The forge’s glow cuts through the dark before I even reach the street, orange light flickering against the snow, smoke curling into the frozen night. The scent of iron and burning coal greets me as I step inside, heavy and familiar, like stepping into another life. The heat rolls over me, sharp and thick, wrapping around my coat until the frost begins to melt.
Henrik is there, as I knew he would be, his frame bent over the anvil, hammer steady in his hand. Sparks leap with every strike, lighting the shadows that cling to the rafters. The forge is cluttered, always has been: tools hanging from every beam, shelves sagging under jars of oil and scraps of leather, barrels filled with nails and bolts. It smells of metal, smoke, sweat, and the faint sweetness of old wood, and it pulls me back in ways I don’t want.
He doesn’t look up when I enter. Henrik never wastes movement, never gives away more than he intends. He waits until the hammer falls one last time, until the glowing iron is set back into the bed of coals, before he speaks.
“You’ve been pacing the town like a man who doesn’t know if he belongs here or anywhere else.” He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, his voice low and even. “I’d call it restless, but you don’t move without reason. So tell me, what’s keeping you awake?”
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, my shadow stretching long across the packed dirt floor. The fire hisses in the hearth, embers crackling as if they know the words before I do. “You think you already know.”
“I know the signs,” he says, setting his hammer aside. His eyes find mine, sharp despite the dim light. “You’re fighting ghosts.”
The word tastes bitter. “Ghosts have no weight.”
Henrik smirks faintly, a humorless thing. “Then why do they hold you down?”
I don’t answer. My silence is answer enough.
He doesn’t give me peace. He never has. “You left because you were forced out. Ambition where they wanted obedience. They branded you exile, turned their backs, and you turned your rage into empire. Fine. But don’t stand here pretending you buried that wound. You wear it like armor, but it still bleeds.”
I push off the wall, moving closer to the forge, the heat biting into my skin. “Reminders are weakness.”
“No,” he says, his voice hard now. “Reminders are proof you once had something worth losing.”
The coals shift, a hiss rising as sparks leap and fade. I stare into them too long, until they blur into memory.
I remember another fire, smaller but warmer, flames licking over thick logs while shadows danced across rough-hewn walls. The lodge was smaller then, the ceilings low, the beams unpolished, but the air was thick with life.
Laughter echoed, overlapping voices, my mother humming as she pulled bread from the oven, flour dusting her hands. She taught me to stir slow, patient, her voice steady in my ear, telling me that food carried memory, that it mattered how you made it. My father’s voice boomed with old songs, the younger ones clapping along, hands hitting the table until the bowls rattled.
I remember the feel of the wood under my hands, the weight of a mug warm with spiced drink, the sound of my siblings arguing over who would take the last roll. I remember the firelight on faces I’ll never see again.
It’s gone now. The hearth cold, the voices scattered, the songs silenced. Exile isn’t just being sent away, it’s being told you can never return, that the fire belongs to others now.
I force the memory back, drag air into my lungs like I can burn it out, but Henrik’s eyes are on me, sharp and knowing.
“You think I don’t know what I lost?” My voice is rougher than I intend. “You think I don’t remember?”
“I think you remember too much,” he says quietly. “And you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve to have it again.”
The words land heavier than the hammer on the anvil.
Clara Wynn. Stubborn, sharp-tongued, fire in her every step. She fights me, mocks me, refuses me, and yet when she laughs the air changes, when she glares the ground steadies, when she looks at me with eyes too bright I feel the weight of every wall I built shift. She is life in a place I only saw as property, and she reminds me of firelight, of laughter, of things money has never bought me.
“She deserves better than someone like me,” I say, the words torn out before I can stop them.
Henrik doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t offer pity or denial. He simply nods, slowly, like he was waiting for me to say it out loud. “Maybe she does. Or maybe she deserves the truth instead of the shadow you hide behind. Only you can decide which one she gets.”
I stare into the forge again, watch the coals shift and flare, sparks leaping high before they fade. Easier to watch fire than to face what I cannot have.
The walk back through town is quiet, the snow crunching underfoot, lanterns swaying overhead with a light too soft to belong in my hands. The square is hushed now, cider barrels covered, stalls closed, footprints fading as the night claims them. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, the remnants of a festival not yet finished, and above it all the stars stretch cold and sharp.
I pause at the edge, looking up toward the ridge where the lodge stands, half-buried under its weight of snow. It looms dark, windows shuttered, chimney still. Yet I can almost imagine firelight spilling from its panes, laughter echoing in its halls, life filling its bones. For a moment, I let the thought slip through:the memory of warmth, of a place that welcomed instead of cast out.
I should turn away. I should bury myself in work, let Thomas file his papers, tear down this place before it unravels me further. That’s what I’ve always done.
But I don’t move.
I stand there with the ghosts pressing close, the cold biting deep, and I let myself remember. Not the empire, not the exile, not the weight of everything I built to prove I could. Just the sound of laughter in firelight.
