Forged in Fire #2
Suddenly, the boy clutched at his coat pocket. Whatever was inside gave a furious wriggle.
Collin’s heart leapt. “What do you have?”
The boy’s hazel eyes glittered with mischief. He beckoned Collin to lean in closer.
Collin cast a glance at Connor, but his brother’s attention had already drifted elsewhere. Still holding Connor’s hand, Collin inched nearer to the boy with the sly smile.
The boy plunged a hand into his pocket. After a moment of fumbling, he drew out a fat brown lizard. Its narrow tongue flicked in and out, tasting the cold air.
Collin’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Where did you find it?”
“It was trying to cross the road, so I saved it. I’m bringing it home to my brother. He’s stuck in bed with a horrid cough, and I think this’ll cheer him up—at least until our mam finds it. She’s terrified of reptiles.”
“You’re Nic of Stargazer Creek,” Connor said suddenly, his voice stiff with disapproval.
Both Collin and the boy jumped.
“My mother says you’re very naughty, and we’re not to have anything to do with you,” Connor added, gazing at the boy with stern, narrowed eyes.
Nic quickly tucked the lizard back into his pocket, where it settled in the warmth, content. He looked at Connor with such exaggerated innocence that Collin couldn’t help but laugh.
Once Connor turned to face the front of the line again, Collin leaned in and whispered, “My mam says you’re naughty because you always climb over the fence to peek at the dancers practicing in the glass hall.”
Nic’s grin widened, bold and unbothered. “I’m going to kiss a Daughter of Venus one day.”
“Which one?” Collin asked, both skeptical and deeply impressed.
“No idea,” Nic said with a careless shrug. “Maybe all of them.”
Collin chuckled. Before he could ask how Nic was planning to kiss a Daughter of Venus, his attention was drawn to a group of hunters.
The hunters strode into the square like heroes returning from battle, their arms and backs burdened with the hulking bodies of wild boars.
The air buzzed with admiration as they passed, and Collin stood frozen, heart pounding with awe.
Their boots were caked in mud, their coats smeared with blood and sweat—but to him, they were magnificent.
His father walked amongst them, a cloaked huntsman—broad and confident, laughing with the others.
The hunters approached the clock tower, where a guard with a hard jaw and sharper eyes inspected each haul. One by one, the boars were offered up. One by one, the guard nodded.
A flicker at the edge of Collin’s vision pulled him from his thoughts.
A line of bedraggled children trudged up the hilly path toward the square. Near the end of the procession, a girl caught his eye.
Her golden hair—like sunlight at daybreak—fell in tangled waves around a head wrapped in white bandages. The cloak draped over her shoulders was far too large, nearly swallowing her thin frame. She was barefoot, limping slightly on the gravel.
Then she stopped.
Her eyes—dark, stormy blue—swept the square and locked on Collin. For a breathless moment, it felt as if she saw only him.
Then her older sister gave her hand a sharp tug, and the girl turned away, stumbling forward to catch up.
Collin’s stomach knotted uncomfortably. He kept his eyes on the girl, wishing to meet her startling gaze again.
He tugged on Connor’s hand. “That’s my friend, Dragonfly. We skip stones at the lake on Sundays... but she wasn’t there this week. Where are they taking her?”
“Stop staring.” Connor yanked Collin’s hood down low. His voice was sharp. “It’s not polite. They’re orphans now.”
“What’s an orphan?” Collin asked, pulling his hood back to glimpse her. Rain slid down his neck, cold as a warning.
“It means they have no parents.”
Before he could speak again, Connor yanked the hood over his eyes and turned him firmly forward.
Still, Collin craned his neck. He had to see Dragonfly. She looked lost beneath her tangled golden hair. He wanted to call out, ask what had happened, why her eyes looked so sad.
The brothers huddled close, warming their chilled hands and rosy cheeks before the small, crackling hearth in the sitting room.
Collin wrapped a soft, worn patchwork quilt—white, black, and blues—tightly around his narrow shoulders, its comforting weight pressing gently against his skin as golden sparks leapt eagerly from the blazing fire.
He slowly, almost reverently, turned the thick pages of a book he couldn’t yet read.
His fingers moved with quiet awe, his breath catching slightly.
In his vivid, restless mind, whole worlds swirled—miraculous and mysterious places that might lie hidden within that book’s secret language, waiting to be discovered.
"Mam! You promised you'd read to me,” Collin called.
When his mother failed to reply, Collin looked to the dining room. Mother was fretting with the food items from the week's meal allowance. She searched through the cupboards, muttering anxiously under her breath.
Just then, the heavy front door swung open. A gust of wind swept through the cabin, sending the fire in the hearth into a wild flicker. Shadows leapt and twisted across the walls, dancing like monsters.
A hooded and cloaked man stepped hastily inside, shutting the door behind him with a loud slam.
Jiah’s long, dark green cloak was soaked through with spring rain. Mud clung to his boots and tracked across the freshly mopped floor. His thick, sandy hair was damp and tousled, but his ardent blue eyes shone brightly, catching the firelight with an eager, restless gleam.
“Jiah...” Ismene’s voice was low, frayed at the edges. “There was no meat in this week’s allowance. Not even a scrap. How are we to last? The garden’s still bare.”
Jiah’s eyes sparked. “I have a gift for you.” He turned, sharp with excitement. “Connor—put Lumen on the mantel.”
The boy sprang from his chair and set the longsword in its place of honor. Jiah’s fingers fumbled at his coat buttons as if racing the moment. From beneath the heavy fabric, he drew out a thick, crumpled parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied with thongs.
“What is that?” Ismene asked, her voice cautious, eyes narrowing even as she reached for it.
“Go on, darling, open it,” Jiah said lightly, toweling dampness from his hair.
Her fingers worked through the knots—too slow for Jiah’s grin, too fast for her pounding heart. When the paper finally fell away, the air seemed to twist in her lungs.
“Jiah,” she hissed. “That’s venison.”
The boys rushed to the table, their faces lighting at the sight of the red meat, the thick marrow bone. Collin nearly asked for stew before Ismene snapped, “Back to the sitting room. Now.”
As their footsteps retreated, she turned to her husband, her voice razor-thin. “Where did you get it?”
His smile faltered. “Izin and I—we trapped two bucks early this morning. Turned in the bigger. Kept this one...”
“You what?” she whispered, horror blooming in her face. “You withheld it? Jiah, that’s a crime!”
He stepped forward to quiet her, but she backed away. “No one will know,” he said quickly. “It’s safe, Ismene.”
“Safe?” Her voice cracked. “If they find out, they’ll take you. And what then? What happens to us, to our boys? You think you’re providing, but you're putting a noose around your own neck!”
Jiah dropped the towel. “I’d never let anything happen to you, you know that.” He reached for her hands, too cold in his. “I do this for you. For them. I’m not letting Montigo starve us into obedience.”
Her shoulders trembled as she blinked back tears. “You and Izin... is it just the two of you?”
He looked down, the hesitation too long. He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “Tomlyn, too. His wife’s due any week. And there’s the fellow from Black Timber forest. And—”
“Oh god, Jiah.” She stumbled back a step. “You’re not just reckless. You’re coordinated.”
“It’s survival,” he snapped, heat rising in his chest. “We bleed ourselves hunting for them, and when we ask for scraps, they tax us down to the marrow. What choice do we have?”
“Not this,” she moaned. “Not risking the gallows for stew bones.”
He encircled her within his arms, pulling her against him. “We have children, Ismene. That’s why we do this. Not in spite of it.”
Jiah pulled out a chair and sat down with a weary sigh. He beckoned the boys closer and rested a hand on each of their small shoulders.
“You mustn’t tell anyone about the meat,” he said, his voice low and serious. His eyes settled on Collin’s. “Not your friends. Not anyone. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Connor replied quickly.
“But, Da... why must we not tell?” Collin asked, his brow furrowed.
Jiah looked into his son’s wide, trusting face. He pulled Collin gently onto his knee and held both boys close.
“Come here, my beloved boys... How can I help you understand?”
He took a breath.
“I was born in a village called White Wood. It’s a farming community far over the northern pass. Life was good in my childhood home. For generations, we traded freely with neighboring villages—long before this land was ever called Crimisa.
“But one day, when I was just about Connor’s age, men came from Chroma.
They were led by a man named Montigo. He told us we must join his society—or face more attacks.
Montigo did this all across the land. The small villages fell quickly to his cruelty, and some were lost completely, their names forgotten.
The larger ones—like White Wood and North Town—fought for years. But even they began to crumble.
“Some people say Montigo united Crimisa, that he brought order and a shared culture. But many more believe he conquered us by force. That he used fear and violence to break free people and bend them to his will.”
Connor’s eyes were wide. “But how does one man make a whole village do what he says?”