Nyrius
The excuse I give Cyran is that I want to make sure the woman doesn't cause further disruption before we leave the region.
Cyran listens to this with his arms crossed and says nothing, which is his version of calling me a liar.
"The daggers need sharpening," I add.
"They were sharpened four days ago."
"Borders are rough on blades."
He looks at the daggers on my belt, both in perfect condition, and then looks back at me. "Of course, my lord."
I leave him at the camp.
The forge is already loud when I arrive—hammer strikes carrying through the open door, steady and unhurried. I step inside without announcing myself and find Edria at the anvil with her back to me, working a length of iron with intense focus as if the world doesn’t exist.
She doesn't turn around. "Whatever it is, I'll have it by tomorrow."
"That depends on what it is."
She turns then. Her expression doesn't shift toward welcome, but she doesn't reach for anything heavy, so I count it as progress. She's got a smear of soot across her left forearm and her braid is half-undone from the morning's work.
"You're still here," she says.
"Observant." I set the daggers on her worktable. "I need these sharpened."
She picks one up, runs her thumb along the edge without looking at me, and sets it back down. "These don't need sharpening."
"Humor me."
"That's not a service I offer." She picks up both daggers anyway and moves to her whetstone. "Sit somewhere that isn't in my way."
I lean against the wall instead, which puts me approximately three feet from her work, and watch. She ignores me with impressive commitment for about four minutes before she breaks.
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"At my forge." She draws one blade along the stone with a clean, practiced pull. "Without being invited."
"I paid double for horseshoes yesterday. Consider it a standing invitation."
She makes a short sound that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite contempt. "That's not how invitations work."
"It is when you're a border lord."
"Lucky you." She doesn't look up. "Must be convenient, rewriting rules whenever they inconvenience you."
"It has its uses." I watch her hands—efficient, sure, no wasted movement. "You do that well."
"I know."
"No false modesty."
"False modesty is for people who can afford to undersell themselves." She flips the blade and starts on the other edge. "I can't."
I take in her words, the meaning far heavier than her tone implies. The fire breathes steadily beside her, the stone hisses under the blade, and outside a cart horse coughs in the lane.
"You grew up here?" I ask.
"Born here. Haven't left." She says it without self-pity, which is more interesting than if she'd said it with some.
"That surprises me."
She glances up briefly. "Why?"
"Because you're wasted on plow repairs."
Her hands stop for just a moment before they resume. "This forge belongs to my family."
"I'm aware it’s a family operation. I'm asking why someone with your skill is still in it."
"Maybe I like it here."
"Do you?"
She sets the first dagger down and picks up the second. Her shoulders are set, deliberate, a posture I'm beginning to recognize as her version of a door closing.
"It's my family's forge," she repeats. "My father built it. My brother works it. There's nothing to explain."
I don't push further. The answer is in what she didn't say—the father with the bad leg, the village running on fumes, the weight she carries in her posture even when her voice is sharp.
She's not here because she chose it. She's here because leaving isn't a real option for someone keeping everyone else afloat.
She hands me both daggers without ceremony. "Done."
I turn them over. The edges are clean and precise, better than they were four days ago when my own man sharpened them. "What do I owe you?"
"Standard rate." She crosses her arms. "Whatever you're about to offer above that, keep it."
"Don’t be too proud to accept proper payment."
Her chin lifts slightly. "I don't need charity from you, or any dark elf."
"I wasn't offering charity. I was offering fair payment for exceptional work."
"You were offering more than the work costs because you think I need it." She meets my eyes directly. "I know the difference."
She's right. I pay her the standard rate and say nothing else about it.
I don't go straight back to camp.
Oxwood is small enough to cover on foot in twenty minutes, and I find myself doing exactly that—moving through the lanes slowly, reading the village the way I've learned to read every settlement in my territories.
The buildings are older than they should be, not aged gracefully but worn past their useful years without the coin for repairs.
Gardens are small and harvested close. The animals I see are functional—work horses, not riding stock, a few chickens kept for eggs rather than meat.
This is a village that has been squeezed.
Taxes that extract more than the land produces leave exactly this kind of mark. I've seen it enough times to know the shape of it.
I'm near the far end of the main lane when I hear the magistrate's voice.
Malrec is standing outside a low-roofed house with two of his attendants positioned behind him. The door is open, and a man stands in the frame—older, hands rough from field work, a look like he has been standing his ground for ten minutes and running out of ground to stand on.
"The levy was due at the first of the month," Malrec says pleasantly. "It is now past the second week."
"My lord magistrate, the harvest came in short. We've explained—"
"You've explained repeatedly." Malrec's tone stays mild. "The explanation doesn't settle the account."
I stop walking.
Collecting unpaid taxes isn't a crime. It isn't even improper.
But the family in that doorway—the man's coat too thin for the temperature, a child visible behind his leg with no shoes on—they have nothing left to give.
Harvests don't come in short without reason, and reasons don't repeat themselves year after year without someone benefiting from the shortage.
Malrec glances up and notices me. The pleasantness in his expression doesn't flicker, but something behind it does.
"My lord Nyrius." He lowers his head. "I didn't realize you were still in the area."
"I had additional business at the forge." I don't move from where I'm standing. "How long has this family been in arrears?"
A pause, small but present. "Three months, my lord."
"And before that?"
Another pause. "They've had... difficulty keeping current."
I look at the man in the doorway. He's watching me with the same stillness I saw in every villager when we rode in yesterday—waiting to find out which direction the danger comes from.
"I'll note the situation during my territorial review," I tell Malrec. "I'd encourage patience while the review is ongoing."
Malrec's chin dips again. "Of course."
I walk back toward the forge end of the lane without hurrying, turning what I've just seen over carefully. Three months in arrears, in a village this size, with a magistrate this well-dressed. The numbers don't point anywhere comfortable.
I'm nearly back to the forge track when I feel it—the same sensation from last night at the camp's edge. I glance toward the forge entrance without breaking stride.
Edria is standing just inside the open door, wiping her hands on a cloth, watching me. Not quickly, not accidentally. She's been watching long enough that she doesn't startle when I look over.
For a moment, neither of us does anything.
Then she turns back into the forge and disappears into the shadow and firelight, and I face forward and keep walking.
Cyran is waiting at the camp perimeter with his arms still crossed.
"Ready to leave?" he asks.
"Tomorrow," I say.
He unfolds his arms and refolds them. "The daggers again?"
"I'm initiating a territorial review of Oxwood's tax records."
"Why?"
I move past him toward my tent. "Send for the ledgers."
Behind me, I hear him exhale—long, controlled, and deeply unsurprised.