Master Behn's forge stood just beyond the village square, tucked beside a slope of mossy stone and a wide, amber-leafed tree that rustled in the wind like a sleeping beast. Smoke curled gently from the chimney, and the rhythmic clink of metal had faded now, leaving the air heavy with warmth, soot, and iron.
Ilya approached alone. The villagers had returned to their homes with quiet reverence, and Elias had vanished into the woods with his men, leaving only his shadow behind. Her feet ached from the work of clearing wreckage, but there was a strange peace in the act of rebuilding.
Behn met her at the door, wiping his hands on a thick cloth. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing arms corded with muscle and streaked with ash. His dark beard was bound in two braids, his brow marked with a permanent furrow that deepened when he saw her.
"Duchess," he said with a nod. "Didn't think you'd find your way here so soon."
"You greeted us at the gates," Ilya said. "I remember thinking your hands looked like they belonged to the mountain. I wanted to know what they made."
He let out a grunt that may have been amusement. "Come in, then. You'll want something warm in you before we talk steel."
Inside, the forge was more home than workshop—simple and lived-in. A heavy oak table sat beneath a rack of old swords and halberds, each with a story in the way it hung. A pot of tea simmered quietly at the hearth, and a plate of soft bread, sliced pears, and apricots had been set out as if in expectation.
Behn poured her a cup without asking, then sat across from her.
"I was the royal smith, once," he said, surprising her. "In the southern court. Worked for three kings. None worth the crown on their heads. Elias pulled me North during the Rebuilding. Said he needed someone who could make weapons that lasted longer than the men who carried them."
"Wow…" Ilya said in response. "The current King is quite old, though…How did you serve 3 of them…?"
The blacksmith gave a little grin.
"Kings come in all shapes and sizes- young and old alike. The previous family branch died out about fifteen years ago, in the last war. The current King– Henry, was actually a Duke before he was crowned."
Ilya took a sip of the tea—strong, spiced, and smoky. "I see. And when Elias took you away, what made you decide to stay?"
"Mm. Eli doesn't lie to me," Behn replied simply. "Didn't ask me to pretty things up for court. Just asked if I could make something that wouldn't break when the dark came howling."
She looked around the room, tucking away the nickname "Eli" for later use. "And did you?"
Behn's eyes glinted. "Not all of them, Duchess. It took me some time to get it down- the things that go bump in the night are a little different in the north, after all."
A voice called from the back of the forge.
"Da! Are you hiding the Duchess?"
A girl of about sixteen peeked in through the curtain—freckled, bright-eyed, with soot on her cheek and flour on her apron.
"Come on," she grinned. "We're having tea in the garden. Come sit with us?"
Ilya hesitated.
"She's not asking," Behn said, half-smirking. "When Nessa gets that look, it's best to surrender."
Ilya gave a smile and a dip of her head, setting down her glass to go and join the others. As she left the room, Behn eyed her carefully, making sure he could hear them all outside and that he wouldn't be discovered.
He rose then, walking to a wall panel that most left unnoticed. With a quiet grunt, he slid it open to reveal a shallow recess—and from it, he pulled a long wooden box, worn at the edges.
He unlatched it slowly.
Inside, resting on deep blue cloth, lay a chipped and well worn sword. The pommel was etched with the stylized head of an ox—worn, but still proud. Recovered from Count Valenpor's estate while Elias gave the Count a dressing down- though he didn't know it existed at the time, he only asked one of his knights to sneak into her room upstairs and find what he could. The man had walked the room and stumbled upon the very slightly skewed floorboard, yet to be discovered as not even a maid had touched that place yet. Elias made sure it didn't stay there. When he saw it in the carriage he knew it was Ilya's by blood and fire both.
He ran his fingertips along the grip—leather cracked with age, yet strong still. In its prime, this was as fine a weapon as any he had made. He would need to get Ilya's tutor to test her with different blades and bring him the one that was most suitable to her so he could reforge the weapon into one of her use.
He'd make it lighter. Swift in the hand. She would be able to move like it's part of her body, an extension of her. But he would leave the ox pommel and handle, only re-wrapping the leather of the grip. It was the symbol of her father, according to Elias- not of house Velnpor or Lucien, but of Oxwell, a name that once struck fear into peoples hearts and who died with twelve enemies at his feet, many years ago.
"Hmm…" He grumbled, slowly closing the lid and replacing it into its stash in the wall.
"Eli must like this one a little…"
The garden behind the forge was small and fragrant, lined with rosemary, wild mint, and climbing jasmine. A mismatched set of chairs and a wooden table had been dragged under a tree where sunlight filtered through. Three young villagers, around Nessa's age, sat pouring tea into chipped cups and laughing over some story involving goats and an overturned cart.
They welcomed Ilya without awkwardness or ceremony. Nessa handed her a cup. Someone offered a sugar biscuit that crumbled in her hand.
The air was lighter here. Real. And Ilya found herself smiling, not out of courtesy—but because it felt good.
For a moment, the weight of her title slipped from her shoulders. She was just Ilya, sitting in a sun-dappled garden, listening to stories that had nothing to do with kings or fire.
Far from the village, the forest darkened beneath thick cloud. Elias moved like smoke between the trees, his soldiers spread in a half-circle behind him. Moss clung to the roots, but the ground was churned—torn by claws, flattened by something massive.
The Torhound had doubled back. Its prints showed intelligence, not frenzy. It was hunting.
Elias's body ached with each step. The wounds in his thigh, chest and face from years ago burned in the cold. His ribs—always tight—pulled sharply each time he drew breath. Still, he pressed forward, the sword in his hand a whisper of steel.
He heard it before he saw it.
A low growl, not from behind—but above.
He turned just as the beast dropped from the ridge.
It crashed into the ground between the men and roared—a deep, gurgling thing that stank of blood and old magic. Its fur was matted, its eyes glowing amber-red. Two horns curled back from its head like a ram's, and its mouth was too wide, too wrong.
A corrupted thing. Twisted by something beyond hunger.
Elias didn't hesitate.
He charged.
The men shouted, fanned out, and tried to flank—but the Torhound moved with unnatural speed. It knocked one man into a tree, caught another by the leg and flung him.
Elias ducked a swipe, pain lancing his side, and slashed upward, cutting across its flank. The beast shrieked.
The forest went red.
For a moment, the moss and wood and earth beneath him wasn't snow—it was ash. The trees burned. And a dragon's scream echoed in his ears, louder than thought as memories came flooding back.
He staggered. The source of his scars roared back into him, unbidden and merciless.
The Torhound lunged, and he barely rolled aside.
He could feel the scar down his ribs throb with heat.
The fire wasn't there. But the memory was.
He rose to one knee, blade braced as time seemed to slow and the only thing he could hear was his own breath and heartbeat. He had fought trolls, ogres, harpies and wyrms. The burn was not an aesthetic choice– A Dragonkiss, she had called it. Ilya, an unexpected thing brought under his care. Had Alura seen this when she told him to find love again? Had she gazed into his future as the breath rattled in her lungs and she told him not to live in pain forever, that someone would find his peace for him again?
He would not die here, not after all of that.
He watched the beast circle. Waited. Counted.
It lunged.
And he let it come.
Just before the impact, he twisted—stepped in close—and drove his blade up beneath its ribcage, stabbing into its lungs and slicing its heart along the way. Its eyes started to roll.
A final gurgling roar—and Elias whipped out his blade and spun so quickly his body was a blur, movements connecting as he severed the beast's head completely and kicked its body to the dirt.
Then, as suddenly as the noise began… silence reigned.
The beast was dead.
Elias stood over it, breath coming deep with the adrenaline flooding his veins.
Sir Caedan ran to his side, but he held up a hand.
"I'm fine."
He wasn't.
But it was done.
A raven flew overhead—dark against the sky—and vanished north, toward the treeline where ash still stained the wind.