Page 91 of Forged in Fading

Alvara thrust the basket into his chest. “He’s a problem for tomorrow.”

He grabbed her hand where she gripped the handle and arched a brow. “And what am I?”

The twinkle dancing in his eyes…the crooked grin that dimpled his cheek…Alvara spoke the truth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

After a few more dizzying days spent working with the demi-elves and settling any leftover refugees into the town, Alvara needed something familiar. The food, the people, the language, it was all so achingly different. Before she knew it, she found herself asking for directions with the few words of the human language she had picked up.

Her pronunciation must have been atrocious, because the man she asked wrinkled his nose when she uttered the word for “sword.” It escalated into increasingly dramatic gestures from both sides, but he eventually pointed her in what was hopefully the correct direction. She had already waited too long to make her promised visit to the weaponsmith.

The smell of smoke and hot metal hit her at the same time as a gray blur that knocked her to the ground in a tussle of fur and paws.

The creature licked her face, its tongue warm and slimy, and Alvara screamed. Oh gods, a shifter. Or maybe even a wild animal tasting her to see if she would make a good meal. She was about to call on her magic when a burly man pulled the beast off her, shaking his finger at it like it was an unruly youngling.

He helped her off the ground with rough hands, no doubt calloused from countless hours working with metal. The thing looked like some distant cousin of a wolf, though it was smaller and stockier with gray fur and a puffy, curled tail. It cocked its head as it studied Alvara, and she frowned back.

The blacksmith acted as if the creature was his, so it clearly wasn’t a demi-elf who had newly discovered their Nyrian shifting magic. But she couldn’t imagine what kind of purpose an animal like this served. She doubted it laid eggs or provided decent meat, and its coat was useless for making anything of value.

The man grunted something Alvara didn’t understand, so she pointed to the forge behind him and tapped her chest. She repeated the word for sword again, one of the few pieces of their language she had picked out early on.

He no doubt thought she wanted to buy a weapon, but at least it meant he would let her inside to see his work. She followed a few paces behind, eyeing the beast, which the blacksmith dragged by a leather collar around its neck.

He let it into his place of work? Would he let a cow or a sheep in too?

The first step into the building squashed any rational thinking and threatened to bring Alvara to her knees. The scent of charcoal, the sweltering heat—it felt like home.

She paced around the room, picking up weapons here and there to inspect the smith’s craftsmanship, all while keeping a healthy distance from the wolf monstrosity.

The blacksmith’s work was functional, but many of the swords were too heavy and their weight unbalanced. The edges were blunter than the blades she was used to, and she could tell most, if not all, had not been tempered correctly. They would deliver a decent amount of damage in a fight, but they wouldn’t hold up long when pitted against elvish weapons that had been refined over thousands of years.

It needed to be fixed immediately. She would speak to Boden about it the next time they crossed paths, which she selfishly hoped would be soon. With so much work to be done with the demi-elves, her magic training had been pushed to the side, but she and Boden tried to find time for a meal or a brisk walk through the town when they could spare it. Something about their conversations, mostly about nothing important, set Alvara’s heart and mind at ease. It was an escape they both sorely needed after days spent preparing for whatever horrors fate had in store.

She could offer nothing more than an awkward smile and a brief wave to the blacksmith before departing. The man wouldn’t take kindly to an elf working alongside him, let alone critiquing his technique, but Pyry could at least help improve the weaponry.

Unfortunately, that meant she had to hold a conversation with him.

The meandering walk to find him did nothing to heighten her nonexistent enthusiasm for the chore. He stood near the entrance of the town, facing the path that led to the elven realm, and guilt nibbled at her conscience. Despite everything that had happened between them, he was only here, stuck in this mess, because of her.

“Thinking about running away?” she asked as she came to a stop beside him.

“I miss it.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around to help you.” Her apology wasn’t entirely sincere, but there was a crumb of honesty to her words.

He looked at her, and a mix of emotions wavered in his usually calm eyes. “You’re not responsible for me, Alva. I don’t hold any of this against you.”

“Maybe. But I could have done more.”

“You were never the one who needed to do more.” He took a deep breath. “I was never there for you. When you needed it most. Even after you had stayed by my side when my father…I’m sorry.” Pyry took her hands in his, and she didn’t pull away, too shocked by the apology leaving his lips.

His thumbs rubbed back and forth over her skin like they used to all those years ago. “It wasn’t that I didn’t care for you. I cared, Alva, and watching you go through the pain of losing Eloisa, your mother…” He squeezed her hands. “It was too much for me. I had never confronted my father’s passing, and I knew I couldn’t be strong in the way you needed. I couldn’t watch you sink deeper into the darkness, knowing I wasn’t able to help. But it was selfish, and I should have never left, not like that.”

It was an apology Alvara had waited what felt like decades to hear, but it didn’t taste nearly as satisfying as she imagined. Pyry needed to experience torture, his near fading, a kidnapping, and the fall of both Vorianta and Ilmanir to realize she was someone worth fighting for.

But his words were an offer. A few years too late, but an offer, nonetheless.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Alvara turned. Boden stood with his arms crossed, his features rigid and unyielding. Heat swept up her neck and face, and she quickly pulled away from Pyry’s touch, fiddling with a braid instead.