Chapter 9 Svenn
The forge glows with the breath of flame. Hrolf hunches over the anvil, hammering out sparks with every swing. He's shorter than me by at least two feet, but his presence fills the space. His beard, streaked with gray, nearly touches the fire as he leans in to examine my work.
"The metal is not your enemy, vampire," he grunts, not bothering to look at my face. His eyes stay fixed on the glowing steel between us. "Stop trying to murder it."
I force my fingers to relax, adjusting my grip. The leather-wrapped handle feels foreign in my palm. I'm more accustomed to holding weapons than tools.
"Better," Hrolf mutters. He brings his hammer down in a perfect arc. The ring of metal on metal echoes through the forge. "The hammer does the work. You're just there to guide it. Let the weight fall."
I mimic his motion, bringing my hammer down. The impact reverberates up my arm and shoulder.
"You're thinking too much," Hrolf says. He sets his hammer aside and crosses his arms, watching me.
I strike again as instructed. The sound is cleaner.
Hrolf nods, the corners of his mouth twitching beneath his beard. "Aye, like that. You're learning."
He reaches for the tongs, turning the steel in the fire. Sparks shower upward like startled fireflies. The chain lies across the anvil with thick, brutal links. I watch the metal glow brighter, shifting from orange to a blinding yellow-white.
"Will it hold?" I ask.
Hrolf doesn't look at me. He adjusts the bellows instead, feeding the fire until it roars. The hammer falls. Silence stretches between strikes. The dwarf finally speaks without lifting his head. "Perhaps."
That answer sits heavy in my chest.
"I've forged restraints strong enough to hold a werewolf," Hrolf says quietly. "But never a vampire."
Yes, he has never tested it against a Strigon like me.
Before I can press him further, the forge door scrapes open. Cool air rushes in, hissing against the heat. Both of us turn.
Shade slinks through the entrance, clutching a roll of parchment and a small earthenware pot that contains cheap ink. The prison guards don't stop him. They rarely stop either of us. Grimsbane visits mean fewer attempts on Hrolf's life. Fear works better than iron bars.
"Fifth lesson," I mutter to the assassin.
"I know." His voice is quiet, defensive. "I've been practicing."
"Have you?" I arch a brow. "Can you write your name yet?"
Silence answers me. I set the hammer down with a dull clang and wipe my hands on a rag.
"Sit," I say. "We'll try again."
The Grimsbane moves toward the wooden bench along the wall.
But he isn't alone.
A wolf pads into the forge behind him. The creature is magnificent, with slick charcoal fur. It sits like a soldier at attention, back straight and forepaws aligned. There's something almost regal about its bearing.
Hrolf sets down his tools slowly. "Did you bring a wolf to my forge?"
"He's polite," Shade says, dipping his quill into the ink pot as if this is a perfectly reasonable answer. "Please let him stay."
The wolf's ears swivel toward us, tracking the conversation with obvious comprehension. Those sapphire eyes regard me with an awareness that no animal should possess.
"He's one of the strays the Queen feeds," Shade adds quickly, as if that settles it.
I know that already.
I can smell her on him. Rhianelle patted this creature yesterday. That is not what troubles me. What troubles me is that he is not a wolf.
Not truly.
Through Wendy's eyes, I see the shape beneath the fur, the echo of another form. Elven lines, something halved or hidden. I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
"Master smith,” Shade says carefully, glancing at Hrolf. "May my friend stay?"
Hrolf grunts. "Fine. But keep it away from the fire."
"Start," I tell Shade.
He spreads the parchment across the bench, weighing the corners with small stones. The wolf settles at his feet, tail curling neatly around its paws, watching everything.
Ink immediately blotches across the surface in an ugly splatter. Shade curses whoever invented writing and tries again. The letters he manages are heavy-handed and crooked. The 'S' of his name resembles a dying snake.
Hrolf returns to the anvil beside me, but his attention keeps drifting to the bench. "Never thought I'd see this," he mutters in Dwarvish, shaking his head.
He is watching the wolf that had procured its own parchment. The creature dips the paw's edge into the ink pot and draws across the canvas.
I stop hammering to watch. The wolf makes another mark, and the shapes begin to form recognizable patterns.
"By the mountain fathers," Hrolf breathes.
The wolf completes a passable letter ‘L’. Not perfect, but leagues better than Shade's attempt. Then it starts on another letter.
Shade stares at the wolf's parchment, then at his own ruined attempt. His face darkens with embarrassment.
"This is absurd," he mutters.
"The beast writes better than you, assassin!" Hrolf's laughter booms through the forge. He slaps his knee, beard shaking with mirth.
"It's just lines—" Shade protests.
The wolf's tail swishes once.
If I didn't know better, I'd call that smug.
"Then practice more," I tell Shade, returning my attention to the anvil. "The wolf is demonstrating that this isn't impossible. It simply requires patience and control, two things you supposedly have in abundance when you're killing people."
The steel has cooled too much. I thrust it back into the fire.
Shade crumples his ruined parchment with barely contained frustration. He reaches for a fresh sheet but doesn't dip his quill. His hand hovers over the ink pot, trembling slightly.
The assassin is distracted.
Hrolf continues hammering, oblivious. But I notice. The Grimsbane's usual razor focus has fractured. His eyes are distant, fixed on nothing. I don't care, of course. The personal troubles of hired killers are not my concern.
But Shade is Rhianelle's guard. A distracted bodyguard is a liability. A liability near my wife is unacceptable.
"What's wrong?" I ask him.
Shade blinks, pulled from whatever dark thought consumed him. "Nothing."
His jaw tightens. Silence stretches between us. Hrolf has paused his work, watching now with narrowed eyes. The dwarf knows something is amiss even if he doesn't understand the context.
Shade exhales slowly. "The guild renewed my contract. Again."
I wait.
“My contract was for one hundred days of protection," he continues, voice flat. "They extended it another hundred days when I failed to protect the Silverra. Now it's been refreshed a third time."
Knowing the guild assassin of Tiamat, they structured this contract knowing Shade would fail.
"The Silverra vouched for me. Without his testimony, the guild would have marked me as failed outright."
The pieces settle into place in my mind. If Shade completes the contract successfully his mother goes free. She's been in the crypts for fifty years. One hundred successful missions, and they'll release her.
Shade looks up at me, and for the first time, I see genuine fear in the Grimsbane's eyes.
“I can’t fail her.”
I don't know what comforting words to give to the grimsbane. I've never been good at it. The wolf has continued working during this exchange. Its paw moves across the parchment with careful deliberation. I glance at the paper.
'L U C'
Three elven letters, partially formed. The wolf is writing something, but the word is incomplete. Shade doesn't notice. He can't read well enough to recognize partial words.
But I see it.
The wolf pauses, looking at Shade. Then it pads closer and rests its head on the assassin's knee. Shade's hand drops to the wolf's fur automatically, fingers threading through the charcoal coat. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly.
"Smart beast.” Hrolf chuckles and brings his hammer down on his own work with renewed enthusiasm.
Shade scratches behind its ears, something almost like gratitude flickering across his face before he schools it away.
I look at the beast. There is a reason this creature remains in animal form. I can feel it.
But for now, it doesn't matter. The wolf is polite, obedient, and apparently more teachable than my other student.
Unless it's stalking Rhianelle. Coinneach's voice brushes my thoughts. Our Nel likes to cuddle strays.
This fucking pervert. A flicker of murderous intent rises sharp and instinctive—
The wolf's head lifts at my intent and Shade stiffens.
I exhale slowly and force the thought down.
"Keep working," I tell them both, picking up my hammer again. "We're not stopping until Shade can at least spell his own name."
Shade mutters something creative and deeply profane. Footsteps echo against the stone floor outside.
I don't need to look up to know who it is. The scent of steel and leather reaches me first. But underneath that—fresh blood, recently spilled.
Fucking Red.
The door swings open, and he leans against the frame casually. His golden hair is slightly disheveled. He's watching me with that infuriating smirk on his face.
I keep hammering, refusing to meet his gaze.
"I always suspected you were a good man at heart," Red says, voice warm enough to grate.
My hammer comes down harder on the metal.
"No, really." He pushes off the doorframe, gesturing at the scene before him. "Teaching assassins to read. Adopting strays. Learning honest craftsmanship. It's almost touching."
"Say what you came to say," Hrolf says gruffly.
Red's smile fades.
"There will be a trial," he says. "Three days from now."
The forge quiets.
"The Aeonians will prosecute the Butcher of Dunrovin." Red's tone shifts, losing its edge. "You know the trial won't be fair."
Hrolf snorts softly. "I will not beg for fairness from elves."
He picks up a smaller tool and turns back to the piece on the anvil. His hands don't stop moving.
Red steps fully into the forge now. "You destroyed civilian districts. Families died. I will never forgive that."
Silence hums between them, elf and dwarf.