
“Better,” I said, stealing a glance at her heart-shaped mouth. I bet she had the softest lips.
“Good.” She flashed me a smile, the small gap between her teeth ever present. When I was a young, foolish boy, I would tease her about it, but now, I found it endearing.
I smiled back at her, the gesture hidden beneath my mask.
Our gazes caught, hooked for a moment too long before we both forced ourselves to look away. I turned to my forge while she tied her pouch shut.
Holding on to the seesaw-style lever, I pressed down and then brought it back up, repeating the motion.
This filled one of the bellows with air while the other emptied, feeding oxygen to the fire.
The flames grew brighter, feasting on what it was being given.
With each push and each pull, the heat from the forge wafted toward me, lapping at my skin, causing beads of sweat to brim.
That was precisely why I didn’t bother wearing a shirt when I was blacksmithing.
By the time I was done, it would be drenched in sweat.
My pants already felt bad enough, glued to me like a second skin, but considering the door to this room seemed to constantly have people coming and going, I wasn’t about to walk around ass naked.
Avriel joined me, taking up residence at my side. How I wished I could extend the space to her forever, hand her the deed to it and put a ring on her finger, just like people used to do centuries ago.
But that was a wish that could never be, and I damn well knew it.
She inspected the lever, her attention drifting to the bellows, then, “Don’t you find this a bit . . . archaic?”
“My forge?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “There are more modern ones. Some don’t even have a lever or bellows, for that matter.”
“I’ve seen them at the blacksmith shops in the Capital. They run on magic.” My hand slid from the lever, and I walked over to the small table, grabbing a sheepskin glove. I slipped my hand inside, picked up a pair of tongs, and walked back to the forge.
“They do. They seem to be more efficient.”
I quirked a brow, pinning her with my gaze. “Are you saying I’m not efficient?”
Her mouth popped open before she swiftly shook her head. “No, mortals on a Sunday, no. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant it might be a better use of your time. Er—” She let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sticking my foot in it, aren’t I?”
I chuckled. “Little bit.”
Returning my attention to the forge, I pinched the end of the blade with the tongs and pulled it out. It was the perfect shade of orange. Taking it over to my anvil, I laid it on the flat, picked up my hammer, and began to shape it.
Tang. Tang. Tang.
The sound of metal forging metal stalled our conversation, but when the blade needed to be reheated, I placed it back into the fire, and Avriel picked up where we’d left off .
“I didn’t mean any offense.”
“I know you didn’t,” I replied as I began to pump the lever.
“I just know how much you enjoy blacksmithing, and I thought you might like trying out something new. Her Majesty would probably gift you a new forge if you asked her.”
My arm went still. A second passed, or maybe it was two.
Muscles firing, I pressed down on the wood handle, continuing what I was doing.
“The empress has already given me so much. I could not ask her for more.” The words felt bitter on my tongue.
When no reply came, I glanced to my right, saying, “You’ve gone quiet on me now. What is it?”
“Nothing.” She stepped closer to the forge and peered down at the heating blade.
The rhythmic squeak in my handle, the gusts of air from the bellows, and the crackling of the fire occupied the silence as I waited for her to say something more. But, as usual, she offered nothing.
“Come here,” I directed softly, taking a step back as I gestured for her to stand in front of me.
She shot me a suspicious look before she complied.
My fingers roamed down the length of her arm, never touching her until they reached her hand.
Gently, I took it and guided it to the handle.
“Magic makes things simpler, yes, but when things become too easy, there is little satisfaction in it. When there is no satisfaction or pride, it cheapens the work.” I guided her hand on the downstroke, and the forge came to life.
Her scent bloomed around me once more, the proximity of her body so close to mine, it was torturous.
How badly I wished to close the distance between us.
“What are we doing?” she asked, her voice all breathy.
I knew the meaning behind her words was deeper.
I could tell her the truth, that we were playing a very, very dangerous game, but if I did, that would acknowledge that there was something between us, and for her sake, I couldn’t do that.
So I kept my answer at surface level. “I’m going to teach you how to forge a lump of metal into a blade. ”
And so, for the next three hours, that’s exactly what we did.
I taught her how to load the forge with the right amount of charcoal, how to ensure the blade was hot enough to work with, as well as other basics like the proper way to hold the hammer.
Sometimes, my hands had a mind of their own and they’d caress her arm, something I’d catch too late.
Sometimes, she would stop hammering and peer down at my traitorous, wandering hand that had somehow made it to her waist on its own accord. Swiftly, I’d remove it.
“What did you call the last step again?” Avriel asked. She was standing over by a barrel filled with oil. Sometimes I used water or brine, but for the type of metal we were working with, oil was the best choice.
“Quenching the blade. It’s the most crucial step,” I told her as I pulled the red-hot blade from the fire, showing it to her. “Do you see the color of the metal?”
She stepped closer to me, surveyed it, and said, “Mhm, it’s a bright cherry red. ”
“Right. The color signals that it is at the correct temperature, and it is ready to be quenched.” I walked over to the barrel, taking the blade with me. Avriel followed. “When Aryx first taught me how to forge, he would have me periodically test the blade with a magnet, prior to quenching.”
Avriel joined me at the barrel. “Why a magnet?”
“When metal attains a high enough temperature, it becomes non-magnetic. It’s called the Curie point. Once it reaches that, you know the blade is ready to be quenched. It’s more of a surefire way to know the blade is ready, rather than judging by the color, which can vary for a number of reasons.”
“So then why don’t you still use the magnet method?” she asked.
“I’m no longer a novice,” I purred, drawing out the words so she could taste the double entendre. I gave her a playful wink, before I plunged the blade into the oil. Smoke erupted, curling its way toward the ceiling. Avriel let out a gasp of surprise as she watched with big eyes.
Later on, when the blade was cool, Avriel and I sat on a wooden bench. Moonlight spilled through the window, highlighting the beautiful copper hues in her hair—like the leaves in fall. Yes, another favorite of mine.
“Do you see any cracks?” I asked, watching her as she turned the dagger over in her hands.
“No,” she replied.
“Run your fingers along the flat. Do you feel anything? ”
She did as I asked, her fingertips whispering across the steel. Something so delicate and something so deadly. It had my mind spinning one too many ideas.
Looking up at me, she answered, “It’s smooth.”
“Indeed. Next time you come, I’ll show you how to make a handle for it.”
“I’d like that,” she said, our gazes catching.
A ribbon of her hair fell in front of her face, and before I could stop myself, I was reaching for it. Gently, I tucked it behind her ear.
The door to my shop swung open, and I swiftly pulled my hand back, looking toward the entrance, where a masked male stood. He was almost as tall as my six-foot-five frame, a forest of curly blond hair piled on top of his head.
“The empress has requested us for Thursday night’s festivities ,” said Aryx, the God of Love—my mentor and closest friend. His eyes shifted between Avriel and me—drawing conclusions that could have us all condemned to have our souls crushed. “Ah, apologies. I didn’t mean to . . . interrupt.”
Avriel jerked upright. “Nonsense. You aren’t interrupting anything.”
“I’ll go,” Aryx interjected while nodding, his metal mask glinting in the firelight as he performed the small action.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Avriel stated. She handed me the blade.
“Thank you for showing me how you make these. It’s a beautiful piece.
Oh, and by the way, the empress needs those swords made by next week.
” Long gone was the softness in her voice; now it sounded formal, like she was talking to a stranger.
I hated it.
Suddenly, the door closed, leaving both Avriel and I gawking at it.
“Shit,” she hissed under her breath.
I couldn’t help but smirk as I teased her, “Priestess, I thought you weren’t allowed to swear?”
“He just saw you tucking my hair behind my ear,” she seethed, her eyes as wide as the empress’s polished saucers.
“I’m not sure if he saw that, but if he did, Aryx won’t tell anyone,” I reassured her. “Breathe, Avriel. We’re fine.”
She took a breath, her chest rising. At the end of her exhale, she said, “I hope you’re right.”