8
The third day of the festival was a repeat of the previous days, only busier.
That was mostly due to the presence of both virkin, sitting atop a nearby wagon, watching everything that went on below them as people came over to look at them and admire them.
Both Arch and Keera seemed to accept it as their due, occasionally commenting at how valuable they were in bringing people over to Kurt and Malea’s tables.
When the day ended, they were all happy with their profits and looking forward to an even bigger party than the previous two nights.
The Jinn would be entertaining, once again, pulling out all the stops to make this an even merrier night than the two that had come before.
Wine and ale flowed with dinner, and long after as musicians played and everybody danced.
Hours later, the final night of the festival was finally winding down.
The bonfire still blazed, but the music had softened into slower melodies.
Couples danced in the firelight while children dozed on blankets, their laughter replaced by the low murmur of grown-up voices and the occasional snatch of song.
Malea stood at the edge of the village green, watching the flames flicker and sway. Her cloak was pulled close, her breath fogging just a little in the cool night air. The Rasims were gathered nearby, sharing the last of their honey-wine, but she’d slipped away for a moment of quiet.
Footsteps approached from behind. They were quiet and steady. She knew who it was, even before he spoke.
“You always find the shadows,” Kurt said, coming to stand beside her.
“They’re easier than crowds,” she replied softly.
They stood together for a few heartbeats, watching the fire dance.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a moment.
Malea glanced at him, waiting. “If we’re going to keep working together on this,” he said carefully, “we’re going to need a good cover.
Something that won’t raise questions when we slip off to talk, or trade information, or go poking around where we don’t belong. ”
She arched a brow. “You have something in mind?”
He nodded. “We pretend I’m courting you.” The words hung in the space between them, heavier than she’d expected. He went on. “The Jinn already know we knew each other as youngsters. It wouldn’t be strange for us to grow closer on the road. It could explain why we’re often together.”
Malea didn’t answer right away. Her fingers curled slightly in her cloak.
“It’s not real, right?” she asked quietly. “It’s just for show.”
He turned to look at her, then. The firelight flickered in his eyes, and something unspoken passed between them.
“I didn’t say that,” he said, his voice low.
That made her breath catch, but she dared not ask for more. Did he mean to say that he might feel some attraction to her? She couldn’t quite believe it. She gave a small, careful nod.
“All right. A courtship. For appearances. I can play along.”
“We’ll keep our focus on the mission,” he added. “The source of the blades. Finding artisans or workshops, or whatever’s going on. Maybe even the source of the diamonds themselves.”
“Of course,” she agreed, but her voice was quieter now. “We need to find the truth. And we should warn the dragons, if we come across any.”
“Agreed,” he answered at once, then hesitated, stepping just a little closer, his warmth brushing against her arm. “And if the fake courtship ever blossoms something more…” She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I’ll be the first to let you know,” he finished, voice barely above a whisper.
Before she could respond, before the moment could stretch too thin, he leaned in. His lips touched hers in the gentlest of salutes that suddenly lit a fire in her belly.
The kiss was meant to be brief. Meant to sell the illusion. Meant to complete the story they’d just agreed upon. But it wasn’t brief. And it didn’t feel like a story.
His lips were warm, his hand steady at her waist, and the press of him was firm and real and altogether too much for her unaccustomed senses. Her fingers found the edge of his cloak without thinking. She tilted into him, just slightly. Just enough to feel the truth behind the lie.
When they pulled apart, it was with a breath neither had realized they were holding.
“That should convince them,” he said softly.
“Yes,” she replied, her heart thudding far too fast. “It should.” Her mind came shrieking back to reality. It had felt so real, but his words had killed her burgeoning hope. Was it all just for show? Or had he felt the same things she had? She didn’t have the nerve to ask him.
They stood there another moment, as the festival wound down around them, both pretending the kiss had been part of the plan. In the morning, the wagons would roll north. And their charade would begin again.
Days later, the road unfurled ahead of Kurt like a ribbon of dust and morning frost, weaving through pine-shadowed hills and golden fields now dulled by the creeping chill of early autumn.
Kurt rode with the main body of the caravan, a little ahead of the Rasim wagons but close enough to hear the faint bursts of laughter from the girls when they passed a patch of wild berries or saw a hawk overhead.
His horses plodded along at a steady, easy pace. Sir Arch dozed inside one of the saddlebags, tail hanging lazily out the flap like a banner. Kurt adjusted his cloak against the wind and let his eyes roam across the horizon.
They’d been on the road north for several days now. Since Middletown, the terrain had grown more rugged, the nights colder. The people they passed on the road had grown scarcer, the inns rougher, and the villages smaller.
He’d taken every opportunity to speak with other members of the caravan.
He’d shared meals, helped fix a wagon wheel, used his blade to peel root vegetables by a fireside.
And always, he asked questions. Casual questions.
The kind you ask when you’re a traveling craftsman with an interest in stories and rumors.
The Jinn were more than just musicians and tinkers. They had their own networks of traders, informants, and watchers. Nothing organized in the way the crown’s spy network worked, but it was very effective. Deep-rooted. Whispered between cousins and carried on caravan winds.
A younger cousin to the Avery clan mentioned mercenaries being seen in the village of Dorn’s Hollow.
They’d been rough men with Skithdronian coins in their purses.
Another trader swore she’d seen a stranger with hard eyes and a crossbow near an abandoned waystation two days northeast of their route.
Someone else mentioned a raw gemstone seller with surprisingly large crystals that were all flawed in some way.
He treated them as if they were rejects and was letting them go for a song.
Kurt pieced the fragments together like stained glass. Mercenaries. Gems. Old coins. Foreign accents. And the diamond blade from Middleton. It all added up to something not good for the kingdom or its allies. He was getting closer but still didn’t have a solid lead on where to look first.
He’d spoken with Malea each evening. They’d had brief conversations under the stars or beside the wagons, always couched in the language of “old friends” enjoying the fire.
But she understood. She’d seen things too.
Heard rumors. Traded gossip with traders and travelers in the caravan.
Her eyes were always moving, watching all, and she was always listening to whatever she might overhear.
She was a lot better at this than she realized.
And there was more than strategy behind the way he sought her out now.
Every time she turned toward him with that slight smile and spark in her gaze, he forgot for a moment that they were supposed to be just pretending.
Every time she stood beside him near the fire, warmth bleeding from her arm to his through their cloaks, he caught himself thinking about things that had nothing to do with the mission.
But the mission had to come first, he reminded himself.
Leaning forward slightly in the saddle, shifting with the motion of his horse, he tried to dispel the discomfort in his bones.
He might want to take things to a much more personal level with Malea, but they had work to do together that was important to the very survival of their country.
He couldn’t put personal feelings above the kingdom and his duty to it. Could he?
Tomorrow, they’d reach a small village called Balen’s Ford, nestled at the edge of the pinewoods. Its location—just west of the old northern mining trails—made it a natural crossroads. A place to ask the right questions. A place to find the wrong people.
He’d been formulating a plan as he rode along.
He planned to talk to the blacksmith. Maybe he’d buy a few scraps of iron and casually mention hard-to-cut glass.
Ask about obsidian, since that was the purported reason he’d been sent north by his guild.
Maybe someone will know if anybody had, or was looking for, blade-worthy stone.
And if he was lucky, maybe he’d find someone foolish—or arrogant—enough to brag.
Because somewhere in these northern lands, someone was making dragon-killing weapons again. And Kurt fully intended to find them.
When the caravan arrived at Balen’s Ford the next day, Kurt put his plan into motion.
The town was more like a trading post than a true village.
It was really just a cluster of rough-hewn buildings nestled at the foot of the pine-draped foothills, with a muddy central square and a stream running through the far edge.
The air smelled of pine resin, damp stone, and smoke from a dozen hearths.
The caravan set up on the outskirts, close enough to draw trade but far enough to avoid crowding the locals.
Kurt led his riding horse down the narrow lane toward the stone-built forge that squatted like a sleeping beast at the edge of what passed for the town square. Sparks danced from the chimney, and the sound of rhythmic hammering rang clear into the cold morning air.
Inside, the forge was sweltering. Heat was rolling from the open hearth, the hiss of steam and metal filling the air.
The blacksmith straightened as Kurt entered, sweat streaking his face, hammer still in hand.
He was a broad, dark-haired man with arms like tree trunks and a suspicious glint in his eye that never quite faded.
“Need something fixed?” the man asked, voice like gravel.
“My gelding’s back shoe might be loosening,” Kurt said, patting the horse’s flank. “Figured I’d get it looked at before we keep heading north.”
The blacksmith nodded and gestured to the open space near the anvil. “Bring him here. I’ll have a look.”
Kurt led the horse over and watched as the man knelt to examine the hoof. Silence stretched a bit too long.
“Good work on your forge,” Kurt offered, casual. “You local?”
The man snorted. “Born in the Ford. Might die here too, if the winters don’t stop getting colder.”
Kurt crouched nearby, rubbing a bit of grit from his glove. “You get many travelers through here?”
“Enough,” the smith muttered.
“What about gem traders?” Kurt asked, keeping his tone light. “I’m up here looking for obsidian. Heard there’s a deposit somewhere in the mountains.”
The blacksmith looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he stood, wiping his hands on a grimy cloth. “Only a fool would go looking for dragon-guarded stone. Or someone with a death wish.”
“Dragons are guarding the obsidian?” Kurt asked, injecting just a tiny bit of disbelief into his tone.
“So they say,” the smith replied unhelpfully.
“That’s a new one on me. I’ve never heard of dragons guarding a deposit of volcanic glass before. Of course, obsidian has a lot of uses. That’s what I do. I’m a glass craftsman. I’m up here looking for raw materials and finding even just a little bit of obsidian would be a boon to my career.”
“I’m sure it would be,” the blacksmith answered evenly, sounding wholly unimpressed.
Kurt let the silence stretch a bit before speaking again. Then he said, “If someone was working with stone like that —obsidian, diamond, or other precious materials—would they come through here for tools? Supplies?”
The blacksmith’s shoulders tightened, but his voice stayed level. “If they did, they didn’t come to me.”
Kurt watched the man for a moment longer. “But you’ve heard something, right? Maybe a traveling artisan. Maybe someone setting up quiet work north of here.”
“I do hear things,” the man said slowly. “But hearing ain’t the same as knowing. And knowing things like that can get a man in trouble.”
Kurt stood, brushing off his hands. “I’m not looking to bring trouble. Just want to know who to avoid as we head north.”
The blacksmith studied him, weighing his words.
“There’s a settlement past the ridgeline,” he said finally. “Old mining camp. Some say it’s been reclaimed. New forges. Quiet traffic. Traders who don’t talk much. Could be nothing. Could be something.”
Kurt nodded once. “Thanks. What do I owe you for the inspection?”
The blacksmith waved him off. “You didn’t need a new shoe.”
“Even so,” Kurt said, pulling a silver coin from his pouch and setting it on the edge of the anvil. “For your time.”
He led his horse back out into the sunlight, the coin glinting behind him like a silent signal.
Someone’s up there , he thought. And they’re hiding something. I intend to find out exactly what, and why.