CHAPTER 5 JAX
JAX
In Syhl Shallow, the forge was always hot and miserable in the summer, but Emberfall is worse.
By late afternoon, the heat in the air is nearly unbearable, with a cloying humidity that makes everything sticky.
My forearms are always gritty with soot and grime, and any strands of hair that escape the knot at my neck end up clinging to my face.
I’m lucky that I can do my work in a loose tunic and casual trousers, with nothing heavier than the leather apron I wear to hold my tools.
The soldiers have it worse, with damp skin under their armor and sweat threading their hair.
The horses always arrive with darkened flanks, their tails aggressively swishing at flies.
After a day of work, a unique smell clings to this end of the forge. It’s not oppressive, but it’s definitely . . . pungent.
I’m hot and tired and ready to be done, but another soldier is already leading a horse through the smoky shadows, and I swear under my breath. But then I do a double take: the animal is a deep mahogany bay with a stripe down its face.
Mercy? I snap my gaze back to the soldier, hoping for Tycho.
But no— it’s not him. And the horse isn’t Mercy. Just another army steed that needs new shoes.
I tether the animal to a post and sigh. I should’ve known better.
When Tycho was sent away to Syhl Shallow, I spent weeks hoping for any sign of him.
Months. I’d stare at the horizon, watching for the rich brown of his mare’s coat, hoping they’d come galloping over the hill.
Since the day we met, I’ve known that his job— his life— is bound to the whim of the king.
But that didn’t stop me from lying awake every night, wishing that tomorrow would be the day he’d reappear.
I’d imagine it constantly: he’d return with windblown cheeks and sparks in his eyes and hours’ worth of stories to share.
There’d be no more harassment from the soldiers who hate that I was born on the other side of the mountain, there’d be no more attacks from the vicious winged scravers that could swoop down from the sky and dismember a man in seconds.
There’d be no more loneliness weighing on my heart, no more worry tightening my chest, and no more desperation crowding every thought.
For months, I craved his presence. I thought he’d return to Ironrose Castle and my world would right itself.
But he’s been back for two weeks, and nothing feels right at all.
The worst part is that I can’t quite figure out why.
The first night he returned, I invited him back to the Shield House with me, expecting to fall back into the casual ease we’ve always shared.
But somehow that ease wasn’t there anymore, replaced with an odd distance.
I’d expected him to stay the night, but within an hour, our conversation became short and stilted.
Awkward, like he became someone different during his months away— or maybe I did.
Eventually, he claimed obligations in the castle and left.
Is it his role? I don’t want to think so, but .
. . maybe. Tycho isn’t one to put on airs, but it’s impossible to miss.
Every stitch of his clothing speaks to wealth and privilege: the calfskin leather, the silver buckles, the threads in vibrant colors that I rarely see on anyone common.
Tycho looks like exactly who he is: a young nobleman with power and influence— and access to the royal family.
I’m just a blacksmith, with soot on my hands and hair in my face.
That didn’t seem to matter when he’d visit my forge in Briarlock, but it definitely matters here.
Since that first night, I’ve tried to shake off the new tension between us, but it seems impossible.
He doesn’t mean to be an intrusion, but most everyone knows who he is— especially now that the king has returned alone, withdrawing Emberish forces from Syhl Shallow.
I was no stranger to village gossip when I worked in Briarlock, but this close to royalty, it’s vicious.
Every time Tycho appears in the forge, any casual conversation ceases.
The nearby blacksmiths fall silent, hoping to catch a stray word they can whisper about later.
Soldiers shut up and snap to attention, all icy formality— including my friends, like Sephran and Leo.
If Tycho were a common soldier, even one from Syhl Shallow, they wouldn’t do any of that.
Sephran and the others would likely invite him to come shooting, and we’d all ride out to the fields together.
They’d grouse about officers or complain about their duties or share gossip from the barracks— just like they do with me.
They’re sure not going to do any of that in front of the King’s Courier.
I shift to the other side of the horse I’m working on, and the accompanying soldier sighs, muttering under his breath.
I ignore him, because I know he’s just hot and miserable.
They used to grumble at me and knock my crutches into the dirt, but since I helped save a dozen of them from a scraver attack, a lot of the Emberish soldiers have stopped being total assholes.
A familiar voice cuts through the clanging and chattering of the forge. “Hey, Archer.”
Sephran. My heart lifts a little when I hear his voice.
It shouldn’t. I have to tamp that down, too.
I’ve got the horse’s leg pinned between my knees and a heavy set of pincers in my hands, so I blow a lock of hair away from my face and look up. Despite my efforts, I can’t see much higher than Sephran’s scuffed boots.
“Hey,” I say in return. My Emberish still isn’t very good, but Sephran won’t care. He doesn’t speak Syssalah, so we’ve learned to make do. “You surprise me,” I say. “Off duty?”
“Yeah. It’s late.”
Just as he says the words, distant bells chime, signaling a call to the mess hall— meaning there will be a mad dash for food. The soldier holding this horse knows it, too, because he swears under his breath.
I blow another lock of hair out of my eyes. “Go,” I say. “You eat. I take horse to stable.”
His eyebrows go up. “Yeah?” he says hopefully.
I nod, and that strand of dark hair falls right back into my face.
I clearly don’t have to tell him twice, because the soldier gives the horse a pat on the shoulder, and then he’s gone.
Sephran’s boots shift through the dirt of the forge, and then, to my surprise, he reaches out to tuck that lock of hair behind my ear. It’s a brief touch, just a brush of gentle fingers against my cheek, and then the shell of my ear.
But it feels like more.
Before Tycho returned, Sephran kissed me. It was only once, and I stopped him before it went too far— but it happened. And Sephran may have apologized, but he was angry when I told him about my secret relationship with Tycho, especially when I revealed that I was desperately longing for his return.
He left you, Jax.
When Sephran’s fingers drift along my skin, my hands freeze, my tools going still against the hoof.
He notices. “Sorry,” he says, though I’m not entirely sure he means that. “That looked annoying.”
I hesitate, then decide to let it go. “No sorry,” I say equably in my broken Emberish. “Thank you.”
Since the night he kissed me, we’ve had a lot of moments like this one. Intimacy that’s not quite intimacy. Touches that shouldn’t feel loaded with intent or meaning . . . but suddenly do.
As I reach for my file, silence swells between us. Sephran was my first friend here, and I don’t want to lose that. This doesn’t have to mean anything different from the times he’d help with my archery stance or when we’d tussle and spar in the fields.
But a part of me wonders if Sephran would’ve done that if Tycho were standing right here.
I’m thinking not.
The silence is too much to bear, so I set the horse’s leg down to reach for a fresh shoe. Using my tongs, I thrust it in the forge, burying it among the ash. “We go shooting?” I say.
“Can you?” he says, his tone a little sour. “Or do you need to check with your keeper?”
I frown at him. I’m not sure I know this word. “Keeper?”
His eyes flare in surprise, but then he scowls. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it.”
I might not understand the word, but I’m not an idiot. I can hear his tone, and I realize this was a dig at Tycho.
The shoe in the forge is glowing red, so I yank it free roughly enough that sparks fly. “No,” I say evenly, pressing the hot steel against my anvil. “Tell me, Sephran. Tell me what means.”
He says nothing, but he folds his arms. Now his jaw is set.
I give him a look, then pick up my hammer and slam it against the horseshoe. The sound of ringing steel echoes through the forge, clear and solitary. The dinner bells rang, so I’m one of the few blacksmiths left. Sephran watches me in complete silence.
That sting piercing my heart refuses to stop.
Keeper. I try to figure out the word on my own. I spend an hour every morning with Mistress Elayne, my tutor, and she makes me do this all the time. I know keep, and considering Sephran’s attitude, it’s not hard to make the leap from there.
I pull the hot shoe off the anvil and thrust it into the waiting bucket of water. “Tycho is not keeper,” I say darkly, as steam flares around me.
“I know.”
I pick up the horse’s hoof, still annoyed. “And I not keeped.”
His mouth twitches, his eyes lighting with amusement. I realize I’ve said something wrong.
“Tell me,” I snap.
Sephran has the decency to look contrite. “Kept.” He pauses. “Not keeped.”
That makes me scowl, though it probably shouldn’t. Silence falls between us again, only interrupted by the lighter plink- plink- plink as I hammer the shoe onto the horse’s hoof. That lock of hair falls back into my face, and I blow it angrily away.