Chapter Three Blood in the Water #3
Looking up the three flights of stairs she’d have to summit to reach her flat, Reya felt sick.
She took them at a crawl, one step at a time, choking on unshed tears the entire way.
Her front door was unlocked when she reached it, which meant Lennox had stopped by to make sure she hadn’t stashed the Sage there.
When she was inside, she sank to the hardwood floor with a squish.
Through the western-facing window, she had a rare view of Rudrock Bay. That view—and the glorious smells of the market that bustled, rain or shine, just a few blocks away—was why she’d chosen this building. That and the price.
Artwork swathed the exposed stone walls, all purchased—for the most part—from shops in the art district.
The reclaimed wardrobe and bed were practically antiques, but beneath the chipping gold paint was sturdy oak.
She’d replaced every original doorknob, handle, and backplate in the flat with more eclectic hardware she’d found at local flea markets.
None of them matched, but she didn’t care.
The only piece of furniture she’d bought new was the midnight-blue velvet chaise by the cast iron stove in her designated reading corner.
And in every corner of the room, stacked in ceiling-high piles, shoved under and on top of every furnishing, propped up against canvas paintings and stacks of weapons, was a library’s worth of books.
Cringing with every movement, Reya peeled off her armor and underclothes and crawled into the kitchen.
Underneath the sink, there were a number of bottles she was prepared to drown in.
Her eyes fell upon the oldest one: an ornate whiskey bottle, its gilded label browning with age, the red wax seal embossed with the year Lennox had found her.
He’d gifted it to her upon completing her training.
Something to toast with when she paid off her debt, he’d said.
The sheer magnitude of what she’d lost threatened to bowl her over.
Was it worth it? When she couldn’t come up with an answer, she was, impossibly, even more disgusted with herself.
Reya grabbed the far cheaper bottle behind it and took a swig, unable to stop herself from glancing toward the letter on her nightstand, the paper crinkled from all the times she’d folded and unfolded the pages. She couldn’t bear to read it again, but she didn’t have to. She’d memorized it.
All her life, she’d only ever wanted to forge. To become a blacksmith like her father. She had been his apprentice from the moment she could hold a pair of tongs. Then he was gone. She hadn’t been inside a smithy in ten years.
Reya had sent out countless inquiries in the last year, mostly to smiths abroad in a desperate hope to leave Rhiterra, and received only silence.
Until three weeks ago. She’d written Anwyn Odell on a whim, pouring out her story like a confessional, never believing the renowned blacksmith would deign to respond.
When his letter had been delivered with a brightly colored Delthian postmark, she’d nearly hugged the porter who had brought it to her door.
Odell had offered her a job sight unseen, a chance at the life she’d wanted before she met Lennox Raulin, requesting only that she respond with her dates of travel by summer’s end.
And now, unless she pulled off some kind of miracle, she would never pay Lennox back in time to accept the job.
She couldn’t summon the urge to care about getting blood or filth on any of the sweaters, tunics, pants, and boots strewn about the floor of her closet on the way to the bathing room.
Above the chipped porcelain clawfoot tub, there was another stained glass window and a deep sill where she stored her soaps and salts.
Reya plugged the basin, turned the brass knob to the frigid side, and held her broken fingers in the stream of icy water.
She continued to empty the bottle down her burning throat while she waited for some numbness to set in.
Her father was Steelborn. And only another master blacksmith could lay him to rest. That was why he’d trained her.
So that when the time came for him to take his place among the stars, she could perform the sacred rite of his ancestors.
Her brothers would have buried his bones on the mountain.
But she was responsible for his soul. And she’d failed him.
She’d run.
Never run. Never bow. Never die.
With a deep breath that did no good, she realigned the bones, not bothering to fight the screams that ripped from her throat.
Reya was not Steelborn—she was the Crimson Dagger. And now she would never be anything else.
Fumbling for her linens, she tore off scraps with her teeth and wrapped her trembling fingers alongside a wood splint. It was hardly the first time she’d set her bones. The scars on her body were a map of the last decade.
She locked her arms around her knees, rocking herself as she murmured a prayer to Iena, the All-Goddess of healing, that she might have mercy on her. Only when the tub was near to overflowing did she turn the knob back to center, sink into the freezing water, and allow herself to cry.