They had their own battles to fight.
Somehow, I was more alone than ever.
Chapter 30
Rykr
From the look on Ciaran’s face as I tested the weight of the blade in my hand, he hated that Seren had insisted on arming me.
Not that I trusted him, either.
The swordsmith in front of me either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about the Seal on my neck, though the Vangar leathers did a decent job of hiding it. The new clothing was comfortable and well fitted but I couldn’t dislodge the contemptible feeling of being a traitor in the clothes of my enemy. My brothers would be ashamed.
Bracing his weight onto his hands, the swordsmith gave me a bored look. “Well?”
My fingers tightened around the grip. Truth was, I’d never purchased my own sword before. My father had always outfitted me with the best Volker steel—preselected from the finest craftsmen—in addition to my own heirloom blade, which Seth still held.
Would Seth give it back now that his hostility had cooled? He’d even shown me a semblance of trust since the skinwraith attack.
“Usually, I know if I like a blade once I’m using it.” I avoided the swordsmith’s gaze.
Ciaran’s sigh was loud.
The swordsmith grunted. “If you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’re wasting my time.” He shoved his way through the side door of the forge, muttering about customers who didn’t know steel from tin.
Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose, then held out his hand. “Here. Let me take a look.”
I raised a brow. He really thought he knew these weapons better than I did? But it was stifling in here and I doubted he wanted to waste any more time with me.
I handed him the sword, and he stepped back, studying the blade in the golden glow of the forge. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he slipped the guard onto his forearm, testing the blade against the palm of his hand. He frowned, then met my eyes. “The man’s a crook.”
Before I could ask what he meant, the door swung open again, and the swordsmith returned.
Ciaran didn’t hesitate. “You called this Volker steel?”
“It is.” The swordsmith sniffed, swiping a greasy hand across his face.
Ciaran didn’t argue. He simply gripped the blade in both hands and bent it. The clean snap echoed in the forge.
Solric’s name … how?
The swordsmith’s eyes narrowed with liquid fury. “Hey! You’ll have to pay for that.”
“We won’t be paying for anything but Volker steel.” Ciaran took a challenging step toward him. “I can’t snap Volker steel once it’s been forged, which means you were lying and trying to sell us a piece of junk. Now, if you don’t want the whole city to hear about it, I suggest you fetch a real sword before I decide to test how many other blades in here are just as worthless.”
Whether because of Ciaran’s size or the fact that he’d been caught, the swordsmith blanched, then took a nervous step back.
Within minutes, we were on our way out of the shop, a new sword at my side.
“Thank you.” I studied Ciaran’s determined, serious profile as we waded through the crowded streets of the trade district. “But how in the fuck?—”
“It’s the power I was born with. And I didn’t do it for you. I did it because Seren doesn’t deserve to waste her money on a fake sword.”
I rubbed the scruff of my jaw, his words having the intended, humiliating effect. A reminder of how much I owed Seren. How pathetic my existence here was.
Still, I stopped walking and turned to face him, meeting him head-on. A man like Ciaran wouldn’t respond to anything less that blunt honesty.
“You might think this is about me, but I’m not thrilled about my wife’s relationship with you, either. You couldn’t keep your hands off her during that little chat in the forest.”
