Night fell slowly over the village, shadows stretching long across the square as lanterns winked to life, one by one. The forge's glow burned brighter in the dark, a beacon against the evening chill. I lingered outside, letting the air cool the sweat still clinging to my skin, when Father's voice drifted from within.
"Don't stay idle too long, girl. The work's not done."
I sighed and stepped back inside. The heat rushed over me like a living thing, and I took up the tongs again without protest. But my arms ached with a bone-deep weariness that no breath of cool air could fix.
Father noticed. He always did. "Enough for today," he said at last, setting aside his hammer. "Rest before you wear yourself to nothing."
I raised a brow. "You telling me to stop? Are you feeling ill?"
He snorted. "Cheeky. Don't push your luck."
But I caught the faintest smile tugging at his mouth, the kind he tried to hide. It softened the sharp lines of his face, and for a moment I saw not just the smith but the father beneath.
I washed my hands in the trough, scrubbing the soot from my skin until the water turned murky. My reflection wavered on the surface—blond hair tied back in a fraying braid, blue-green eyes rimmed with ash and fatigue. Mother's eyes, Father said. The thought tightened something in my chest.
"Do you ever think about her?" I asked suddenly. The words slipped out before I could bite them back.
Father's hammer stilled mid-motion. For a long moment, only the hiss of cooling iron filled the space.
"Every day," he said quietly. His voice was rougher than the forge's smoke. "She had your fire. Your temper too. And your laugh."
I swallowed hard, staring at the rippling water. "Do you ever wonder what she'd think of me?"
"She'd be proud," he answered without hesitation. Then, softer: "Though she'd say I work you too hard."
That earned a faint smile from me. "She'd be right."
He chuckled, the sound like gravel shifting. "Perhaps."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but heavy. Like a blanket laid over both of us, stitched from memory and longing.
Before I could say more, the forge door creaked open again. Ronan slipped inside, his grin faint in the dim light.
"You're still at it?" he asked. "Most folk are long in their cups by now."
I scowled. "And what do you care?"
"Just worried the forge might swallow you whole one day," he said easily, leaning against the wall. "Then where would I go for sharp words and sharper blades?"
Father gave him a pointed look. "Don't you have work of your own, boy?"
"Finished it hours ago," Ronan replied smoothly. "Thought I'd come see if Eria was in need of rescue."
"I don't need rescuing," I snapped, though my lips threatened to twitch upward.
He only grinned wider. "No, you'd rather be the one doing the rescuing. Always the warrior, never the damsel."
"I'd rather you not call me either."
Ronan laughed, head tilting back. The sound filled the forge, bright and reckless. Father grumbled something under his breath about fools, but I caught the way his eyes softened, the way he watched me more than the boy.
Ronan caught it too. "What was that look, Master Torren? Don't tell me you think Eria and I—"
"Out," Father interrupted, pointing to the door.
Ronan's grin turned wicked. "Touchy. Fine, I'll go. But one day, Eria, you'll thank me for offering to rescue you."
I crossed my arms. "Don't hold your breath."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, winking before slipping out into the night.
The forge seemed quieter without him, though my pulse still thudded too fast.
Father sighed, shaking his head. "That boy's trouble."
I busied myself with the tools, arranging them with unnecessary precision. "Then it's a good thing I can handle trouble."
His chuckle rumbled low. "Aye. That you can."