Ronan set the broken rivet down on the workbench, then leaned his elbows against the wood as though he belonged there. His grin didn't falter even under the weight of my glare.
"You going to fix it, or just glare at me until it repairs itself?" he asked.
"Maybe glaring works," I said, picking up the rivet and turning it in my fingers. "Would explain why you've never broken before—your own reflection keeps you stitched together."
Father barked a laugh at that, deep and genuine, and I felt a flare of triumph warm my chest. It wasn't easy to drag a laugh out of him.
Ronan, of course, only leaned closer. "If my reflection's the only thing holding me together, then I'd best keep you around. You seem to look at me often enough."
Heat climbed my cheeks before I could stop it. I snapped the rivet onto the anvil and raised the hammer. "Careful, Ronan. I'm holding a weapon."
He raised both hands, mock-serious. "I surrender. Spare me, smith."
Father shook his head, returning to his work. "Both of you, less talking, more working. Steel doesn't shape itself, and neither do belts."
I grumbled but lowered the hammer gently this time, coaxing the rivet back into shape. Ronan watched in silence, which was rare enough to make me uncomfortable. When I risked a glance up, his expression wasn't teasing anymore. It was thoughtful, as though he were seeing something in me I couldn't.
"What?" I asked sharply.
"Nothing," he said, smiling again. Too quickly.
The fire popped, spitting sparks across the floor, and the moment passed.
By the time the rivet was fixed and Ronan had thanked me with an exaggerated bow, the forge felt too small. Too hot. As though something other than fire pressed against me.
When he left, silence pooled again, broken only by the hammer's rhythm.
Father studied me from the corner of his eye. "He looks at you the way a man looks at something he wants to keep."
I slammed the hammer down harder than necessary. "Then he should find a sword."
"Maybe he already has."
I shot him a glare, but he only smirked faintly, as though he'd said what he meant and would let it linger like smoke in the rafters.
⸻
The rest of the day blurred into heat and rhythm. By the time dusk painted the sky in streaks of crimson and gold, my arms ached and my hair clung damp to my neck.
I stepped outside to cool my skin, the evening breeze a balm after hours of fire. The village stretched before me—stone cottages with thatched roofs, the square busy with merchants packing up stalls, children darting between them in shrieking laughter. On the horizon, the hills rolled gentle, green still despite whispers of blight from the east.
It looked peaceful. It was a lie.
The tension was always there, just beneath the surface. People laughed louder than they needed to, bartered harder, gripped their cloaks tighter when shadows stretched. Everyone pretended, but no one was fooled. The fae weren't stories anymore. They were a storm waiting to break.
I wrapped my arms around myself and glanced back toward the forge. Father's shadow stretched long inside, still bent over the anvil. He never stopped, never slowed. As if by making one more blade, one more nail, one more piece of armor, he could hold back the tide pressing at our borders.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe steel could keep us safe.
But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was fire, and the shadow of a figure standing at its heart. Watching. Waiting.