Ronan leaned against the doorframe like he owned it, smirk tugging at his mouth. "You know, Eria, every time I pass by, I hear hammering. Either you're making swords for the whole village, or you're compensating for being short."
My cheeks burned, though I swung the hammer back onto the anvil with enough force to make the sparks flare. "Better short than simple-minded," I shot back.
Father's chuckle rumbled low. "Careful, boy. She'll have your hide—and not for boots, either."
Ronan spread his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes glinted with mischief. "I'm just trying to lighten the air. The whole square feels like it's holding its breath. A joke or two might stop us all from choking."
I wanted to scoff, but his words struck true. The market stalls might've been piled with grain and cloth, but the whispers slinking through the crowd were louder than the merchants. Raids to the east. Farmers not returning from the fields. Fae shadows at the border.
The tension sat heavy, and Ronan's grin—foolish as it was—tried to scatter it like seeds on the wind.
"You hear the levy talk?" he asked, lowering his voice as he stepped nearer. "More demand's coming. Some say they'll strip every forge for weapons this time."
Father finally looked up, eyes sharp as the steel cooling on the rack. "Rumors. Nothing more until proof walks through our gates."
"Rumors burn just as fast as fire," Ronan muttered. His gaze cut to me, softer now. "If it comes to war, people will need blades. And bows. And someone who can stand behind them."
Something in his tone made my stomach twist. For a moment, the image of him on a battlefield flashed in my mind—sword in hand, grin wiped away, only determination left in its place.
I gripped the hammer tighter. "We're not at war yet."
Ronan didn't argue. That was worse somehow.
Father ended the silence with a clang of steel, deliberate, as though to shatter our thoughts. "Enough. Work doesn't finish itself. And Eria's got more fire in her than I need wasted on worry."
The dismissal was clear, but Ronan lingered anyway. His eyes swept over me once more, lingering too long at my face before he grinned again, easy and infuriating. "Careful, Eria. With all that heat, you'll burn me up."
"You're already half-baked," I muttered.
He laughed, shaking his head as he backed toward the door. "I'll see you at the market later. Try not to hammer your fingers off before then."
When he was gone, the forge felt emptier, though the fire still roared. I tried not to notice the echo of his laugh, the way it clung like smoke.
Father spoke quietly, so quietly I almost missed it over the hiss of steam. "He's a good lad."
I set the hammer down with a clatter. "Don't start."
His lips twitched, but he said nothing more. That was Father's way—plant a seed, then let silence do the watering.
I turned back to the blade, jaw tight, and willed the warmth in my cheeks to fade.
But it didn't.