Page 160 of Reign

“Where you off to now?” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

“The smithy,” I breathed.

His heavy eyelids fluttered shut as I stroked a finger over his flushed cheek. The scent of sleep—warm and comforting—made me yearn to crawl back into his arms. But the pressing need to change out of the attention-drawing gown and ease my parched throat outweighed that desire. Leaning forward, I pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. As I drew back, I caught a faint smile curling his lips, and I knew he was still somewhat awake.

“I’ll see you this eve,” I whispered, rising to my feet.

Though Bash’s eyes stayed shut, he nodded faintly.

Ducking from the tent, I paused to behold the rising sun, its golden hues blooming across the skyline and casting a warm glow through the encampment. To my surprise, Regina hadn’t blown a distracting tempest our way—no doubt, she was preoccupied with preparations for war.

I filled a tankard with ale, convinced that the hair of the dog would cure my pounding headache. The first few sips made me heave as I stumbled through the camp toward the smithy.

Slipping through the tent’s entrance, I found solace in the familiar aroma of smoldering iron. Without hesitation, I rifled through the rags strewn across the earthen floor in search of something wearable.

Among the scraps tucked beneath the canvas—placed there to keep out the rain—I discovered blood-stained garments, likely stripped from a fallen soldier and repurposed as coal rags. These would have to suffice. Grabbing a blade from the tool rack, I sliced through my beautiful gown; vanity had no place in war. Freed from its constriction, I slipped into the musty garments.

The tunic was excessively long, and the breeches hung near my ankles rather than fitting snugly around my knees—nevertheless the outfit rendered me a soldier once more. I fashioned a crude belt from my gown’s lacing and kept my stockings on as makeshift hose. As for my velveteen slippers, all I could do was sully them with coal dust to mask their gaudy appearance.

Godwin staggered into the tent, his gait suggesting he was still drunk from the night before.

“Oh, Smith,” he grumbled, gripping his forehead like he thought it might fall off. “Is it Smith? Or should I call you by another name now?”

“Smith is fine,” I replied curtly.

“What happened to your garments?” he questioned, gesturing to the hacked-up fabric littering the smithy floor.

“The gown was impractical,” I explained, crouching to gather the remnants and tossing them into the pile of worn rags.

Godwin nodded as if he understood—even though I doubted he could fathom the discomfort of a corset.

Without hesitation, he started handing me bags of coal for the furnace, as if it were any ordinary day—seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was a woman and a witch.

I appreciated that.

“Did you know I’m in charge now?” Godwin grunted, moving another heavy bag in my direction.

I shook my head. “No,” I replied, grappling at the hefty sack.

“Well, I am,” he added, a proud grin pulling at his scar. “Are you back to work today?”

I gave a sharp nod. Though I thought the question was a little late; he’d already roped me into labor.

“Good. We need more hands,” Godwin said, tilting his head toward a barrel brimming with bent and broken blades.

As the morning wore on, I helped prepare the smithy for the workday, and slowly more craftsmen filtered in—among them was Finn.

Tugging at my baggy tunic, Finn shook his head. “You look like the village idiot,” he teased, smirking at my dishevelment.

“Men,” Godwin called, planting his hands firmly on his hips. “I spent the early hours speaking with Prince Fitzroy. He’s given strict orders to ensure our readiness for the coming war.” Retrieving an oil-slick apron, he tightened its strings around his waist. “I want mortal men on this side and wizards over there.”

To my astonishment, the workers split into nearly equal factions. I stared in disbelief, dumbfounded by how many men hid the same secret as me.

“Oh, and witches,” Godwin added, catching my eye with a knowing wink. “Mortal men, you’ll mend weapons, forge blades, and weld armor. Wizards, you are to enchant the iron to strengthen it. Prince Fitzroy’s provided a list of spells required to complete the task.”

The thickness of the parchment told of the hours Fitzroy must have spent writing them.

There was no time to hesitate. Everyone settled into their workstations, ready for the long day ahead. Even those who clearly opposed witchcraft grudgingly followed Godwin’s orders, aware of their vulnerability to us magical folk. As I guided the inexperienced wizards through the incantations, my palms projected a purple glow, illuminating the dim tent. Some men at the forge directed wary glances my way—a stark reminder that the hatred sown by the King might take generations to uproot.