Chapter 1 #2
I assess his full face. A scar cuts across one side of his features, disappearing beneath the angular beard hugging his jaw.
His warm brown hair is tied back in a loose bun at the nape of his neck.
He holds a bowl of soup in one hand, attached to an arm as wide as me.
Although with my gaunt form, that’s not really saying much.
His words appear genuine, matching his at-ease posture. There’s a soothing feeling rolling off him that I can’t quite place. It pools around me, beckoning me, making me all too reluctant to trust his oddly inviting presence.
I crouch on my hands and feet, a stray mutt ready to dart, when a glimmer in his honeyed irises pulls me back.
Hesitantly, I prowl a step forward. Beneath their warmth hides a subtle pain.
An unspoken history flickering, one that has him seeing the little child veiled behind all the icy walls of my feral exterior.
Patiently, he leans against the wall, as if he already knows my decision and he’s merely waiting for me to catch up.
It makes the silence… comfortable. I swirl my tongue along my teeth, tasting the odd notion of being seen as a child for the first time instead of the town mutt they’ve convinced me I am.
It tastes foreign, almost challenging, but lacking any bitter undertones, like when I’ve eaten something poisonous.
Silently, I nod, tugging my patchwork cloak over my head, ensuring my markings remain hidden so he won’t rescind his compassion. Because the only way this foolish fucking giant would offer me any kindness is if he’s new to town, unaware of the curses marring my skin.
Or maybe he’s poisoned the fucking soup, determined to finally free this shit village of me. That’s just as well; the few dead bodies I’ve glimpsed always looked somewhat peaceful. Though, based on the luck I’ve had, I’d surely end up in Emberhell. At least I’d be warmer there.
Another wave of warm reassurance rolls off the towering bear of a male. My gut twists with hunger, but there’s another feeling there, spurring me to give him a whisper of trust.
He turns away from me, waving a silent hand to follow.
I sway as I stand, shadowing him into the unfamiliar warmth and light of his forge.
Winter months bloom into spring, and a friendship grows between us, blossoming into something I struggle to comprehend. I split my days between climbing the untamed limbs of the enchanted Mysticwoods and watching the blacksmith at his craft.
I become his shadow, hovering in the cracks of his towering frame, obsessed with memorizing how he works metal into creations of beauty and power.
My hungry belly particularly relishes his daily mistakes of making too much food, always having some to share.
I enjoy his quiet nature; raising myself left me rather lacking in proper social etiquette.
There’s a silent understanding within our conversations of scarce words and nods.
Although we have yet to formally exchange names, from eavesdropping on conversations with his customers, I deduce the blacksmith’s name is Sully.
He’s a thoughtful male, always kind and courteous to his customers, who come from all walks of life.
The way he treats me—compared to the rest of this shit village—still minces my mind into a slurry mess.
To believe I am worthy of kindness and not just a feral dog casting curses in my wake…
Well, that… is an entirely new reality. One I refuse to let settle into my marrow just yet. Or maybe ever.
As I’m finishing my stew of mooca beef, fire roots, and red tubers, I watch Sully pull out a small bar of metal. Confusion contorts my face; it’s unusual to start a new project this late in the evening.
“Come here, little dragon. Let’s see what you can make with all the fury and fire I know hides within you,” he says softly. His voice is woven with a subtle hope while his eyes blaze with pride, ruffling my imaginary dragon scales of rage.
I take the cold steel in my hand, watching it glimmer in the dancing flames of the forge.
A funny feeling tugs at the corners of my lips, contorting them upward, as a flash of all the things this steel can become pours through my mind.
I smile, a genuine smile that reaches my eyes, allowing myself only a moment of the foreign sensation before resuming my well-worn scowl.
Sully sits patiently with me as I fumble through the basics of his trade. He’s made it look so easy, yet my scraggly muscles burn, quickly comprehending the strength of his build.
In all the times I’ve witnessed him work, he’s never forced the metal against its will. Instead, I’ve watched in awe as he whispers to the glowing steel with each strike, shaping it, molding it, blending the atoms into shapes that sing to him.
The same grace does not come naturally to me as I attempt to beat the metal into submission with my frustration. My muscles beg me to cease lifting the hammer, yet I do not relent.
Instead, I repeat the mantra I’ve branded into myself.
Mind over matter. A trick shared with me by a creature known as a Mistling, whom I’d met once in the Mysticwoods.
It’s a secret she whispered to me when I asked how she shifts from her small faerie form into pure mist. Her words resonated with me, guiding me in the darkest of times when I was certain my foster father would break me.
The kindness of the creatures of the Mysticwoods had been my only reprieve, my only guidance. Until I met Sully.
My frail body may falter bending the metal, but I can still bend my body to my will, refusing to yield. The iron hisses in protest, another burn from my impatient nature, but I hiss right back. Matching its fury. Refusing to surrender.
“Fucking Emberhell,” I curse, licking my wounds like a winged wolf of the Mysticwoods before continuing my work. I catch Sully nodding off to the steady beat of the metal as I continue my endeavor.
Manically, I cackle at my pain, as if I’m laughing at the Fates themselves.
At last, I hammer the steel into a thin triangular blade.
Instead of a traditional hilt, I use a mold for a circular tool loop, smelting it to the dagger.
Shaped to hide within my palm. Perfect for sneaking up behind someone or anchoring myself as I fall from a branch.
The untraditional blade fitting my untraditional nature. A story born between us, small, sharp, and hidden.
The sun’s rays curl like fingers over the Eldoria Mountains, grasping the snowy peaks before hoisting itself up into the sky.
Light glistens down on my hands, revealing dripping blood from pushing my body beyond its natural limits.
The blade now shimmers with a crimson hue from the blood forged into its creation.
A grumble rumbles from my left as the burly male rises with a yawn, a grizzly bear waking from hibernation. Bones creak beneath heavy muscles, born of battle scars and hard labor, in a lengthy stretch.
He meanders to my side, and I catch the prideful grin from the corner of my eye as he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep.
“A dragon fang.” He pauses with a hearty chuckle. “Well-suited for the spirit of a fierce little dragon.” His smile falls into a frown seeing the state of my marred hands. “Now it’s time to rest, little one. Even dragons must know their limits.”
Only I don’t want to be pulled from the trance I’ve lulled myself into, rejoicing in the simple focus of sharpening the blade to perfection. This is the first time I have experienced pride. And the confidence that comes with creation.
I snap without thinking, as if I truly am a dragon, “I cannot rest until it’s finished. It must be perfect.”
His eyes grow wide, mouth slightly agape in his lengthy beard. A roaring chuckle cleaves the silence. A big barrel laugh, joining the fire in warming the air. He tilts his head with a soft smile, nudging my foot off the wheel of the grinding stone and gently taking my wrist.
I flinch at the touch of another, trembling until he quickly releases his grip. The blade tumbles from my hand with a clank as I stare at my wrist. Confusion brewing as I study the echo of his grasp, bracing for the familiar bite of pain.
Yet the pain doesn’t come.
My mind minces, caught between disbelief and silence of my surely broken nerves.
For a long moment, I wait. Rigid. Untrusting.
Until my muscles finally unspool. I chance a glance up at the bear before me.
The warm honey of his gaze seeps deeper than the fire at our side, thawing my frosted bones as I accept the impossible truth: there will be no pain.
Hesitantly, I nod, spreading a smile across Sully’s face. I shift my weight, unsettled by the strange sensation gnawing at the glacial palace of my icy heart.
The village begins humming with waking activities. Doors groaning, mud sucking at boots. My gaze drops to the blade on the anvil. I could take it. But it’s his metal, his forge. I decided it’s not worth the risk. It’s better to never have it at all than to have something worth losing.
A gasp rips my attention to the female freezing mid-step beside Sully’s open-air forge, her face twisted in horror.
“Curseborne!”
Her words lash into me, casting my gaze down. My eyes widen in terror at my exposed skin, unaware I’d shed my cloak and scarf in the heat of the forge. I dart for my clothes, scrambling them on as I lunge for my home amongst the shadows, safely out of sight.
Sully’s words call out behind me, musing along the wind.
“Be back tomorrow for your next lesson, little dragon.”
Weeks slip by in the glow of the forge. Under Sully’s guidance, I learn not only how to craft different blades and tools, but the secrets of fusing them with magic: gems, runes, enchantments, and rare components from the natural world that create unique powers.
One might add firelight glow to create a blade that hums with electricity, sharpening itself with each cut. Another option is the down feather of a phoenix to ignite a blade in flames. My favorite is imbuing different poisons, requiring only a single cut for devastating effects.
Fae travel great lengths to obtain a weapon from Sully, as it takes years to gather the right ingredients. His customers are among the very few visitors that risk the dangerous, remote path to our hidden village, besides the traders and the queen’s tax enforcers.
Our shit town is unsurprisingly poor. Thanks to the rising taxes each year and our short growing season, leaving folk to scrape by on inflated goods.
The village doesn’t have much going for it, other than the ancient patches of uncorrupted Mysticwoods and the beautiful prison bars of the Eldoria Mountains.
Their icy peaks severing us from the rest of Cascara, sparing us from the Blackwood’s slithering corruption and the monsters who feast beneath its black branches and crimson canopy.
After showing up to work too many times with my face swollen and contorted beneath mottled bruises—reminders of my failed efforts avoiding my foster home—Sully makes me an offer.
“How does becoming my full-time apprentice sound? I even have a spare room. It’s tiny, but it’ll fit a small bed, where you can stay, if you so choose.”
My eyes widen in disbelief. I blink. Certain I’ve misheard. Maybe I’m imagining things. After all, last night’s blow from my foster father fractured more than just a few bones in my face as the world went out around me.
A grizzly chuckle warms the air, rattling me with a gentle comfort.
An odd sensation of almost feeling safe wriggles in between the crevices of my icy heart.
I roll my right shoulder, casting off the emotion of the impossible thought.
My natural reflex to rid myself of feelings that don’t quite fit within my understanding of the world.
Sully tips his head with a sly look, adding, “My only condition, little dragon: no burning down the house with your fierce flames.”
That seems like an easy enough promise to keep. A smile tugs at my lips, the muscles sore from disuse. I nod slowly, grappling with a strangeness bubbling in my chest. Perhaps this is what hope feels like.
He chuckles again. “Well, it’s settled then.
Tomorrow, I want you up extra early, because I’m finally going to teach you how to use all these blades you’ve created.
” Then Sully straightens, his posture somber.
He adds in a serious tone I’ve yet to hear from the kind bear, “And when we’re through, no one will ever be able to turn you black and blue again. I promise you that.”
I tense slightly at the tone of his last words before letting them sink in.
There’s a power to them. And I believe him.
A warm silence lingers between us before he asks softly, almost as if he’s asking me to reveal a secret, “What is your true name, little dragon? The one your parents gifted to you, when you were starborne into this world.”
My gaze meets his, the embers from the forge flickering amongst twinkling gold in my obsidian eyes. I whisper, as a subtle power simmers in my veins, guarding the only thing that is truly mine in this world.
“Savaé.”