Chapter 14 Rhianelle #2
“That was amazing,” I manage to say. “She was flying.”
“More like gliding,” he corrects gently. His fingers move over each connection, checking for bends or cracks. “The braces need work. They require more flexibility, or perhaps something to keep her from losing balance again.”
He tests the locking mechanism and frowns. “But it worked. She stayed in the air. Now I just need to make sure she can do it safely.”
Then he looks at me. “I can adjust the brace to let her go higher, but the choice is yours.”
“Yes,” I say. “I believe in Coral. Please.”
Something passes between us in that moment. His eyes are so dark, like looking into deep water, and I have the strangest urge to lean closer, to—
Coral headbutts both of us, breaking the moment. She’s ready to try again, impatient with our talking.
Arescaine laughs, and the warm, unguarded sound does something it shouldn’t to my pulse. “All right, all right. Let’s get you back to the forge. I need to make adjustments before the next test.”
He starts removing the braces. I watch, mesmerized by the way he moves.
The journey back to the forge is quiet. Coral walks between us, her head held high, still buzzing with the joy of those thirty seconds of flight. Every few steps, she stretches her wings and listens to the braces click, as though reassuring herself that the miracle is still there.
Arescaine keeps pace on her other side, carrying the folded frame beneath one arm. I catch myself glancing at him again and again. This mysterious stranger spent weeks shaping hope from metal and wire while everyone else prepared me to lose her.
Each time he notices me looking, I turn my attention back to Coral.
The forge comes into view, smoke rising from its chimney. Coral immediately trots inside like she owns the place, heading straight for her favorite spot near the water barrel.
Standing at the anvil with a hammer in his hand is Hrólfr Dravorin, son of Durakain.
His grey-streaked beard is braided with metal rings, framing a face weathered by age. Sharp, assessing eyes flick toward Arescaine. “Ah. You’re back.”
Then his gaze settles on me.
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
Guilt always finds me in Hrolf’s presence.
My mother ordered the siege of Dunrovin and prevented medicine from reaching the mountain.
His daughter died because the healers could not obtain the blood and supplies she needed.
No apology can return her to him or absolve me of the fact that the order came from my family.
My gaze drifts around the forge. After his capture, Hrolf was imprisoned in the capital, but the arrangement did not last. Too many elves wanted him dead, and Hrolf had given them reason enough. The weapons he made had helped slaughter thousands.
Eventually, he was moved to Volundr and given a place to work so his talent would not be wasted. Even so, he has never agreed to forge weapons for elves. Pots, kettles and tools, yes. Never blades.
I have always understood why.
When I look back at him, he is still watching me.
“The Elven Queen of Aelfheim,” he says. “You never told me who you were, little elf.”
Now he knows exactly who I am.
“Hrolf.” Arescaine’s tone turns cautious.
“Don’t ‘Hrolf’ me, vampire.” The dwarf sets down his hammer and moves toward me. I have to force myself not to step back.
But he stops three feet away and does something I never expected.
Hrolf closes one fist and presses it to the center of his chest, bowing his head.
“Your Highness, I owe you a debt.”
“What?” Arescaine asks, echoing the question in my mind.
“Back in Tavan, a girl saved my life.” His hand moves to his ribs, touching a spot that must still carry a scar. “I was being beaten to death. Would have died, too, if she hadn’t stepped in and healed me.”
Arescaine looks from Hrolf to me, surprise breaking through his usual control. Then the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile.
Hrolf raises his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “I didn’t know who you were then. I just knew you had a kind heart. Turns out you’re the bloody Queen of Aelfheim.”
He shakes his head, something like wonder in his expression.
“Lady Deirdre told me you saved my life as well,” I say. “She said you gave your own blood when I was ill.”
Hrolf shrugs, as if donating enough blood to leave him weak for days means nothing.
“Forgive me for not coming to thank you sooner,” I say quietly. “My uncle forbade me from wandering through Volundr alone, especially near this forge.”
Hrolf’s gaze flickers toward Arescaine. The look that passes between them is gone before I can make sense of it.
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.
“I owe you my life, girl.” Hrolf’s voice is gruff but not unkind. “This sword doesn’t even begin to repay that debt.”
He pushes it back toward me. “Take it and use it. Protect your people with it.”
My hand closes around the grip, and the sword feels perfect. It’s not too heavy and not too light. The blade is balanced like it was made for my hand specifically.
It was.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and the words are woefully inadequate. “Hrolf, I—thank you.”
He waves a hand dismissively, but I can see the happiness in his eyes. “Bah. Don’t get weepy on me. It’s just a sword.”
“It’s more than that,” I say firmly. My gaze drops to the blade, where firelight dances along the edge. “It’s hope. A bridge between our peoples.”
Hrolf grunts, though his eyes soften. “Let’s see if you can use it first. Show me whether you know how to hold the thing.”
I adjust my grip and step into a defensive stance.
“Your form is sound.” He nods at the open space in the center of the forge.
I step into the space and demonstrate the sequence Rainer taught me as a child.
A diagonal strike, a turn of the wrist, then a low sweep intended to strike an opponent across the legs.
The Starfall steel moves so smoothly that the blade seems to anticipate each motion before I make it. Hrolf circles me slowly, assessing.
I repeat the movements, trying to ignore the awareness prickling at the back of my neck. Arescaine has stopped working and is watching.