Chapter 39 #2
“William,” Gregory said, turning the weapon so the red stones flared. “He intends to present it to the King of Valoren.”
“An exchange or something?” I asked.
A dry, knowing amusement curled Gregory’s lips. “More like a courting gift.”
“Huh.”
He ran his thumb along the edge and pushed until a thin line of red welled up, before he brought it to his mouth and sucked.
I winced. “Was that necessary?”
“It’s still dull,” he said. “I couldn’t finish it the day I left you at the lake. The storm caught up, and my mind was… elsewhere.”
Gregory’s eyes darted to mine, filled with wariness. The memory of that day haunted him—the pain, the way he abandoned me there. He seemed to expect me to react, to recoil at the reminder.
I didn’t. I held his stare, steady and open, refusing to let the memory touch us now.
The tension in his shoulders dropped. He cleared his throat, a rough sound in the quiet forge, and turned his attention back to the sword.
Gregory laid the steel in the forge’s trough, letting fire pour from his left palm to envelop the steel until the metal turned a deep cherry red.
He heaved the glowing sword onto the anvil and reached for the heavy iron sledge resting against the block.
He began to work—a force of nature putting everything into each strike, almost becoming the fire itself.
He lost himself in the rhythm, moving through cycles of heating, striking, and cooling the blade.
The sight of him held me captive. Gregory fished the metal out of the quenching trough and inspected the edge critically, but the blade needed more work.
Back into the fire it went, and the hammering started all over again.
His muscles corded with the effort, sweat gleaming on his skin.
He had to be burning, but he never slowed.
He held up the sword again, and the edge was perfect, a fine line that showcased all the power he’d put into it. I stood and moved closer as he cooled the hilt. “How come the metal never melted?” I asked, amazed. “You kept pouring your fire into it.”
“Because now the steel isn’t just steel,” Gregory said as he turned the blade. “It’s infused. It holds my fire.”
He studied the sword thoughtfully. “Most mages need spells, incantations, and crystals to focus. But the blessed don’t. We can push our power directly into the object.”
He gripped the hilt. Flames burst from the metal, engulfing the blade in roaring fire that made me step back.
He swung it in a controlled arc, and it shrieked through the air like a dragon.
“Dragon blood, Harren’s earth magic… it flows naturally for us.
We can embed it into anything—weapons, stones.
You could do the same with your portal ability if you learned how.
That is why the Empire fears Conduits. Your power doesn’t need incantations, just your heart. ”
When he willed the flames to recede, the fire sank into the steel until it was a sword again.
I gawked at the blade and then at him. My lips parted, my breath hitching in my chest. “I love it,” I said, realizing as the words left my mouth that I might have meant more than just the sword.
The morning faded into the afternoon, and I lost track of time, completely absorbed. Gregory moved with powerful grace, his body seamlessly wielding the tools. He explained each step as he worked, talking about folding metal for strength and how temperature mattered.
I took it all in as he turned fire and steel into something useful and beautiful. At some point, the ache in my body disappeared, or I’d just stopped noticing it.
“Want to try?” Gregory asked, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.
I blinked. “Try what?”
“Making something.” He gestured to a smaller anvil near the edge of the workspace. “Nothing complicated. A dagger, maybe.”
My pulse kicked up. “Yes?”
He moved to the chest and retrieved a bar of raw steel. “I’ll guide you through it.”
My hands were clumsy, and Gregory’s covered mine more than once, correcting my grip on the hammer and adjusting the angle of the blade as I heated it. The work was brutal; my arms burned, and sweat soaked through my shirt, dripping down my back.
When it came time for the hilt, Gregory paused. “What do you want on it?”
I didn’t have to think. “The dragon. The one I remember from the Emberfall Cliffs. The black one with the onyx scales.”
“Alright.”
He shaped the hilt himself, his magic flowing through his fingers as he molded the metal into wings and scales. The dragon curled around the grip, protective and fierce. When he finished, he handed it over.
The weight of it rested in my palm as if it had always belonged there.
I was filthy—soot streaked my arms and face, and my shirt clung to me. Gregory was in the same state, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his chest heaving from exertion.
I set the dagger down on the worktable and leaned back against it, trying to catch my breath.
He stepped closer, his gaze tracing my face as he cupped my jaw and kissed me. It was hot and wet. His mouth tasted of salt and smoke, and I groaned into it, my fingers curling into his apron. The heat from the forge had nothing on this.
A knock broke through the haze. Except it wasn’t a knock, really, more like knuckles rapping against the doorframe.
A laugh followed.
I stumbled back, my brain sluggish. For half a second, it sounded like Adam’s laugh, bright and a little too loud.
No. That wasn’t Adam.
Gregory and I both turned. Two figures stood in the doorway. The forge door had been open the whole time, letting in the breeze, and I hadn’t even noticed.
The first figure was draped in a cloak, the hood tucked low despite the midday sun, but I recognized him the second he stepped forward.
“Harren?” The name slipped out on a rising note of surprise.
He pushed the hood back, his curly light hair catching the firelight. Behind him, another figure loomed. He was taller, broader, and also cloaked, but the fabric did nothing to hide the sheer size of the man underneath. He was massive—as tall as Gregory but leaner.
Gregory went rigid beside me. A low growl rumbled from his chest, and before I could blink, a sword materialized in his hand, flames licking along the blade.
Harren raised his arms in surrender. “Wait. Please. I have news.”
His face was pale, his expression wide and haunted. “The Empire’s knight order—they’re here in Valoren.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?” Gregory’s growl deepened, the flames on his sword burning hotter.
“A Conduit brought them,” Harren said, the words tumbling out fast. “A woman with red hair. She opened the portal, and they emerged through it. Thousands of soldiers.” He swallowed hard. “And the scarred witch is leading the charge.”